Image by Rosy / Bad Homburg / Germany from Pixabay
I did not begin writing this article with the intention of sounding neutral. Neutrality, in cases of sexual violence, often functions as silence, and silence has never protected survivors. While researching abduction, prostitution, and rape in India, I found myself repeatedly unsettled — not only by the cruelty of the crimes, but by how predictably they occur and how comfortably society absorbs them.
As a student, I am trained to believe in the system: in procedure, precedent, and reasoned judgment. Yet, as I read case after case, FIR after FIR, judgment after judgment, one question kept returning: At what point does legality stop being justice?
This article is written with discomfort. It is written with anger, hesitation, and moral conflict. It is written by someone who wants to believe in the law, but refuses to ignore how it sometimes fails the very people it claims to protect.
Abduction: The Quiet Beginning of Sexual Violence
Abduction is often imagined as a dramatic act — force, screaming, resistance. In reality, many abductions that lead to sexual exploitation in India begin quietly. A job offer. A promise of marriage. An assurance of safety. Poverty and trust do most of the work that physical force does not.
According to multiple reports by The Times of India, a significant number of missing girls are later traced to prostitution rackets. One such case involved a 14-year-old girl from Delhi, who was taken to Rohtak under the pretext of employment. Once there, she was repeatedly raped by several men and later pushed into prostitution. What makes this case particularly disturbing is not just the violence, but how ordinary the deception was. No weapons. No kidnapping van. Just vulnerability.
Reading that report, I could not help but think about how many similar cases never reach newspapers. How many families continue to wait, file missing person reports, and slowly lose hope?
Abduction, in these cases, is not an isolated offence. It is the first link in a chain of continuous sexual violence.
The Indian Penal Code, under Sections 366 and 370, criminalises kidnapping and trafficking for sexual exploitation. On paper, the law is clear. In practice, enforcement is inconsistent. FIRs are delayed. Jurisdictional confusion between states slows investigations. By the time the police act, victims are often moved repeatedly, making recovery nearly impossible.
Hotel raids in places like Zirakpur, Punjab, where women were rescued from prostitution rackets operating openly, further reveal a troubling reality: such operations often function in plain sight. Hotel staff, transporters, clients — many know, few report. Silence becomes collective.
This is not merely a policing failure. It is a social failure.
Prostitution in India: Between Law, Stigma, and Survival
Prostitution in India occupies a deeply contradictory legal space. Selling sex itself is not illegal, yet nearly every activity surrounding it is criminalised under the Immoral Traffic (Prevention) Act, 1956. This legal ambiguity creates an environment where exploitation thrives.
In theory, the law aims to punish traffickers and protect victims. In practice, it often does the opposite.
Police raids reported in cities like Surat, Nagpur, and Navi Mumbai show a recurring pattern. Women are arrested first. Traffickers are arrested later, if at all. In Surat, a prostitution racket operated from a unisex salon. In Nagpur, women were coerced into sex work under financial pressure. In Navi Mumbai, two Bangladeshi women were rescued — their undocumented status making them even more vulnerable.
What disturbed me while reading these cases was the word “rescued.” Rescue sounds final, hopeful. But rescue is only a moment. What follows is rarely discussed.
Rehabilitation homes are overcrowded. Counselling is minimal. Economic independence is rare. Many women return to sex work not by choice, but because the law offers them no sustainable alternative.
Society, meanwhile, continues to view prostitutes not as victims of structural failure, but as moral offenders. This stigma ensures silence. Silence ensures repetition.
The Supreme Court has acknowledged this reality, calling child trafficking and prostitution cases “deeply disturbing.” Yet judicial concern does not always translate into systemic reform. The gap between acknowledgement and action remains wide.
Rape Culture: The Crime Beyond the Crime
Rape culture is not just about rape. It is about the social conditions that make sexual violence predictable and survivable for perpetrators.
In India, rape culture manifests in everyday language, in casual victim-blaming, in questions like “Why was she out so late?” or “Why did she trust him?” It appears in police stations where survivors are discouraged from filing complaints. It appears in courtrooms where cross-examination becomes another form of violence.
Recent cases underline this reality.
In Varanasi, a young woman was allegedly gang-raped by more than twenty men, drugged, assaulted repeatedly, and threatened with the circulation of explicit videos. Technology here did not just document the crime; it extended it. The assault continued through fear and blackmail.
In Dhing, Assam, a 14-year-old girl was gang-raped while returning from tuition. This detail matters. She was not in a secluded place. She was doing what society tells young girls to do — educate themselves. Safety, clearly, was not guaranteed.
These cases are extreme, but they are not rare.
Under Section 376 of the IPC and the POCSO Act, rape is punishable with severe sentences, especially when the victim is a minor. Yet conviction rates remain low. Trials are long. Survivors are repeatedly summoned, questioned, and exposed. Justice becomes exhausting.
At some point, the system stops asking whether the accused committed the crime and starts testing whether the survivor can endure the process.
That, too, is rape culture.
The Unnao Rape Case: Power, Law, and Moral Discomfort
Few cases capture the collision between law and power as starkly as the Unnao rape case.
In 2017, a minor girl accused Kuldeep Singh Sengar, a sitting MLA, of rape. What followed reads less like a coincidence and more like intimidation. Her father died in police custody. Two of her aunts were killed in a suspicious car accident while travelling to court. The survivor herself was critically injured.
Eventually, Sengar was convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment. For many, this verdict restored some faith in the judiciary. It suggested that power would not prevail over justice.
That faith was shaken when, in 2025, the Delhi High Court suspended Sengar’s life sentence and granted him bail during appeal.
Legally, the order can be justified. Bail during appeal is permissible. Presumption of innocence continues until final adjudication. These are foundational principles.
But law does not operate in a vacuum.
This was not an ordinary case. This was not an ordinary convict. The history of intimidation, the deaths connected to the case, and the vulnerability of the survivor demanded extraordinary caution.
The CBI’s decision to challenge the bail in the Supreme Court reflects institutional recognition of this discomfort. Public protests near Parliament further reveal how deeply the decision unsettled people.
As a law student, I find myself conflicted. I understand judicial discretion. I respect constitutional safeguards. But I also believe that context matters.
If life imprisonment for the rape of a minor can be suspended in such circumstances, what message does that send to survivors — especially those who accuse powerful men?
Justice must not only be done. It must be seen to be done. In cases like Unnao, visibility matters as much as legality.
The Legal Framework: Strong on Paper, Weak in Practice
India does not lack laws addressing sexual violence. The problem lies in implementation.
Yet crimes persist.
Why?
Because laws alone cannot dismantle patriarchy. Because enforcement is uneven. Because survivors face social consequences that perpetrators often do not.
Bail jurisprudence further complicates matters. Courts must balance individual liberty with societal interest. In sexual offence cases, this balance becomes morally fraught. Granting bail may be legally sound, but socially devastating.
This tension lies at the heart of modern rape law.
The Survivor’s Burden: Trauma Beyond the Trial
Legal discourse often overlooks survivor psychology.
Survivors relive trauma through medical examinations, police statements, and cross-examinations. Courtrooms demand consistency from people whose memories are fractured by violence. Delays stretch trauma across years.
Many survivors withdraw. Some turn hostile. The system labels them unreliable, rarely questioning whether the process itself broke them.
Justice, in such cases, becomes conditional on emotional endurance.
Media, Morality, and Selective Outrage
Media plays a powerful role in shaping rape narratives. Some cases receive national outrage. Others disappear unnoticed.
Victim identities are sometimes exposed. Sensationalism replaces sensitivity. Public attention shifts quickly, leaving survivors alone with long legal battles.
Outrage, without reform, changes nothing.
What Must Change
If abduction, prostitution, and rape culture are to be addressed meaningfully, change must occur at multiple levels:
Writing this article has forced me to confront uncomfortable truths about the legal system I aspire to serve. Law, by itself, is not moral. It becomes moral only through the values we apply while interpreting it.
Abduction, prostitution, and rape culture are not isolated crimes. They are reflections of what society tolerates and what institutions excuse.
If justice bends for power, it breaks for the powerless.
As future lawyers, judges, and policymakers, we must decide what kind of system we want to inherit — and what kind we are willing to build.
Silence is no longer neutrality.
It is participation.
REFERENCES / SOURCES
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