Bridging the Gaps: Challenges in Implementing the Domestic Violence Act

The Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act, 2005 (PWDVA) was a landmark step – the first Indian law to define domestic violence comprehensively, covering physical, emotional, verbal, sexual, and economic abuse. It introduced civil remedies like protection orders, residence rights, and monetary relief that criminal law could never offer. Nearly two decades on, however, the gap between what the Act promises and what victims actually receive remains wide. Several structural gaps – in drafting, in administration, and in judicial interpretation – have consistently diluted the Act’s protective force. This post unpacks those gaps and what they mean for victims on the ground.

The “shared household” problem: a drafting flaw with serious consequences 🔗

One of the most fundamental rights the PWDVA grants is the right of an aggrieved woman to reside in the shared household – irrespective of whether she owns or has any legal interest in it. The legislative intent behind Section 2(s) was clear: to delink ownership from the right to residence, and to protect women in joint-family homes where the husband may not personally own any property.

Yet the statutory language itself was imprecise. In the landmark case of S.R. Batra v. Taruna Batra (2007) 3 SCC 169, the Supreme Court – acknowledging the provision was “not very happily worded” and appeared to be the result of “clumsy drafting” – chose to interpret it narrowly. The Court held that a wife’s right to residence under the Act extended only to a house belonging to or taken on rent by the husband, or a house belonging to the joint family of which the husband is a member – not to property owned exclusively by the in-laws.

This ruling had an immediate and damaging impact. In the typical Indian household structure where a married couple lives in the husband’s parents’ home – which is extremely common – women found themselves excluded from the very protection the Act was designed to provide. The Court’s interpretation failed to account for the social reality that sons, even after marriage, routinely continue to reside with their parents in a house owned by them.

Correcting the course: Satish Chander Ahuja v. Sneha Ahuja 🔗

For fourteen years, the Taruna Batra decision cast a long shadow over residence rights cases. The inconsistency was eventually addressed by a larger bench. In Satish Chander Ahuja v. Sneha Ahuja [(2021) 1 SCC 414], the Supreme Court overruled S.R. Batra and held that a daughter-in-law can exercise her right to live in a shared household completely owned by the in-laws, until her husband arranges alternate accommodation – interpreting “shared household” under Section 17 irrespective of whether she has any legal interest in the property.

While this correction was welcome, the episode reveals a deeper problem: legislative ambiguity created a fourteen-year period during which countless women were wrongly denied residence protection. The judiciary was left to fix what Parliament should have drafted precisely from the outset. Even after Satish Ahuja, the precedent in Taruna Batra has not entirely disappeared – some courts have continued to follow the narrower view, producing conflicting jurisprudence that creates unpredictability for litigants.

The civil-criminal divide: a structural limitation 🔗

The PWDVA is primarily a civil law. This was a deliberate choice – the drafters believed civil remedies would deliver faster and more flexible relief than criminal prosecution. But this design creates a structural gap that has real consequences. Because the Act functions chiefly as a civil law, a further offense – such as violating a Protection Order – is required before criminal sanctions like arrest and imprisonment can be triggered against the respondent.

In practice, this means a woman can obtain a protection order from the Magistrate, but if it is flouted, she must initiate a fresh round of legal proceedings to invoke criminal enforcement. For a victim living with her abuser or financially dependent on him, this procedural gap can be both dangerous and demoralising. The Act does not create a seamless bridge from civil protection to criminal accountability – and that silence is felt most acutely by women in the most vulnerable situations.

Protection Officers: the weakest link in implementation 🔗

The Act envisages Protection Officers (POs) as the frontline link between victims and the legal system. Their duties are intensive: filing Domestic Incident Reports, accompanying aggrieved persons to medical facilities, assisting in court proceedings, and liaising between victims, police, and service providers. The Supreme Court itself observed that the responsibilities of a Protection Officer are “intensive and not of the kind expected of judicial officers,” requiring on-the-spot surveys, inspections, and acting as the interface between victims, police, and the judicial process.

Despite this, the PO framework has remained critically under-resourced. Implementation gaps result in PO responsibilities falling secondary to officers’ prior duties – many Protection Officers hold additional roles in state welfare departments, meaning domestic violence work is treated as a secondary function rather than a dedicated one.

The financial dimension compounds the problem further. While the estimated financial requirement for effective implementation of the Act stands at ₹1,158 crores, only ₹946 lakh was sanctioned – a figure so inadequate that basic infrastructure for POs has remained largely unbuilt. Shelter homes, service providers, and counselling infrastructure are simply not available at the scale the law contemplates.

Supreme Court’s intervention in We the Women of India v. Union of India 🔗

The administrative failure became impossible to ignore. In We the Women of India v. Union of India (Writ Petition (Civil) No. 1156/2021), the Supreme Court in May 2025 directed all states and Union Territories to identify and designate Protection Officers at district and taluka levels, with the process to be completed within six weeks in areas where such designations had not yet been made.

The Court noted serious deficiencies in the appointment and functioning of Protection Officers across States and UTs, and emphasised that a law cannot remain effective only on paper – it must function at the ground level. The bench also directed states to empower service providers under Section 10, identify and notify shelter homes at district and taluka levels within ten weeks, and ensure active public awareness campaigns under Section 11 of the Act.

The fact that a Supreme Court order was necessary in 2025 – nearly twenty years after the Act came into force – to compel states to simply appoint the officers the Act had always mandated, speaks volumes about how deep the implementation failure runs.

Social and cultural barriers: gaps the law cannot legislate away 🔗

Several of the Act’s gaps are not in its text but in the social environment in which it operates. Deep-rooted patriarchal mindsets that normalise domestic violence as a private family matter, combined with the social stigma associated with divorce or separation, continue to discourage women from seeking legal help. Police officers have in many instances encouraged reconciliation rather than registering complaints – sometimes treating a domestic violence complaint as a domestic dispute rather than a legal matter.

Beyond enforcement, implementation also depends on the slow-moving social acceptability of reporting these cases – a cultural shift that law alone cannot engineer. Women in rural areas, in particular, often have no knowledge of their rights under the Act. Many women, especially in rural areas, remain unaware of the reliefs available to them, and this lack of awareness directly prevents them from seeking protection. Section 11 of the Act places an explicit obligation on state governments to publicise its provisions – but this duty has been honoured largely in the breach.

Judicial delays and the erosion of interim relief 🔗

One of the PWDVA’s strengths is its provision for interim orders – immediate relief in the form of temporary protection orders, emergency monetary relief, and custody arrangements that can be granted even before a full hearing. In theory, this distinguishes it from the slow machinery of criminal law. In practice, judicial delays remain a significant concern despite the statutory mandate for speedy disposal, often prolonging the victim’s trauma and compromising her immediate safety.

The average delay in resolving domestic violence cases frequently extends beyond two years, leading to prolonged emotional and financial strain on all parties involved. When a case drags on for years, interim protection orders can lapse, the victim may be pressured into withdrawing, or the respondent may successfully delay enforcement. The law’s protective promise is most meaningful in the immediate aftermath of abuse – and that is precisely when the system’s delays are most harmful.

Gaps in coverage: who the Act leaves behind 🔗

The PWDVA protects women in “domestic relationships” – a term broadly defined to include marriage, live-in relationships, and family cohabitation. Courts have progressively expanded this definition; in Lalita Toppo v. State of Jharkhand, the Supreme Court held that women in relationships “in the nature of marriage” are entitled to protection and maintenance under the Act, aligning statutory interpretation with social reality.

However, significant exclusions remain. Male victims of domestic violence, adult sons, and LGBTQ+ individuals in same-sex relationships fall entirely outside the Act’s protection. The Act’s gender-specific approach, which excludes male victims, has been identified as a structural gap that fails to address the full spectrum of domestic violence. As Indian society evolves, the law’s architecture – built on a binary understanding of domestic relationships – will increasingly struggle to accommodate the diverse forms that household abuse can take.

What strengthening the Act requires 🔗

Addressing the gaps in the PWDVA is not a matter of one reform – it requires action on multiple fronts simultaneously. The drafting ambiguities around “shared household,” now partially corrected by Satish Ahuja, should be legislatively codified to remove reliance on case-by-case judicial correction. The Protection Officer framework needs dedicated full-time officers with proper training, accountability mechanisms, and adequate budgetary support – not officials for whom DV work is an afterthought.

States must ensure that designated officers are trained, dedicated, and adequately resourced to fulfil their roles, and investment in safe shelters, helplines, and One-Stop Crisis Centres is essential. Equally important is awareness – community outreach, legal literacy programmes in schools and colleges, and consistent media campaigns to ensure women know their rights before a crisis, not after. The judiciary’s role in liberal interpretation of the Act has been indispensable, but judicial activism cannot be a permanent substitute for legislative precision and executive commitment.

The PWDVA remains one of India’s most progressive social welfare statutes. Its framework – civil remedies, Protection Officers, service providers, and a broad definition of abuse – was ahead of its time. The question is no longer whether the law is good enough on paper. The question is whether the state has the will to make it work in fact.

What do you think? Given that the Supreme Court had to intervene as recently as 2025 to compel states to appoint Protection Officers, should Parliament amend the PWDVA to include enforceable timelines and penalties for states that fail to meet implementation benchmarks? And should the Act be extended to cover all victims of domestic violence, regardless of gender, to reflect the realities of 21st-century households?

References

1. https://wcd.nic.in/act/protection-women-domestic-violence-act-2005
2. https://www.indianconstitution.in/2021/12/sr-batra-another-vs-smt-taruna-batra.html