In the past, the world felt different. Just as children today are captivated by cartoons on smartphones, there was a time when the adventures of Sindbad in the Daily Thanthi newspaper held a whole generation spellbound. To enjoy those stories, one couldn’t just rely on sight and sound; you had to know how to piece letters together to read.
I remember my school days, stopping at Sankaran’s tea shop in Melpalur. If I returned home without flipping to the second page of the Daily Thanthi, the night’s sleep would evade me, filled with anxiety over what might have happened to Laila in the story. Back then, a single tea shop in a village was enough to stir discussions on everything from local gossip to global affairs.
We lived in an era where Dinamani found a home in every household, and young people carried The Hindu like a badge of intellectual identity. Even if we studied our subjects in English at college, tackling the editorials of The Hindu was where we truly tested our mettle. Understanding a complex word or a nuanced phrase felt like a milestone in self-confidence.
But today, the benches in the tea shops are gone. The newspapers have vanished from many homes. The youth no longer carry the heavy broadsheets. Instead, everyone carries a smartphone. We have transitioned into an age of WhatsApp snippets, half-minute Reels, and AI-driven speed. In our rush to consume everything instantly, I fear we are becoming "half-boiled" personalities, losing the depth that patient reading once provided.
It was while scrolling through such digital spaces this morning—specifically the Times of India—that a small news item caught my eye, pulling me back from nostalgia to a bitter contemporary reality. It was the story of a husband who prohibited his wife from entering the kitchen.
It is a tragic irony: those who soar like skylarks in their birth homes are often caged like ostriches in their marital homes. Instead of the joy of a new beginning, a woman is often gripped by the fear of the unknown. A girl who grew up playfully teasing her brother now finds herself confused about how to even speak in a new house.
Even if she holds a PhD, it often matters little. The age-old, drilled-in concept of "femininity" demands that she bow before her in-laws. A woman who, until yesterday, sat comfortably with her legs crossed in front of her father or grandfather, now hesitates to sit on a chair or sofa in her marital home. She chooses the floor out of fear, knowing that the slightest deviation from "tradition" will trigger whispers about her "lack of respect." We claim that a daughter and a daughter-in-law are equal, but society applies a different set of laws to the one who "comes into" the house.
This specific case from Maharashtra takes this oppression to a bizarre extreme. A man banned his wife from entering the kitchen. He kept it locked so she couldn’t cook, forcing her to buy food from outside. When she went out, he would lock the house doors. He even went as far as removing the calling bell so she couldn't signal her return.
After inflicting such mental torture, he sought a divorce without any valid grounds. When the lower court dismissed his plea, he approached the High Court. The Bombay High Court rightly dismissed his appeal, stating that his treatment of his wife was not just physical cruelty but profound mental cruelty.
The poet Kavimani Desigavinayagam Pillai once sang, "To be born as a woman, one must have performed great penance." However, cases like this make us wonder if women today are forced to sing, "What sin did I commit to be born a woman?"
In an era where we talk about equality even within the Garbhagriha (Sanctum Sanctorum) of temples, it is the height of injustice to tell a woman she cannot enter the kitchen of her own home. Whether we are reading a physical newspaper or a digital screen, these are the harsh realities we must confront.
P.Sekar
Advocate
13.04.2026
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