By Sujit Bhar
The Calcutta High Court’s recent order in a case arising from the Andaman and Nicobar islands is one of those rare judicial interventions that speaks not only in the language of law, but also in the voice of social conscience. While overturning a trial court’s decision that had discharged the in-laws of a young woman who died by suicide after killing her infant daughter, Justice Apurba Sinha Ray made an observation that cut to the heart of a national contradiction: “While we rejoice over our daughters’ victory in the Women’s Cricket World Cup, complete equality for the girl child is still a long way off.”
The remark was not rhetorical flourish. It was rooted in the brutal facts of a case that lays bare how deeply entrenched prejudices against the girl child continue to shape lives, deaths, and legal battles in India—long after constitutional promises of equality and decades of social reform.
The case relates to Bhawna Sharma, who married Neeraj Sharma, a Navy officer, in 2018. After the marriage, Bhawna moved to the Andamans, where her husband was posted. However, according to testimony by her relatives, she did not stay there continuously and often returned to her matrimonial home in Pathankot. It was during these periods, the prosecution alleges, that Bhawna was subjected to sustained physical and mental cruelty by her parents-in-law, brother-in-law, and sister-in-law.
The alleged trigger for the cruelty was chillingly familiar: Bhawna gave birth to a girl.
According to her family, the in-laws taunted her for not producing a male child and demanded Rs five lakh from her father. She was eventually driven out of the house and forced to return to her parental home. Though her father later managed to pay Rs one lakh, the alleged harassment did not stop.
In May 2021, Neeraj took Bhawna and their one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Rudrika, back to the Andamans. Barely two months later, on July 8, 2021, Bhawna locked herself inside a room, strangled her child, and then hanged herself. A neighbour later filed a complaint of murder against an unknown person, and subsequently, Bhawna’s father lodged a complaint against Neeraj and four of his family members.
Charges were framed under Sections 498A (cruelty) and 304B (dowry death) of the Indian Penal Code. However, the trial court discharged the in-laws, reasoning that they lived far away in Pathankot while the couple was residing in the Andamans. Only the husband was asked to face trial.
This reasoning, the Calcutta High Court held, was fundamentally flawed.
THE HIGH COURT STEPS IN
Justice Ray set aside the discharge order, observing that the Sessions judge had failed to consider witness statements “in their proper perspective.” The High Court’s Port Blair Circuit Bench emphasised that physical distance does not automatically sever the chain of cruelty, especially when allegations point to sustained harassment over time.
The state, challenging the discharge, argued that Bhawna had been subjected to physical and mental cruelty that compelled her to take the extreme step of killing herself and her child. In response, the counsel for the discharged in-laws advanced a deeply disturbing argument, suggesting that Bhawna’s act itself showed “how cruel a mother can be.”
Justice Ray rejected this framing with unmistakable clarity. “Whether it was her cruel nature or the compulsion resulting from not having a male child—beyond the wish of God—that swayed her decision ultimately to kill not only herself but also her girl child, who was looked down upon, is a subject matter of evidence,” he said.
Invoking Justice VR Krishna Iyer’s words from Random Reflections, the judge reminded society: “No society is free until the last damsel in distress is free.”
The reference was telling. Rudrika, the one-and-a-half-year-old child who never had a chance to live, became the silent symbol of a freedom still denied.
BORN INTO DANGER
Despite decades of legal reform, awareness campaigns, and celebratory narratives of women’s empowerment, the birth of a girl child in India can still be an act of vulnerability. The Bhawna Sharma case underscores a grim truth: persecution does not always begin in adulthood; it often begins at birth—or even before.
Female foeticide may have declined statistically in some regions, but post-birth discrimination remains stubbornly resilient. Girls continue to be seen as economic burdens, dowry liabilities, or markers of social failure. In this case, the alleged demand of Rs five lakh for “giving birth to a girl” is not an aberration—it is a manifestation of an ideology that reduces women and children to transactional outcomes.
That Rudrika was allegedly killed by her own mother only deepens the tragedy. But as the High Court rightly noted that the law must examine whether this act was the result of individual cruelty or a crushing social compulsion driven by relentless humiliation and patriarchal expectations.
One of the most striking aspects of this case is the professional background of the accused husband. Neeraj Sharma is a Navy officer, part of an institution that has, in recent years, made visible strides towards gender inclusion. The Indian Navy has opened combat roles to women, inducted women officers on warships, and publicly committed itself to dismantling gender bias within its ranks.
That a family connected to such an institution could still be entangled in allegations of dowry harassment and gender-based cruelty is deeply ironic—and deeply instructive. It demonstrates that institutional progress does not automatically translate into social transformation within families and households. Progressive uniforms can coexist with regressive mindsets.
This dissonance makes the case especially prominent. It exposes the limits of top-down reform when deep-rooted patriarchal attitudes remain unchallenged in private spaces.
A MORAL COUNTERWEIGHT
In this landscape of social inertia, the judiciary assumes a role that goes beyond adjudication. When society fails to protect its most vulnerable members, courts often become the last line of resistance against normalised injustice.
Justice Ray’s order exemplifies this role. By refusing to prematurely absolve the in-laws and by insisting that evidence be tested through trial, the High Court reaffirmed the purpose of laws like Sections 498A and 304B—not as tools of harassment, as they are often portrayed, but as safeguards against systemic cruelty that thrives behind closed doors.
Judicial sensitivity matters, especially in cases involving gendered violence. A narrow, hyper-technical reading of distance or cohabitation can erase lived realities of abuse that unfold over years. The High Court’s intervention sends a message that courts must not become complicit in that erasure.
THE WAY FORWARD
What, then, is the way forward?
First, there must be an honest societal reckoning with the persistence of gender bias. Celebrating women’s achievements on global platforms cannot coexist with tolerance for dowry demands and son preference at home. Symbolic pride must give way to structural change.
Second, institutional reform must be accompanied by social accountability. Armed forces, civil services, and other elite institutions cannot assume immunity from scrutiny merely because they project progressiveness. Gender justice must extend beyond uniforms and policies into families and personal conduct.
Third, the judiciary must continue to adopt a contextual and empathetic approach in cases involving domestic cruelty and dowry deaths. Premature discharges and casual dismissals not only weaken prosecution but also signal social indifference.
Finally, there must be sustained investment in support systems for women—legal aid, mental health services, community interventions—that can interrupt cycles of abuse before they culminate in irreversible tragedy.
Rudrika’s death is not just a statistic in a case file. It is a reminder that the distance between victory celebrations and everyday reality remains vast. Until that distance is bridged, India’s daughters—born, unborn, and barely born—will continue to live under the shadow of prejudice.
As the Calcutta High Court poignantly observed, a society’s freedom is measured not by its champions, but by how it treats its most defenceless. On that measure, the journey is far from over.
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