Can you tell us about your personal journey?

I belong to a Rajput family from the Firozabad district of Uttar Pradesh. I married into a Baniya family from the Gupta caste. There were 16 villages in my caste and one Baniya family in the area. So, it was not a question of one family’s ego when I chose a Baniya from a different caste. It was a matter of pride for those 16-17 villages. How could a Baniya family attack our honour by marrying a Rajput woman?

It was an attempt to use my freedom to choose a life partner from a different caste. But people from my caste made it a matter of their honour. After choosing a Baniya from a different caste, I had to face a lot of opposition from my brothers. I had to leave Uttar Pradesh. Not just me, my husband’s entire family, including his 6 brothers, 2 sisters, mother, and father. They left their house, land, property, and everything on the same day. There was a lot of fear.

The first fight started in the Session Court, where my brothers filed an FIR alleging that the Gupta family had kidnapped and raped me. It took a year or two for the court to decide that Lata Singh should be heard. But we could not go to Uttar Pradesh due to the threat perception. The SSP [Senior Superintendent of Police] concerned, B.B. Bakshi, came to Jaipur to take my statement.

The Women’s Commission in Jaipur insisted that they cannot send me to Uttar Pradesh until the police provide my security guarantee. Bakshi came there, and my statement was recorded. I was a postgraduate at that time, I declared that I married the man of my choice, and no one kidnapped me.

After that, this FIR was challenged with an application that Lata Singh is mentally challenged. An inquiry board was appointed at the Psychiatric Centre, Jaipur. There were many meetings and tests with the board. Finally, I had to tell them that I am completely fine and that I have done an MA in Hindi. After that, I got the certificate from the board that said so.

But this case did not end here. The FIR was filed in the name of my husband and his 5 brothers—kidnapping and rape. By the time we gave our statement to the police, four charge sheets had been filed. My two sisters-in-law and her husband were named. So, they were put in jail. My sister-in-law was in jail in Lucknow for six months.

During those six months, no one could go to meet them. By the time someone used to go to meet them, the news would invariably reach my brothers that someone had come to meet them. So, they used to come and threaten them with dire consequences, asking about my whereabouts.

When did you get married?

I left home on November 2, 2000, and got married on November 7. On November 10, I came to know that my brothers had become aware of where I was staying in Delhi. Fearing consequences, we immediately left for Himachal Pradesh. We didn’t know what was happening behind us and didn’t have mobile phones. And my brothers also didn’t know where we had gone.

First, the Rajasthan State Women’s Commission refused to entertain my case, saying that this is a matter of Uttar Pradesh. At that time, Aparna Sahay was the Chairperson, and she understood I couldn’t go to Uttar Pradesh. As soon as I enter Uttar Pradesh, I will be killed. Because my brothers happen to be influential people. They have connections across political parties.

Rajasthan State Women’s Commission eventually assured me that the case would be handled from here. After that, they took my statement. This was the result of their efforts that B.B. Bakshi sir came to take my statement after a year.

But after this, the biggest challenge for us was how to take the people against whom the charge sheet was passed to Lucknow for court hearings. We were always worried about how many of us would return alive if we went to Lucknow.

Finally, when I went to the court, my brothers couldn’t realise when I entered the magistrate’s room. I was wearing a burqa because they intended to kill me in the court itself. They were clueless when I recorded my statement. However, when I was returning to Delhi after giving my statement, some people surrounded me in Kanpur. I was seven months pregnant at the time.

There was a six- to seven-foot-high wall in front of the bus stand. It was around 1:00–1:30 am. I climbed the wall and jumped down on the other side. I kept running without knowing where the road was leading. I saw a light at a distance, so I went there. There was a bakery shop there. It was winter time, and I was sweating a lot. There was an elderly man there. He made me sit in front of the fireplace. He could see that I was seven months pregnant. He gave me tea.

When I relaxed, I asked him if there was a police station nearby. He told me to wait till 4:00 to 5:00 am. Around 5:00 or 6:00 am, I went to the nearby police station. I told them to get me out of here safely. They told me that they couldn’t send me in a police car. I requested them to arrange a car for me to Agra, which they did. I reached Agra. It was around 9 to 10 am.

My clothes were dirty from hours of desperate running to save my life. I went to several hotels and dharamshalas, asking to be allowed to take a bath, but I was chased away each time. At one place, I was finally allowed to bathe. When I left home for court, I was told to wear anklets so that I would appear to be a married woman. By then, after hours of running and in failing health, my legs had swollen terribly. The anklets had sunk into the skin. There was so much swelling, and blood had begun to seep from the wounds.

When did you receive relief?

I went to the National Human Rights Commission in Delhi, where the Chairperson was J.S. Verma. When he saw the case, he intervened and got the names removed from the FIR against my in-laws’ family. Thereafter, bail was granted to my two sisters-in-law through their personal bonds.

In 2004, my case was transferred from Lucknow. Yes, for four years I struggled. My son was born on July 1, 2001. I would take him along wherever I had to go.

When I went to Lucknow, there was an organisation called AALI [Association for Advocacy and Legal Initiative Trust]. They helped me a lot. I stayed in AALI’s office for a month. The office remained open during the day. And at night, they would lock the door from outside. AALI’s office was next to the house of a retired judge, so there was security outside.

When it came to lawyers in Lucknow, I had a difficult time. Every time I engaged a lawyer to represent me, they would take bribes from my brothers and then deliberately stop fighting my case. Finally, AALI arranged a lawyer, Nandini Srivastav, who took my case without charging me.

But after that, I realised I won’t get relief from the Lucknow court. So, I moved to the Supreme Court. I initially met two or three lawyers in Delhi. They refused to take up the case pro bono. Then I went to Shakesh Kumar. Aparna suggested his name to me. He told me that he does social work. He fought this case, and he didn’t take any fee from me. On July 7, 2006, the Supreme Court gave its decision in my favour.

When you saw the news about the Maharashtra murder, what was triggered in your mind?

First of all, the law and awareness. It has been almost 20 years since this judgment was passed. There have been many good judgments that have followed since then. There was Shakti Vahini’s judgment in 2018. There was the Shafin Jahan vs Asokan K.M. (the Hadiya case) judgment in 2018. In these court judgments, there are strict and clear instructions for the police about what to do in such cases. But the police attitude hasn’t changed to a large extent. What is the use of those judgments?

Do you feel it has brought any change in society?

If we talk in terms of percentage, it is around 10 to 15 per cent. In urban areas, there are educated people who give importance to the likes and dislikes of their children. They are aware of what they want and what is right for them. In rural areas, the likes and dislikes are contingent upon the family’s sense of honour. The family elders decide where someone will get married. They do not care about the likes and dislikes of girls. In rural areas, values around caste, religion, and culture have largely remained unchanged.

Tell us about your work.

I work at the Research Institute for Human Rights (RIHR) in Jaipur as a program manager, board member and its general secretary. I have been working on cases related to the right to choice for the past twenty years. People reach out to me through various contacts and NGOs. Whenever I speak at a lecture or a programme, I tell young people that if they love someone or wish to marry someone and are facing difficulties, they can contact me. I share my cell number and tell them they won’t have to pay me any fees. Whether it is for your counselling or legal support.

Secondly, RIHR runs an initiative called Sneh Angan, a one-stop crisis management centre for children, located at the Mahila Police Station (East) in Gandhi Nagar, Jaipur, where we work on cases under the POCSO Act. We have a dedicated team of certified counsellors, lawyers, and support staff to assist children in distress. We help register their cases with the police, pursue the matter through investigation, and then follow it through the courts until a final decision is reached.

Even after the judgment, if a child continues to struggle with trauma, we provide follow-up support. The day I feel that the child has reconnected with the mainstream and is strong enough to move forward—and that the trauma will not repeat—I tell the child: come to me if you ever need to, but after today, forget about me and live your life.

The National Human Rights Commission office in New Delhi. The persistence of honour crimes shows that the right to choose a partner is still treated as a social concession, not as a non-negotiable constitutional freedom. | Photo Credit: V. Sudershan

When inter-caste, inter-faith couples come to you, what do you advise them?

There are two types of couples who come to me: those who want to get married, and those who have gotten married but are still facing violence. I categorise them according to their problems. If they have come to get married, I tell them all the conditions to get married. If you are an adult, there is no problem. These are legal methods to get married. I mentally prepare them.

Based on my experience, I tell the girl that she should not later change her statement, because doing so can destroy her partner’s entire family. I have seen this happen many times. In several cases I have handled, after marriage or when difficulties arise, the girl has gone back on her earlier statement. We give them time to think about it. I tell them that we are standing with them, but this situation can arise. At that time, you should not be hopeless.

How far do law enforcement officials perform their constitutional duties?

If we were to meet a hundred officials in such cases, only about fifteen to twenty would genuinely prioritise their constitutional duty. The rest, in one way or another, operate from a mindset shaped by social morality—that the individual has dishonoured the family and therefore deserves to be punished.

In fact, I have come across many cases involving families with members in the judiciary—fathers and sons alike—who have tried their best to influence or control their own daughter’s choice of marriage. Even if the couple manages to get married, the pressure does not end. The marriage is either broken, or the girl is forced into another marriage, or, in extreme cases, she is killed. What troubles me deeply is that many of these cases involve families connected to the judiciary itself. It makes me wonder: when such people are faced with cases involving the right to choice, how do they decide? Where does their conscience stand?

Honour killing is still not recognised as a distinct crime. It continues to be prosecuted as a routine murder case, leaving us without a dedicated legal framework. That is why we want more organisations and individuals to work towards a separate law on honour killing so that those who commit such acts know unequivocally that killing a girl or a boy in the name of honour is a serious criminal offence. Just as murder cannot be justified in cases of rape or for money, killings committed under the pretext of honour must also be recognised as unequivocally illegal, with no scope for social or moral rationalisation.

In 2012, the Law Commission proposed a law to prohibit unlawful assemblies that interfere with the freedom of matrimonial choice. Was this to address the collective nature of violence?

Yes. Because in cases of honour killing, once the couple is called back and a panchayat takes a decision, the outcome is almost predetermined. Even if the parents do not want to harm their own child, the killing still happens under intense social pressure. It becomes a collective act. Everyone participates, and the crowd believes that because responsibility is shared, no single person will be held accountable. That is precisely why such a law is crucial. And that is also why it has been consistently blocked by political parties.

Do you think there is a lack of political will?

Yes, because many States have argued that such a law would violate the existing social order. But if we look honestly at older traditions, it was very different. In ancient times, women did have the right to choose their husbands. What we call “tradition” today often represents a retreat from the past, not continuity with it. What was Swayamvar then? It was our right to pick a partner for life. In Vedic times, women were more powerful. They were taught how to use weapons. In Gurukuls, they had every right.

Many legal experts argue that anti-conversion laws collide with the principles laid down in Lata Singh vs State of Uttar Pradesh. Do you see a contradiction?

If we look at Article 21 of the Constitution, it guarantees the freedom to choose one’s partner and to adopt any religion. That is the essence of the right to choose a husband or wife. Anti-conversion laws directly collide with this principle. On the one hand, we are saying that religious conversion itself is a crime. On the other hand, the Constitution does not treat conversion as a crime at all. These two positions cannot coexist.

In my view, once a relationship is recognised as a marriage, anti-conversion laws immediately raise serious constitutional questions. You are not changing your religion for marriage—you are exercising your fundamental right to choose a partner. Treating that choice as criminal puts a question mark on the law itself. So, you bring it into the sphere of suspicion that if there is any consent of a woman, if she changes her religion and marries, then you bring it into the sphere of suspicion.

The Special Marriage Act does not require anyone to change their religion to marry. Under the Act, two people can marry while continuing to follow their respective religions. But with the introduction of anti-conversion laws, a new problem arises. If a person chooses to adopt the religion of their partner—whether before or after marriage—that choice itself is treated as a crime. If such a law is enforced, consent becomes irrelevant.

That is why I don’t see these laws as genuinely “anti-conversion”. What we are really witnessing is a direct conflict between constitutional rights and the will of the States. And the will of the States, in my view, reflects the will of political leadership, whereas the Constitution exists for everyone. These are fundamentally different things—and they cannot be reconciled.

How many of the Supreme Court guidelines do you see actually being followed on the ground today?

On the ground, little has changed between twenty years ago and now. Many departments are still unclear about their responsibilities. The police, in particular, often do not realise that they are not required to register an FIR in such cases. They are also unaware that they must provide immediate security to couples who approach them. In several States, the response in the name of “protection” is to send the woman to a safe home—even when she clearly states that she does not want to return to her family.

For years, we have been demanding that every State and every district have a safe house where couples can live together without fear. Some States, such as Delhi and Haryana, have made attempts, and Rajasthan has also tried, but even today, there are no functional safe houses specifically meant for couples.

There is also a need for fast-track courts to deal with these cases, and for a one-stop centre where couples can find solutions to all their problems in one place—whether it is marriage, post-marriage difficulties, counselling when they feel hopeless, or legal guidance. All of these measures are clearly laid out in the guidelines. Yet, while a few individuals on the ground are aware and try to act, the overall implementation remains weak.

What kind of facilities are provided in safe houses?

Look, the government does not provide proper facilities for safe houses. In most cases, NGOs are forced to arrange accommodation on their own—by using someone’s house or renting a space with personal help, and meeting expenses through mutual contributions. The financial support that comes from the government is far too little for couples to survive with dignity.

Often, there are only three or four rooms and a single washroom. At times, there are more couples than the space can accommodate. Despite the lack of facilities, we still have to keep them safe. The result is that there is no privacy. That is why we insist that safe houses must be established and run by the government, or at least supported and regulated by it. Couples need adequate space and the privacy required to live with dignity.

Police stations should also be clearly instructed that a safe house exists in every district, so that when a couple approaches them, they can be directed there immediately. And access to these safe houses must be strictly controlled—there should be no unauthorised entry by anyone.

How much support does the government really extend to such couples?

Not at all. When such cases reach the authorities, the first response is often to treat them as purely family matters—something to be resolved privately. They do not see them as constitutional issues or as questions of personal liberty and fundamental rights. The right to choose one’s life partner is still not accepted as a constitutional right, neither by society nor by many departments. Instead, the couple is made to feel that they have committed a mistake. They are told to return to their parents: they raised you, they love you, they would never want to harm you.

Emotional pressure is constantly used. Do you like seeing your father cry? They are asked. I recall one case where the father said he accepted the marriage and only wanted reassurance. He asked that his daughter be brought to the police station so he could see her from a distance—just to know she was alive. We felt this was a genuine, humane request. But when we called the police station, the father arrived with poison hidden in his pocket and tried to consume it there. These are the kinds of tactics used—emotional blackmail that places unbearable pressure on the couple.

A coalition of organisations holding a candlelight vigil against the honour killing in Hubbali in December 2025. The gap between Supreme Court judgments and ground-level enforcement exposes how policing in India is still guided by social morality and caste loyalty, not individual rights. (Representative Image) | Photo Credit: Sudhakara Jain

You have a colleague whose husband was murdered?

She belongs to the Jat community and lives in Jaipur. The man she chose as her life partner was a South Indian engineer. They were in a relationship, and she believed it was right. She married him. After the marriage, her parents opposed the relationship. About a year and a half later, her mother began calling me. She told her that the family had accepted the decision, and if she had been happy in her life, they had no objection. I told her that was fine.

The following day, her mother, father, and brother arrived—but they had brought a shooter with them. She did not recognise him. When she asked who he was, they told her he was her aunt’s son. The man offered her water and asked her to call her husband. She went inside, woke her husband, and asked him to come out and meet her parents. As soon as he stepped into the drawing room, he was shot.

Hearing the gunshot, she ran out. She was five to six months pregnant at the time. Her husband collapsed. She screamed. Hearing her screams, a woman from the neighbourhood came out holding a stick and tried to intervene. She struck the shooter’s hand, but he fired again. After that, everyone fled. They got into their car and drove away.

She tried desperately to take her husband to the hospital. The nearest private hospital refused to admit him. She then took him to a government hospital, where she was told he was already dead. Four to five months later, she gave birth to a son. Today, her family consists only of her child, her husband’s mother, and her husband’s sister.

In cases like these, I repeatedly warn couples not to be emotionally blackmailed. Do not be misled by claims of acceptance. The promise of acceptance carries a low probability. In its name, I have seen people lose their lives—whether at the hands of their own families or of a collective mob.

Has your struggle ended, or is it still going on?

The struggle is still ongoing. I have been married for twenty-five years now. In 2006, my own legal battle came to an end because the court recognised that I had committed no offence. My dignity and freedom were respected, and the court clearly held that I had done nothing wrong. I had merely exercised my rights—something every young person is entitled to do. On my part, I do not want anything from my brothers’ property. I left my parental home, and for me, property holds little value compared to dignity and freedom.

But my husband’s property remains an unresolved issue, and I am still fighting for it. Even today, district authorities—including the DM [District Magistrate] and the SP [Superintendent of Police]—often fail to understand this distinction. Every time I go to the District Court, I am forced to remind the SP that protecting me is not a favour—it is their constitutional duty.

Sometimes they ask if it’s their duty to protect me. It becomes difficult to explain. Some DMs have behaved nicely. They tried to resolve the issue and initiated the process. But as long as the paperwork starts, the DM either gets a threat or gets transferred. It’s not like I’m in danger only because of my brothers. In Uttar Pradesh, there’s a deep-seated culture of violence. Their enemies, too, could get me killed.

Did you ever feel like going back home?

No. After 22 years, I visited my village. According to the DM’s instructions, one of my husband’s fields has to be measured. Some people have encroached upon it. When I left my village, it was 3 or 4 pm on a summer day. I found out that no one from my family is there. Some people have shifted to Lucknow and some to Firozabad city.

I wanted to check my house before going back. The security was with me, but they didn’t allow me to enter the home. So I went up to the doorsteps. I stood there for a minute. I stared at the door and came back.

What was your relationship like with your parents?

My father was an army man. I was the youngest among seven siblings. I was my father’s beloved daughter. I have lived a good life as long as my father was alive. My father was an open-minded person. He never told me to stay inside the house and learn how to cook. He always played with me and was a good volleyball player. Whenever he went to play, he used to take me along. We used to play kabaddi and win. I had a good childhood with my father. My mother used to tell me to stay inside the house and learn how to cook. I used to follow my father’s advice.

I was adored by my brothers. If my brothers ever had something to say to our father, they would send their messages through me. And if one of them scolded me, by evening, he would already be worried—afraid that if our father found out, he would be the one in trouble. So he would try to placate me, promising that he would get me this or that the next day.

My father had his own way of consoling me. Whenever I was upset, he would tell me that it’s all right. “I scolded you today—tomorrow I’ll get you a baby monkey.” In that village, in that house, I lived like a tomboy—like a boss—while my father was alive. After he was gone, going back there, entering my own home like a thief, like a criminal, broke something inside me. Accepting that change was unbearable. Even now, I don’t know how I survived it.

I am happy with my life. Every day, sitting in police stations, I see cases where girls enter marriages arranged by their families—and then return beaten, burned for dowry, or barely alive. I see, again and again, what the consequences of so-called “respectable” arranged marriages can be. In that context, a girl choosing her own partner should not be treated as a crime. What crime did I commit that I cannot even knock on the door of the house where I spent my entire childhood? That’s the reality. Life goes on.

Would you like to add anything?

For me, the department, the police, the administration—all of that comes later. If we truly want change, it has to begin at home. The first transformation must come from within families. I want to say this to parents: please try to understand your children’s feelings. Respect their choices. Do not inflate the idea of “honour” to such an extent that you end up taking your own child’s life in its name. No one can truly be happy after destroying a life. Many of these actions come from emotional weakness, not strength.

When will the time come when love is recognised as a right? When will we build a society that respects individual choice instead of criminalising it? That is why I believe we must begin with our families. I have a twenty-four-year-old son. He likes a girl. He came to me and told me, and I respected his decision—because I walk the same path I speak of.

Every parent, at some point in their youth, has liked someone. Many carry that quiet regret—that if they had chosen differently, their lives might have turned out another way. Instead of suppressing that memory, parents should draw strength from it. Please don’t make “honour” so sacred that your children become the sacrifice. Rituals, traditions, culture—they matter, and they deserve respect. But they cannot stand above the law. This truth must be understood not just by families, but also by institutions—because even the police often follow social customs more faithfully than they follow the law.

I hope the day comes soon when we can live in such an environment—where choice is respected, love is not feared, and dignity does not come at the cost of a life.