I am exhausted by Instagram reels of smiling brides in carefully coordinated pastel outfits. Wedding functions shot cinematically at obscene expense. Slow-motion laughter under fairy lights. Drone shots of choreographed happiness.
Everything dipped in soft gold filters while “o ri chiraiya” plays gently in the background—as though Indian marriage itself is some tender feminist fairytale. Because somewhere outside those edited frames are women sending messages like, “Mera jeevan narak ho gaya hai.”
And now that same song plays over montage videos of women who are dead. The same bridal smiles. The same soft-focus edits. The same aestheticised grief.
The internet first consumes these women as beautiful brides, and later mourns them as tragic memories, without ever interrogating the institution that exists between those two moments—and profoundly unwilling to face what many of them endure inside “respectable” homes.
Object of Desire, Subject of Despair
Which is, perhaps, why the Twisha Sharma case feels so disturbingly familiar.
Here, too, was a marriage wrapped in elite respectability. A husband from one of the country’s premier law schools. A mother-in-law who served as a judge. And a family fluent in legality, public image, and institutional language. The kind of family urban India instinctively trusts.
And yet, after Twisha’s death, what emerged publicly was not introspection, but the systematic dismantling of her credibility. Her mental health. Her medication. Her alleged marijuana use. Her unwillingness to have a child. Her emotional instability.
The press conference by her mother-in-law Giribala Singh was revealing not merely for its content, but for its cultural familiarity. Degrees polish patriarchy; they do not necessarily dismantle it. Sometimes elite education simply teaches people how to weaponise language more elegantly.
Deepika Nagar’s story sits horrifyingly close to Twisha’s—not necessarily in factual similarity, but in what both cases expose about the emotional economy of Indian marriage. A family reportedly spends nearly a crore on a wedding. Jewellery. Designer clothes. Rituals staged with exhausting grandeur. A daughter “settled” into what society calls a respectable home.
Barely 17 months later, she is dead, and her grieving father stands before cameras, alleging her in-laws demanded a Fortuner car and Rs 51 lakh.
Somewhere between the wedding hashtag and the postmortem lies the truth Indian society still refuses to confront.
For many families, marriage remains less a celebration of a woman’s future, and more an expensive negotiation for her acceptance, and sometimes a show of her father’s capacity to gain that societal acceptance and recognition.
Families are taught to obsess over the wedding day while treating the woman’s actual married life as secondary. Savings are drained. Loans are taken. Dignity is mortgaged to stage the perfect spectacle because society has convinced parents that a lavish wedding secures safety, prestige, and stability for their daughter.
But the patriarchy has no ceiling. It consumes endlessly. And when tragedy finally arrives, the woman herself often becomes the accused in death, too emotional, too unstable, too modern, too unwilling, and too difficult. Because in India, a “good victim” receives sympathy. A complicated woman receives suspicion.
'She Didn't Give Us a Even Moment's Joy'
“Mujhe bahut zyada ghutan ho rahi hai, maa”. (I am feeling very suffocated, mother.)
The most chilling part of the Twisha Sharma case is the spectacle that followed—the public dissection of the deceased woman by her mother-in-law Giribala Singh. And not just any mother-in-law. A retired judge who occupied one of the highest positions within India’s justice system. A woman who's expected to understand power, coercion, dignity, and the devastating consequences of reputational violence.
Yet, the public defence attributed to her reads less like grief—and more like a familiar script dressed in legal sophistication, spattered with the elderly tears of a mother-in-law who is “falling apart”.
"Twisha, we are told, was mentally unstable. We observed few days before, hands mein thoda shivering tha (there was some shivering in her hands), typical of withdrawal symptoms under medication. Improving temporarily before deteriorating again."
She allegedly consumed marijuana heavily. She allegedly did not want a child. She allegedly refused medicine. She was difficult. Troubled. Unwell.
The woman is dead. But the character assassination continues with astonishing ease by her mother-in-law, who appeared far more comfortable constructing public sympathy for her absconding son than extending dignity to a woman whose life ended inside her home.
Discredited Women and 'Powerless' Parents
Even in death, Twisha is being reduced to what she allegedly failed to provide: happiness, stability, obedience, even an “heir” for the family. And that is precisely how patriarchy protects itself in respectable Indian households, not always through visible brutality, but through narrative control.
The woman must first be discredited before the institution of marriage can be defended.
What is extraordinary is not that these arguments are being made. Indian society has heard them for generations. What is extraordinary is how often women themselves become the most ruthless custodians of these structures.
Indian patriarchy does not survive because men dominate alone. It survives because entire family ecosystems are built around protecting male legitimacy at all costs. And, in that ecosystem, the Indian mother-in-law often emerges not as a passive participant, but as an active enforcer.
"Maa, aap mujhe yahan se lene aa jao kal, please”. (Mother, take me away from here tomorrow, please).
The most heartbreaking part of that sentence is not merely that Twisha asked to be taken home. It is that, like countless Indian daughters, she likely still remained where she was.
“Samarth abhi gussa hai unka mood sahi ho jayega phir achcha lagega tujhe.” (Samarth is still angry. Once his mood improves, you'll feel better).
Because Indian parents are often socially conditioned to rescue their daughters emotionally, but not structurally. They console them, advise patience, encourage adjustment, suggest compromise, ask them to “give it some time”, worry about societal perception, and hope things will improve after the next conversation, the next visit, the next apology.
What they often do not do—sometimes out of helplessness, sometimes out of conditioning, sometimes out of fear of breaking a marriage—is arrive the next morning and bring their daughter back permanently.
This is not an accusation against grieving parents. It is an indictment of a society that has trained generations of families to treat a daughter’s suffering after marriage as negotiable, manageable, and temporary until tragedy makes it irreversible.
Law Not on Her Side
Legally speaking, the most uncomfortable truth about both the cases is that the outrage surrounding it will almost certainly die long before the case itself does.
The hashtags will disappear, television debates will move on, and public morality will relocate to the next tragedy. What remains after that is the slow and unforgiving machinery of criminal procedure, where matrimonial death cases are ultimately decided not through public grief, but through admissible evidence, forensic consistency, witness testimony, and the prosecution’s ability to establish cruelty or abetment beyond reasonable doubt.
Indian criminal law deliberately sets a high threshold for conviction, and courts cannot convict on collective outrage or moral instinct alone. That is precisely why narrative-building begins so aggressively in such cases.
The objective is not merely reputational damage, but diluting evidence, because coercive control, humiliation, and psychological abuse within marriages rarely leave behind clean forensic trails.
What victims experience as sustained suffering often enters courtrooms as fragmented chats, ambiguous testimonies, contradictory recollections, and competing interpretations. Over time, outrage weakens, witnesses fatigue, memories blur, and cases that once dominated national headlines slowly dissolve into procedural delay and legal ambiguity.
The real tragedy linking Twisha Sharma and Deepika Nagar is not merely that two young women are dead under disturbing circumstances. The tragedy is that both cases eventually collapsed into painfully familiar questions around the woman, her behaviour, her mental state, her ability to “keep the family happy”, irrespective of the cost.
(Tahini Bhushan is an experienced advocate and legal consultant with over 10 years of expertise in family law, arbitration, estate planning, criminal and company law. This is an opinion piece and the views expressed are the author's own. The Quint does not endorse or is responsible for them.)