In the line of duty

After months of unbearable heat, winter had finally arrived in Maharashtra’s Marathwada region. Damini (name changed) was enjoying the respite while getting ready for her night shift at work. “I was on PSO [Police Station Officer] duty and in charge of issuing weapons and walkie-talkies,” she says.

Once at work, the Station House Officer alias Police Inspector (SHO/PI) asked her to bring charged batteries for his walkie-talkie from the police station to his official home inside the station premises. It was after midnight, and summoning her to his premises for such tasks, though against protocol, was the norm. “Officers often take equipment home…and we have to follow orders of our superiors,” Damini explains.

So, around 1:30 am, Damini walked to the PI’s house.

Three men were sitting inside: the PI, a social worker, and a thana karamchari (civic volunteer employed by the police station for small semi-official tasks). “I ignored them and turned to the table in the room to change the batteries of the walkie talkie,” she says uneasily while recalling this night from November 2017. With her back turned, she suddenly heard the sound of the door being locked. “I wanted to leave the room. I tried to, also, with all my strength but two of the men held my hands tightly, threw me on the bed, and….one by one they raped me.”

Around 2:30 am, a teary-eyed Damini wobbled out of the house, got on her bike, and headed home. “My mind was numb. I kept thinking of…my career and what I wanted to achieve. And, now this?” she says.

For as long as she can remember, Damini wanted to be a senior government officer. Her three degrees – a Bachelor of Arts in English, a Bachelor of Education, and a Bachelor of Law – are testament to her ambition and hard work. “I have always been a top student…I had thought of joining the Indian Police Service (IPS) as a constable and then preparing for the police inspector recruitment exam,” she says.

In 2007, Damini entered the police force. For the first few years, she worked in the traffic department and as a constable at police stations in Marathwada. “I was working hard to gain seniority, enhance my skills with each case,” Damini recalls. Yet, despite her hard work her experiences in male-dominated police stations were demoralising.

“Male colleagues would often pass taunts, indirectly. Especially based on caste and of course, gender,” says Damini, who belongs to the Dalit community. “Once one of the employees told me, ‘Tumhi jar sahebancha marjipramane rahilyat tar tumhala duty vagare kami lagel. Paise pan deu tumhala’ [If you do as Sir says, you will have fewer duties and will get paid too].” That employee was the thana karamchari accused of raping her. Besides doing semi-official tasks at the station, Damini says he would collect ‘vasooli’ (illicit payments under the threat of legal action or harassment) from businesses on behalf of the police, and for “bringing” sex workers and female constables to the PI at his personal home, or at hotels and lodges.

“Even if we want to complain, our superiors are usually male. They ignore us,” Damini adds. Female police superiors, too, are no strangers to misogyny and harassment. Dr. Meeran Chadha Borwankar, a retired Indian Police Service (IPS) officer who has the distinction of being the first woman commissioner of Maharashtra says work environments for female police personnel have always been unsafe in India. “Sexual harassment at the workplace is a reality. Women at constabulary level face it more, but even senior women officers are not spared. I have also faced it,” she adds.

In 2013, the Sexual Harassment of Women at Workplace (Prevention, Prohibition, and Redressal) Act was enacted to safeguard women from workplace sexual harassment, and employers are obligated to raise awareness about it. “Police stations fall under this Act and must adhere to its provisions. The SHO or PI is the ‘employer’ and responsible for ensuring compliance,” asserts Poorna Ravishankar, a lawyer at the Alternative Law Forum, Bengaluru. The Act mandates the formation of Internal Complaints Committees (ICC) to handle workplace harassment complaints—including against the PI, like in Damini’s case. But Dr. Borwankar offers a reality check: “ICCs often exist only on paper.”

A 2019 survey titled 'Status of Policing in India', conducted by Lokniti-Programme for Comparative Democracy, Centre for the Study of Developing Societies (CSDS), interviewed 11,834 police personnel across 105 locations in 21 states, including Maharashtra. It revealed that nearly one-fourth (24 per cent) of female police personnel reported the absence of such committees in their workplace or jurisdiction. Which is partly why, the extent of harassment faced by female police personnel remains challenging to quantify.

“We were never told about this Act. Nor was there any committee,” clarifies Damini.

Since 2014, the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) has been collecting data on cases of sexual harassment at work or office premises under the category of ‘assault on women with intent to outrage her modesty’ (Section 354 of the now-defunct Indian Penal Code, the equivalent of Section 74 of the new Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita or BNS). In 2022, the National Crime Records Bureau recorded at least 422 victims in this category across India, with 46 in Maharashtra—a likely underestimation.

When Damini reached home that night of November 2017, her mind was buzzing with questions, possible repercussions of speaking up, and the dread of seeing the faces of her alleged rapists day after day at work. “I kept thinking if [the rape] was a result of not obliging my seniors’ vicious advances…what I should do next,” Damini recalls. Four-five days later, Damini mustered the courage to go to work but decided not to say or do anything about the incident. “I was very disturbed. I knew all the steps one should take [such as a time-sensitive medical test] but…I don’t know,” Damini hesitated.

But a week later, she went to meet the Superintendent of Police (SP) of one of the districts in Marathwada with a written complaint. The SP did not ask her to file a First Information Report (FIR). Instead, Damini started facing the repercussions she was dreading. “The SP asked for her service record from her police station. The accused PI mentioned in it that my character is not good and had engaged in indecent behaviour at work,” Damini says.

A few days later Damini wrote a second complaint letter to the SP but there was no response. “There wasn't a day when I didn’t try meeting higher authorities. At the same time, I was also performing my allotted duty,” she remembers. “Then I learned I had become pregnant from the rape.”

The following month, she wrote another four-page complaint letter which she sent to the SP via post and Whatsapp. A primary inquiry was ordered in January 2018, two months after the alleged rape. “A female Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) was the inquiry-in-charge. Even though I submitted my pregnancy reports to her, she didn’t attach it with her findings. The ASP concluded that sexual assault did not take place and I was suspended in June 2019, pending further inquiry,” Damini says.

All this while, Damini did not have the support of her family. She had separated from her husband in 2016, a year before the incident. As the eldest among four sisters and a brother, she had hoped her father, a retired police constable, and homemaker mother would stand by her. “But one of the accused instigated my father…told him I do sexual activities at the station…that I’m ‘faltu’ (useless)...that I should not file complaints against them and get into this mess,” she adds. When her father stopped talking to her, she was shocked. “It was quite hard to believe it. But I chose to ignore it. What else?”

To make matters worse, Damini felt she was under constant surveillance. “The accused, especially the karamchari, used to follow me everywhere. I was always on alert. I was not sleeping, not eating well. My mind and body was exhausted.”

Nevertheless, she persisted. In February 2018, she approached a Judicial Magistrate First Class (JMFC) court in one of the talukas of the district. Her case was dismissed for a lack of permission from her superiors to pursue legal recourse against a public servant (under Section 197 of the now-revised Criminal Procedure Code, the equivalent of Section 218 under the Bharatiya Nyaya Suraksha Sanhita or BNSS). A week later after she filed another application, the Additional District Sessions Court, finally ordered the police station to file an FIR.

“After over three months of frustration and feeling down, the court’s order boosted my morale,” Damini says, reliving that moment. It was short lived. Two days after the FIR was filed, the scene of the alleged crime—the PI’s residence—was examined. No evidence was found, naturally so, given that over three months had lapsed since the night Damini went to the PI’s house. No arrests were made.

The same month, Damini had a miscarriage and lost the child.

More than five years have passed since the last hearing in Damini’s case in July 2019. While on suspension, she tried repeatedly to take her case to the Inspector General (IG), but was denied an appointment. One day, she stopped his official car by standing in front of it, while narrating her story. “I appealed to him, listing all the unfair actions taken against me. Then he gave orders to reinstate me,” Damini remembers. She re-joined the police force in August 2020.

Today, she lives in a remote area of Marathwada. Her house is the only one that dots the  sparse landscape, apart from a few farms and not many people around.

“I feel safe here. Nobody comes this side, except a few farmers.” She sounds relieved, cradling her six-month-old daughter from her second marriage. “I used to be anxious all the time, but have become more relaxed since she was born.” Her husband is supportive of her. Her relationship with her father is also on the mend since the birth of the little girl.

She no longer works at the police station where she was allegedly raped. Instead, she holds the post of head constable at another station in the same district. Only two colleagues and close friends know that she is a survivor of sexual assault. Nobody at her workplace—current or previous—knows where she now lives. Even then, she does not feel safe.

“If I am outside and not in uniform, I cover my face with a cloth. I never go out alone. I always take precautions. They shouldn’t reach my home,” Damini says.

This is not a perceived threat.

Damini alleges the accused karamchari often comes to her new workplace, or police checkpoints where she is deployed—and beats her up. “Once, he beat me up at a bus stop on the day my case was being heard in the District Court.” As a new mother, her main concern is her daughter’s safety. “What if they do something to her?” she asks rhetorically, tightening her grip around the child.

This author met Damini in May 2024. Despite the scorching heat of Marathwada, the nearly seven year long fight for justice, and the lingering threat of being harmed for speaking up—her spirits were high; her resolve, stronger. “I want to see all the accused behind bars. Mala ladhaayach aahe (I want to fight).”

The story is part of a nationwide reporting project focusing on social, institutional and structural barriers to care for survivors of Sexual and Gender-Based violence (SGBV) in India. It is part of a Doctors Without Borders India supported initiative.

The names of the survivors and family members may have been changed to protect their identity .