India, that land immersed in rich heritage and deep spiritual traditions, far too frequently is plagued by the black irony of a rampant shadow of rape of women. The figures are ghastly, the stories are pathetic, and the path to justice, for many too numerous to count, is a merciless illusion. In this article, we try to explore the gravity of India's rape crisis and discuss how far the security of women extends, the crippling pangs of delay in the judiciary, and the overwhelming truth that justice delayed is, categorically, justice denied.

The very air that Indian women breathe, as it were, is laden with an unspoken fear. From busy roads to dark alleyways, the shadow of sexual violence haunts them, a terrible reminder of a nation that, despite its progress, is struggling hard to accept the notion of granting half its citizens the most basic right of control over their own bodies and well-being. This is not paranoia, but one born of a list of real terrors, some that scorch the national conscience, and hundreds of thousands more that filter into the unholy silence of unrecorded crimes.

Consider the instance of the recent PG doctor rape at RG Kar Medical College, a nightmare that sent a chill down the spine of the nation. There was this young woman, a trainee doctor who was a postgraduate, sacrificing her life to heal others, found brutally raped and murdered within the confines of the same institution where she worked – a hospital, an institution where she was entitled to be safe.

What irony. She was a guardian of life, an angel guardian, and her own life taken from her where she should have been most safe. The secrets that were revealed were gruesome: glass pieces in her eyes, extreme internal and external injuries, a fractured neck. This case, as with so many, underscored the awful exposure of women as well as the wholesale breakdown of the systems that were intended to protect them. How would such a despicable crime happen in a hospital, in front of security personnel, by a civic volunteer? It paints the picture of breakdowns in the system and in society that permit such crimes to happen. In spite of a conviction in the RG Kar case, the agony of a life lost, a future career derailed, and the sense of security lost for so many more, persists.

The 2012 Nirbhaya case of horror is still in the mind of the Indian people, a nightmare film of the nadir to which depravity can go. The 23-year-old student physiotherapist who was gang-raped and brutally murdered on a city bus became the icon of India's struggle against rape. The outrage was unchanneled, spilling into massive protests and calling for radical law changes. But even in a case that made international headlines and inspired a national movement, justice came late. The killers were ultimately executed in March 2020, seven-plus years after the heinous crime was perpetrated. Seven years! For the family of the victim, those years were an eternity of suffering, a constant reliving of the horror, a long fight for justice. Each court battle, each appeal, each clemency plea made by the convicts suspended their ordeal, defying the principle of speedy justice. Delay, in this case, was not just a trouble; it was denial of closure, a perpetuation of their fear. And Nirbhaya, in its appalling visibility, is only the tip of a monstrous, submerged iceberg. For each case which makes it onto the front pages, there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, which never make the headlines. The reasons are many and profoundly embedded in social prejudices. Shame, after all, is an unbreakable wall. The victim, not the perpetrator, is more likely to be singled out for intense observation, blame, and social ostracism. Seated patriarchal consciousness generally results in presuming that the woman "asked for it" in terms of her clothes, her presence, or just because she exists. Such a victim-blaming society renders rape reporting not only a tortured legal struggle but a social crucifixion.

And then, of course, there is the question of "family honour." In a culture in which a woman's "honour" is owned by the family, a rape is regarded as a stain, an embarrassment that must be hidden if the family name is to be preserved. Parents, in ill-advised fears about what the future holds for their daughter, or because of the enormous social pressure, will discourage, even dissuade their daughters from laying a complaint. The shame of being embarrassed in public, of their daughter getting stigmatized, of proposal opportunities being ruined, is usually stronger than seeing justice served. This internal pressure coupled with this external condemnation by society is a powerful force that silences the victim and allows the culture of impunity to thrive.

The law process in itself is a powerful maze. Even for the very courageous who are willing to make the effort, the process is long and painful. Police insensitivity, lack of proper investigation, lack of forensic information, intimidation of witnesses, and corruption often taint the early stages. The cases drag on in courts for decades, if not decades, because of judicial delay, frequent adjournments, and general lack of concern. The woman victim has to narrate her ordeal time and again through cross-examinations, subjected to callous queries that even result in re-victimization. Long exposure to the legal process with no guarantee of prompt redressal can be more terrifying than the crime itself. It's a system that, because of its very nature and systemic failures, ends up victimizing the victim twice over.

The maxim "justice delayed is justice denied" is no maxim; it's a bitter reality for rape victims in India. If justice is delayed, the physical and psychological injuries of the assault start festering. The victim's desire for closure, for someone to be held accountable, and for some measure of normalcy fade with each passing day. The criminal, meanwhile, gets away with it, free to cause more damage, or at least, with the advantage of long-term freedom which is a travesty of the suffering caused to the victim. The deterrence effect of punishment is lost when its imposition is so far-off and aleatory.

So what can the government and justice do? The solutions, however complex, are not entirely a pipedream.

To begin with, there must be an overall revamp of the judicial process in sexual assault cases. This entails creating additional female-oriented fast-track courts, properly staffing female-oriented fast-track courts with judges and auxiliary staff, and havingstrictly delimited timelines for completing the trial. It must be survivor-centered justice with a sensitive dealing with cases from the registration of female victims. This necessitates intense training of police officers, prosecutors, and judges in gender sensitization and trauma-informed care. Technology, say through the use of video conferencing for the victim's testimony, is also used to lessen re-traumatization of victims.

Second, the investigative process must be greatly improved. This includes obligatory and timely forensic examination, secure evidence collection and preservation, and more focus on professional and neutral investigation, not on victim statements. Police officials who do not investigate thoroughly or are insensitive towards victims must have mechanisms set up for them.

Thirdly, social attitudes need to change radically. It is a long process involving massive education from childhood emphasizing consent, gender equality between men and women, and women's respect. Public mobilization campaigns, dialogue with men and boys on masculinity and violence, and challenging victim-blaming are called for. Religious and community leaders play a crucial role in articulating these values. The shame needs to be moved from the victim to the perpetrator. Finally, while legal and systemic reform is paramount, providing women with self-defence training is also a vital, though secondary, measure. Training in elementary self-defence measures, situational awareness, and building confidence can provide women with tools to potentially deter or avoid an attack. However, one must acknowledge the inbuilt physical disadvantage facing men and women. A woman, no matter how well practiced in self-defence, will be at forlorn disadvantage against two or three determined male aggressors. Self-defence is a defense, not an insurmountable bar. It is a last resort in an existence that need not be so. The final responsibility for women’s security is the responsibility of society and the state, and not the responsibility of the individual woman to fend off overwhelming odds.

Finally, the situation of rapes in India and the attitude of women as perpetual threats to themselves is a national issue to be dealt with immediately and in perpetuity. The tragic accounts of victims such as the RG Kar doctor and Nirbhaya are grim reminders of a system that is in shambles and a mindset of a society with many flaws. Justice delayed is justice denied, and long enough has this denial allowed a culture of impunity and violence to establish itself. 

The time now is for waking up together, a stern scrutiny of our laws, institutions, and social norms, and an impassioned resolve towards the creation of a future where every woman in India can move freely, fearlessly, and with the unshakeable belief that justice will be swift, sure, and irreversible. The silence has to be broken, and the dubious quest for justice become a reality that cannot be avoided.

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