At 46, when I look back at the girl I was at 22, I do not see immaturity first.
I see innocence.
I see conditioning.
I see a young woman trying very hard to become “a good wife” before she had even understood what safety in love was supposed to feel like.

And these past few days, while reading about the cases of Deepika Nagar and Twisha Sharma, something inside me broke again. Not because their stories are identical to mine — every woman carries her own private hell differently — but because I recognised the sentence that echoes in so many homes before tragedy happens:

“I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

A daughter says it softly first.
Then crying.
Then begging.
And often, society answers her with the same cruel script:

“Adjust.”
“Every marriage has problems.”
“You are overthinking.”
“What will people say?”
“Go back and try once more.”

Twenty-three years ago, I could have become one more photograph in the newspaper.
One more “unfortunate incident.”
One more woman whose silence would later be analysed by relatives over tea.

But I survived because my parents listened.

Even today, my throat tightens when I think of that night.

After my marriage, when things started going wrong, we still tried reconciliation. Like every family does. Because marriage in India is not just between two people; it is tied to honour, reputation, money, relatives, rituals, expectations, and fear.

So, we convinced ourselves that things would improve. Maybe I needed to adjust more. Maybe they needed time. Maybe marriage was supposed to feel difficult.

That is how most women are trained to think.

We are not taught to ask:
“Am I emotionally safe here?”

We are taught:
“Can I make this marriage survive?”

There is a difference. A dangerous one.

I still remember calling home with a trembling voice. I do not even remember the exact words now, but mothers do not listen only to words. They listen to breathing patterns, pauses, silence, and fear hidden between sentences.

My mother sensed something was terribly wrong.

And one night, without announcements, without waiting for approval from society, without consulting twenty relatives, she came for me.

Overnight.

That decision saved my life.

Even today, I believe if she had delayed — if she had said “try for six more months,” if she had worried more about social shame than my emotional condition — I might not be alive to write this.

People think danger in marriage always looks dramatic, bruises, police cases, dowry headlines. Violence should be visible enough for society to approve your suffering.

But many women die long before physical death.

They die in fear.
In humiliation.
In isolation.
In psychological exhaustion.
In constantly walking on eggshells.
In being made to feel unwanted, unsafe, unheard, or trapped.

And sometimes, families fail to understand this because our entire social structure has trained us poorly for relationships.

The truth nobody wants to admit is this: our education system teaches us mathematics, coding, physics, biology, and competition — but almost nothing about emotional intelligence, compatibility, conflict resolution, boundaries, mental health, sexuality, finances, or partnership.

For 79 years after independence, we built professionals.
But not emotionally aware human beings.

Boys and girls grow up almost like they belong to different worlds, different rules, different freedoms, and different conditioning.

A boy is often taught to suppress vulnerability.
A girl is often taught to tolerate discomfort.

Then suddenly, by 25 or 28, two strangers are told:
“Now build a life together forever.”

How?

Nobody teaches people how to share emotional space.
Nobody teaches couples how to discuss anger.
Or intimacy.
Or finances.
Or expectations from in-laws.
Or personal boundaries.
Or mental health conditions.
Or sexual compatibility.
Or loneliness within marriage.

Today, conversations around sexuality, identity, emotional needs, ambition, independence, and partnership are changing rapidly. Yet most young people are still confused about who they truly are by the time they marry.

By 30, many are already exhausted — chasing jobs, stability, loans, career growth, societal approval, and survival in expensive cities. Women hear the biological clock ticking. Men hear financial pressure screaming, families panic, and weddings are rushed.

And then begins the grand performance.

Designer clothes worth lakhs.
Dance choreography for Instagram.
Destination photography.
Jewellery exhibitions disguised as ceremonies.

But nobody sits the couple down and asks:

“What happens when both of you are angry?”
“How will you handle money?”
“What if one partner feels emotionally abandoned?”
“What role will extended families play?”
“How will you manage emotional breakdowns?”
“What does respect look like inside conflict?”

We prepare more for one wedding day than for forty years of marriage.

And yes, dowry is still evil. Financial greed destroys relationships faster than almost anything else. But the problem is bigger than dowry alone. Money creates entitlement, resentment, ego, insecurity, and power imbalance from both sides.

There is another uncomfortable truth too — girls are also trapped in a fantasy culture around marriage. We romanticise the event more than the life after it. We spend months choosing outfits, decorations, makeup artists, and songs, but almost no time discussing psychological compatibility.

At 22, I did not understand this.

At 46, I finally do.

I do not blame only men. I do not blame only women either. I blame a system where emotional education never became important. Where image matters more than truth. Where families fear divorce more than danger. Where saving a marriage is considered more respectable than saving a daughter.

And yet, despite everything, I still believe marriage can be beautiful.

Not because I am naïve.
But because I now understand what healthy love actually feels like.

Marriage should feel like rest.
Not fear.

It should feel like:
“I can be vulnerable here.”
“I will not be punished for expressing pain.”
“I do not need to perform constantly.”
“I am emotionally safe.”

A good marriage does not imprison individuality. It protects it.

So what can society do?

I think the answers have to begin long before marriage.

We need relationship education in colleges. Real conversations, not moral science lectures. Young adults must learn emotional regulation, communication, financial planning, consent, conflict management, and mental health awareness.

Premarital counselling should become normal, not shameful.

Families should stop treating divorce as social failure and start treating emotional abuse as serious danger.

Parents must listen carefully when daughters — or sons — repeatedly say they are unhappy or unsafe. Instinct matters, emotional distress matters.

And young people themselves need courage to ask difficult questions before marriage instead of blindly entering lifelong commitments because “everyone is doing it.”

Most importantly, we need spaces where people can speak honestly.

Not judgment forums.
Not gossip circles.
But real discussions.

Women who survived unhappy marriages.
Men struggling under impossible expectations.
Couples learning healthy partnership.
Parents understanding emotional safety.
Therapists, lawyers, counsellors, educators — all part of the conversation.

Because silence is where tragedy grows.

Sometimes I sit quietly and think about that younger version of myself — that frightened 22-year-old girl waiting for someone to understand she was not being “dramatic.” She was asking for safety.

And then I think of my mother arriving overnight.

No speeches.
No societal calculations.
Just instinct and love.

That decision changed the course of my life.

Not every woman gets that rescue.

Perhaps that is why I am writing this today.

Not to accuse.
Not to frighten people against marriage.
But to ask one simple thing from society:

Before teaching young people how to get married, can we finally start teaching them how to be human with each other?