More than five decades after her rape inside a Maharashtra police station sparked nationwide protests and forced India to rewrite its sexual assault legislation, the woman known to the world only as 'Mathura' now lives in complete obscurity. The 72-year-old survivor resides alone in a half-collapsed hut in a remote village of eastern Maharashtra, largely forgotten by the country that once demanded justice in her name.
The Case That Changed Indian Law
In 1972, a 14-year-old illiterate girl named Mathura walked into the Desaiganj police station in Gadchiroli district with her brother and employer. She never expected to leave the station as a victim of custodial rape. The trial court convicted the two policemen involved, but the Bombay High Court acquitted one. When the case reached the Supreme Court in 1979, the bench overturned the conviction of both officers, reasoning that the girl had not raised an alarm, shown signs of struggle, or sustained injuries - and therefore must have given consent.
The outrage that followed this verdict was unprecedented. Women poured into the streets of Delhi, Mumbai, Hyderabad, and Nagpur, demanding legal reform. For the first time, India confronted the legal vacuum around custodial sexual violence. This public pressure led to the Criminal Law (Amendment) Act of 1983, which introduced Sections 376(A-D) into the Indian Penal Code.
The landmark legislation defined custodial rape, reversed the burden of proof in such cases, mandated in-camera trials, protected survivors' identities, and imposed stricter punishment. Before 1983, there was no legal category called "custodial rape" - it was Mathura's case that gave crimes of this nature their legal articulation.
A Life of Struggle and Neglect
Today, Mathura lives approximately 100km from Wadsa Desaiganj, the epicenter of her ordeal. Her home is a one-room structure made of salvaged tin sheets, old tarpaulin, and uneven bamboo poles. The roof lets in wind, the door barely shuts, and she lies on a wobbly charpai all day. The left side of her body has been paralyzed since a stroke several years ago.
When asked about the night that changed Indian legal history, she looked away and said in Marathi: "What can be done now? Everything is over." Then she added, almost mechanically, "No grains or vegetables at home. Nothing to eat."
Her financial situation is dire. A worn-out passbook, last updated in February 2022, shows a balance of Rs 2,050 in her bank account. Her Aadhaar card is missing, and she doesn't know how to get a new one. Her fingerprints, worn and wrinkled with age, fail to register on biometric machines. There have been no government remittances since January.
Failed by the Digital Welfare State
India runs several social welfare schemes for the elderly and destitute, including the National Social Assistance Programme, Atal Pension Yojana, Ayushman Bharat, and Pradhan Mantri Vaya Vandana Yojana. However, all these programs require digital verification - Aadhaar, bank linkage, mobile OTPs, and physical visits to distant offices.
Mathura has none of these resources. She cannot read, walk, or travel. She does not own a phone. Her fingerprints no longer register. Without working biometrics, she has been effectively locked out of India's digital welfare state.
"She doesn't have a smartphone. She can't walk. She can't read or write. She has no one to take her anywhere," said Yeshwant Ninawe, a local villager. "Her thumbprint doesn't work anymore. That alone disqualifies her from digital India."
Ninawe added that while Mathura never begs, she doesn't know how she survives. "Activists and social workers come, take pictures, promise to return. No one does. She didn't get compensation. Not a single rupee. Nothing ever stayed in her life except shame."
Legal Recognition Comes Too Late
In a significant acknowledgment of historical injustice, Chief Justice of India B R Gavai recently described the 1979 Supreme Court verdict as one of the "darkest moments in the institution's history." Speaking at a podium in New Delhi, he called the acquittal of the two policemen "a moment of institutional embarrassment and lasting shame."
The court's 1979 judgment had failed to grasp what Justice Gavai finally acknowledged - that fear is not compliance, and silence is not permission. This recognition comes decades too late for Mathura, who continues to live in poverty and isolation.
One of Mathura's sons works in Nagpur as a labourer, while the other is jobless. They visit sporadically, but she neither expects nor demands anything from them. She no longer sees the law or the state as something that will intervene in her life.
When informed about her situation, Chandrapur district collector Vinay Gowda said, "We conduct regular follow-ups for schemes and budgetary sanctions. We have systems like Aaple Sarkar Seva Kendra and volunteers at gram panchayat level. I will ensure that her case is looked into personally."
However, similar promises have been made in the past and never fulfilled. Mathura's story serves as a stark reminder that while legal reforms can change a nation's laws, true justice requires ensuring that survivors don't get left behind in the process.
