In a nation where the cries of the oppressed often drown in the cacophony of outrage, Section 498A of the Indian Penal Code has become a mirror in which two Indians stare at each other: one seeks justice for daughters burned by the monstrous appetite of dowry; the other raises the spectre of misuse, of innocent men and families dragged into police stations under the weight of false allegations. Between them lies the lonely truth—unheard, inconvenient, but essential.
Enacted in 1983, Section 498A was born in the ashes of tragedy. “Bride burning,” that euphemistic horror cloaked in the language of kitchen accidents, had become a ghastly epidemic. Women, often young and pregnant, were murdered in their marital homes, and the law—until then blind to cruelty cloaked as custom—stood mute. It was voices like Satya Rani Chadha’s, whose daughter Shashi Bala was killed while expecting a child, that forced a moral reckoning. Section 498A was not merely a statute. It was a line drawn in blood.
But decades later, this sword of justice is accused of cutting both ways. The narrative has shifted. Today, courtrooms and public debates echo with concerns that the law is being weaponized—used by disgruntled wives to incarcerate husbands, harass mothers-in-law, and negotiate favourable settlements. The phrase “legal terrorism” has been invoked by some courts. The spectre of “false dowry cases” looms large in middle-class drawing rooms, WhatsApp forwards, and even Supreme Court pronouncements.
The data, however, demands a more nuanced reading. The National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) reported that 19 women were killed every day for dowry in 2022. The National Family Health Survey-5 revealed that one in three Indian women experiences physical or sexual violence in her lifetime. Nearly 45% of Indian women and 44% of men believe it is acceptable to beat a wife for certain transgressions—like leaving the house without permission. Can such a society credibly claim that women are misusing their protections en masse?
To be clear, false cases exist—just as false claims of robbery, assault, or property disputes exist. But do we respond to those by dismantling entire legal frameworks? No one argues for the repeal of theft laws because some complainants lie. And yet, with Section 498A, the debate is not legal but ideological. It pits patriarchal anxiety against feminist justice. It presumes that women, by default, lie—and that men, by default, suffer.
Indeed, the judiciary itself seems conflicted. From Delhi to Allahabad, judgments have been handed down warning of the “disgruntled housewife,” the conniving complainant who uses the law as leverage. The Supreme Court, as recently as December 2024, expressed concern over the “growing misuse” of 498A. But the same bench was forced to acknowledge that genuine victims of domestic abuse still hesitate to report their trauma. Why? Because they fear disbelief, stigma, and that dreadful word: adjustment.
The courtroom, thus, becomes not just a place of law but of narrative warfare. A woman walks in seeking justice; she walks out branded manipulative. Her complaint becomes her character. And yet, the same society that doubts her story would not hesitate to beat her for stepping out in defiance.
If the misuse narrative has gained currency, it is partly because our legal system lacks the finesse of balance. Section 498A is a non-bailable, cognizable offence—meaning arrests can be made without a warrant. This, though necessary in certain cases, has allowed a perception of easy exploitation. But instead of gutting the law, what India needs is judicial discretion, timely investigation, and greater sensitivity from police and courts. Justice, after all, is not served by suspicion—it is built on evidence.
Veteran advocate Indira Jaising has rightly argued that India’s deeper legal failure lies not in the misuse of Section 498A, but in the absence of a comprehensive matrimonial law—one that ensures fair settlements, equitable division of property, and no-fault divorces. Currently, women who walk out of abusive marriages often find themselves “thrown out of the house with empty hands.” When the exit door leads to destitution, can one blame them for seeking shelter under criminal law?
What we require, then, is not the dilution of 498A, but the elevation of our understanding of justice. Protection from cruelty must be accompanied by dignity in divorce, financial independence, and social rehabilitation. If the law is to be reformed, let it be in the service of both sexes—shielding the innocent, punishing the guilty, and recognizing that marriage, like law, must never be a tool of tyranny.
False dowry cases, then, are not the heart of the problem—they are the shadow. The real battle is for the soul of India’s justice system. In this battle, the greatest danger lies not in misuse—but in disbelief. For when women are told that their truth is a lie, we do not merely fail them; we betray them.