I recently had a harrowing experience of visiting a government hospital to obtain a medico-legal report following an incident of domestic violence. What I encountered there left me grappling with a disturbing question — what is more agonising for a woman in India, being assaulted in her own home, or being treated like a criminal rather than a victim by the very system meant to protect her?
If an educated, professionally established woman like me can be made to feel dehumanised, what must be the fate of those from more vulnerable sections of society?
Background and Expectations
I come from what many would consider a privileged background. As the daughter of a bureaucrat in Punjab, I was raised with access, education, and a sense of security. My father was progressive — far ahead of his time — while my mother, despite being highly educated, embodied the quiet resignation that so many women are conditioned into.
I went on to complete my Master's in English from Panjab University, qualified the UGC NET and built a career as an Associate Professor in Chandigarh. For years, I believed that my education and independence would shield me from the harsh realities many women endure in a deeply patriarchal society. I was wrong. Patriarchy spares no one.
The Medico-Legal Process
In India, the law mandates that cases of physical assault against women be supported by a medico-legal report issued by a government hospital. Reports from private practitioners are not admissible in court. This makes government hospitals critical gateways to justice — and, for many, unavoidable sites of vulnerability.
This was my first experience navigating such a system. The ward was a distressing sight. Women with bleeding wounds and bruised bodies sat on the floor, waiting in silence. Despite empty chairs, they were not allowed to sit. I too was told to “stand and wait”.
The physical suffering was undeniable. The emotional neglect was worse. What unfolded in that ward was not just neglect, but a quiet choreography of humiliation.
Scenes of Humiliation
A young woman stood clutching her dupatta tightly around her chest, trying to conceal bruises that had already been exposed to strangers. Each time her name was called, she flinched — not out of respect, but fear. When she hesitated, an attendant snapped, “If you don’t want help, why did you come here?”
Another woman, visibly in pain, asked if she could sit. There were empty chairs — several of them — but permission was denied without explanation. She eventually slid down against the wall, wincing as her body made contact with the hard floor. No one intervened.
The process itself felt less like care and more like interrogation. Questions were asked in tones that carried suspicion rather than concern: What exactly happened? Why didn’t you come earlier? Was there a fight from your side too? These were not enquiries meant to document facts — they felt like subtle accusations, as though violence required justification.
Lack of Privacy and Dignity
Privacy was virtually non-existent. Examinations were conducted behind half-drawn curtains, within earshot of other patients and attendants. Intimate details were spoken aloud, recorded without sensitivity, and sometimes repeated loudly for clarity. In that moment, dignity became collateral damage.
Time, too, seemed indifferent. Hours passed without updates. No one explained the procedure, the delay or what would come next. We were expected to wait indefinitely, suspended in a space where pain had no urgency and dignity no value.
At one point, I caught myself rehearsing my own answers — editing my narrative to sound more credible, more acceptable, less likely to invite judgment. That, perhaps, was the most disturbing realisation: even in a space meant for care, I felt compelled to defend myself.
Systemic Failures
This is how systems fail — not always through overt cruelty, but through everyday indifference; through normalised dismissiveness; through the slow erosion of a person’s sense of worth.
The staff often spoke with indifference — sometimes even suggesting that victims had provoked the violence. These women were not treated as individuals in need of care, but as inconveniences in an already burdened system.
Government hospitals are undeniably overcrowded and understaffed, and healthcare workers operate under immense pressure. But a lack of resources cannot justify a lack of humanity. Empathy does not require infrastructure. It requires training, accountability.
Recommendations for Change
If medico-legal reports are essential to justice, then the spaces that produce them must be held to higher standards. This includes mandatory gender-sensitivity training for medical staff, enforceable protocols for patient dignity and privacy and basic oversight mechanisms to ensure compliance.
Simple interventions — clear communication, respectful language, private examination spaces — can transform these encounters. They do not demand large budgets, only institutional will.
Violence against women remains pervasive. But when survivors gather the courage to seek help, the system must not become an extension of their trauma. A medico-legal process should be a bridge to justice, not a barrier built on humiliation. Because no woman seeking help should ever have to wonder whether silence would have been easier than speaking up.
— The writer is an Associate Professor in Chandigarh
