Visiting the Family of a Six-Year-Old Sexual Assault Survivor in Delhi: Life After the Unthinkable

The father walks a few steps ahead of me, guiding me off the main road and into a narrow lane in northeast Delhi’s Bhajanpura. The lane is barely wide enough for two people to pass. Four single-room houses stand shoulder to shoulder here, their doors opening directly into the alley, lives compressed into tight spaces where privacy is a luxury and neighbours are witnesses to everything.

He stops in front of one room.

Inside, a large bed occupies most of the space. A sewing machine rests at one end, a small stove at the other. In a corner, curled near a cloth mat, is a one-month-old puppy, asleep. This is where the six-year-old girl lives with her family. This is also where I meet her.

The first thing I notice is her smile.

She is wrapped in her mother’s arms, her face open, her eyes bright. She waves at me—with a warmth that’s disarming. There is no visible sign of fear. No hesitation. Just a child greeting a stranger, unaware of why so many adults have suddenly become invested in her presence.

Her mother holds her close. The grip is protective, almost instinctive.

As I take in the room, voices rush in before bodies do. A group of women crowd the doorway—some in burkhas, others with scarves loosely draped.

“Wahi hai?”
“Woh bachchi?”
“Kahaan hain ladke?”

Concern, anger, urgency—all spill into the room at once. I feel overwhelmed just standing there, the attention heavy, intrusive, relentless.

The family has six members. The child. A younger brother. An older brother. An older sister, seated quietly near the stove, boiling milk. No one looks at her. No one asks how she is coping.

The six-year-old remains oblivious. She smiles, plays on a phone with her younger brother, laughing freely. She does not know she is the reason the room has filled with strangers.

I ask for some time alone with the mother.

As the women leave, silence settles in—uneasy, weighted. The mother hesitates for a moment, then straightens her shawl, covering her face. She sits on a plastic chair, ready. Her eyes hold both fear and resolve.

I start recording.

A knock interrupts us. The mother raises her hand firmly.
“Koi baat nahi. Karna hai.” she says.

She wants to speak.

As I ask my questions, she begins to talk, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the walls, as if she is reliving every moment while narrating it.

“It was around 7 pm,” she says. “My daughter came back home wet, dirty… and then she fainted.”

Her voice drops.

“When we checked her private parts, there was blood. Blood till her feet.”

They did not wait. Wrapping the child in a shawl, the family ran to the nearest police station. The police called an ambulance and took her to the hospital (WRITE NAME). Medical examinations followed. Police verification. Procedures that confirmed what no parent should ever have to hear—that their child had been sexually assaulted.

As she speaks, silence fills the room. Goosebumps rise on my arms. A tear slips down her face. She doesn’t wipe it away. She doesn’t need to explain the pause. The reason is painfully clear.

As she speaks, I am struck by how familiar this narrative is—not just to her, but to the country.

In 2023 alone, official data shows that 849 rape cases involved girls below the age of 18. Some records put the number at 852. The difference is marginal. The reality is not.

That means more than two children a day were raped in India in 2023.

 A few minutes later, the child walks over to me and climbs onto my lap.

She smiles again. She talks about dogs. She wants to know if I like them too.

I am not done with my interview, but I cannot bring myself to ask her mother to continue. Instead, I sit there with the child, listening to her excited chatter, acutely aware that she has no understanding of what lies ahead—physically, emotionally, psychologically.

She is six.

To understand what happens to a child’s body after sexual assault, I speak to Dr Gouri Kumra, a gynaecologist based in Kolkata. Her concern is immediate and urgent.

“Vaccines for cervical cancer must be administered as soon as possible,” she explains. “Testing for HIV and other sexually transmitted infections is essential.”

But the danger does not end there.

“At this age, the body is still developing. There is a real possibility of premature puberty and long-term hormonal disruption. This child will need sustained medical monitoring.”

The psychological impact, Dr Kumra says, is often underestimated.

“Mental health must be prioritised. Repeated questioning, protests, and media glare—it all compounds trauma. Children like her must be protected from becoming public symbols.”

When the interview resumes, the mother speaks of something that cuts deeper than fear—the familiarity of the accused.

The boys were known to the family. Friends of her older son, who had died months earlier due to medical reasons.

She recounts being told her daughter “deserved” what happened.

Her voice sharpens.

“I asked them—agar mere bete ne aapki beti ke saath kiya hota, toh bhi yahin kehte?”

The crime against women in India sits buried inside a much larger, more alarming number: 4,48,211 crimes against women reported nationwide in 2023, up from 4,45,256 the year before.

Of these crimes, 83,891 cases involved assault with intent to outrage a woman’s modesty. 29,670 were rape cases, translating to a rate of 4.4 per lakh women. Among them, 28,821 involved women aged 18 and above.

Attempts to commit rape were reported in 2,796 cases. Acid attacks numbered 113.

Her anger spills over. She demands the harshest punishment. At one point, she says she would kill the accused herself if justice fails her.

It is anger born of helplessness, of watching a child hurt in ways no justice system can fully undo.

Two of the accused—both minors—have been apprehended. Their families have fled the area. The third remains absconding, suspected to be in Bihar. According to the Bhajanpura SHO, the boys are believed to be between 10 and 16 years old. The absconding accused has no identity documents or school records, raising troubling questions about age verification and traceability.

To understand how the law responds when minors commit such crimes, I speak with Pallavi Garg, a criminal lawyer at the Delhi High Court.

She is blunt about media conduct.

“I must underline the misconduct of the media in this case,” she says. “Names of both the child and the accused have been revealed. This is illegal and deeply damaging. It can seriously hinder the judicial process.”

Under juvenile law, even in cases of conviction, records are maintained only for a limited period.

“The focus is rehabilitation, not punishment,” she explains. “The Juvenile Justice Board must determine whether the minors can be reintegrated into society.”

For families like this one, the disconnect between trauma and legal process feels unbearable.

As the interview ends, the mother breaks down again—but her resolve does not.

“This will not stop my daughter,” she says. “She will go to school. She will play. She will live normally. She is not the one who will suffer.”

It is a statement of defiance. Against stigma. Against fear. Against a crime that tried to steal a childhood.

The six-year-old laughs somewhere behind us, the puppy finally awake, licking her hand. For now, she is still a child in a room with a bed, a stove, a sewing machine—and a family determined to ensure that what happened to her does not define the rest of her life.