"To whom it may concern,

My life is under threat..."

Rivu tore the note in which she wrote this and threw it into the dustbin. She could not find the words to write. It was probably a year ago, when she bled profusely from the nose, that she stopped being able to express herself.

The abuse had lasted longer than expected. Rivu thought Lokesh would stop hitting her if she fulfilled all his demands. She reasoned like this when she experienced the first signs of control in her marriage: fits of jealous rage, a cycle of violence and profuse apologies, and regular put-downs.

Rivu's upbringing was not centred around marriage being the ultimate accomplishment in a woman's life. However, her father was an emotionally unavailable man. Her mother would crave any little attention her husband gave her... perhaps this was why Rivu chose Lokesh.

So, the problem was with her. She did everything to work on it. She visited a counsellor, which didn't last long because she couldn't afford the fees. Talked to friends. Poured her heart out to Mrs. Dave, her neighbour, who would respond with 'hmmm...hota hai (it happens)'. Listened to podcasts by love gurus selling the idea of self-love. But Lokesh would not stop.

It took six more months of life becoming unbearable that Rivu mustered the courage to ask for help. Mrs. Dave wrote impressive social media posts on the need to abolish patriarchy. So, Rivu thought she could ask her for help.

Mrs. Dave had a perpetually bored expression while Rivu talked about the abuse. All she could ask was: "Why don't you leave him?" It was a question Rivu would ask herself every day. She couldn't leave him.

"It will come from within. You will know from within that it is time to leave," said her senior from college. "Become economically independent," said a childhood friend, but Rivu couldn't get a job because her husband would lock her up in the house.

The one time she visited the police, they let off her husband with a stern warning.

One day, while making tea, Rivu understood she would never get the help she needed. Mrs. Dave, her friends, and so-called well-wishers didn't want to be disturbed by the daily rambling of a woman "who was too weak to leave." Help meant more than platitudes on social media statuses. It meant sustained action to rally around a victim.

It would be the last cup of tea that Rivu would drink. It would be the last day of her life.

The media would go into a frenzy about the murder. Salacious details of her life was reported in the media with no one to protest. Every aspect of the discovery of the body would be discussed and debated. Photos of Rivu "in happier days" would flash on TV screens.

Mrs. Dave would sob while talking about how wonderful Rivu was. "I asked her to leave many times. She just couldn't. I wish she would accept my help or at least ask for help. She loved her husband but didn't understand that's not love. It's abuse."