Trapped in a Life of Quiet Despair Mumbai Housewife’s Heart-Wrenching Tale of Marriage and Misery
I don’t even know where to start. My name, my real one, I won’t tell. I’m just another aunty, a housewife you see in the Mumbai suburbs—late 40s, four kids, a husband, and in-laws who think they own me. I’m writing this because I can’t keep it inside anymore. I saw one confession article on Realshepower, and I thought, arre, if these women can tell their stories, why can’t I? But I’m doing it anonymously, because I’m still stuck in this house, with these people. On X and Instagram, I have fake accounts—there I cry, I shout, I write my pain, but no one knows it’s me. Here also, no one will know.
I come from an upper-middle-class family, you know, the kind where everyone expects you to be perfect. Big house, good school, all that. But my childhood was not some happy Bollywood film. My father was always angry—shouting, hitting, drinking. My mother, poor thing, she just took it quietly. I was the eldest, so I had to grow up fast. No one asked me what I wanted. I wanted to study more, maybe become something—a teacher, a writer, I don’t know. But they said, “Shaadi karo, settle down.” I was only 22 when they fixed my marriage.
First few years, I thought, okay, maybe this is fine. My husband, he’s not a bad man, but he’s weak. He never stands up for me. His parents—my in-laws—they made my life hell from day one. Saas-bahu drama is not just TV serials, haan, it’s my reality. My mother-in-law, she taunts me every day. “You can’t cook properly, you’re lazy, your parents didn’t teach you anything.” My father-in-law, he just sits there like some king, expecting me to serve him hand and foot. I came from a good family, I had dreams, but here I’m just a servant.
Four kids I have—two boys, two girls. I love them, yaar, they’re my world. But raising them in this house, with these people, it’s like a jail. My husband earns decently, he’s in some private company, but he gives all the money to his parents. I don’t even get enough to run the house properly. I tried to make some money myself, you know? I thought, I’ll do something—stitching, selling snacks, anything. But my in-laws laughed at me. “What will people say? Our bahu working like some maid?” My husband also said, “No need, just manage the house.” Manage the house with what? Air?
The worst part is the fights. Every day, something. If the dal is too salty, if the kids are loud, if I’m tired and sit for five minutes—they start. My mother-in-law once threw a plate at me because I didn’t make her tea fast enough. My husband? He just looked away. I cry in the bathroom, quietly, so no one hears. I can’t even go to my parents—they’re old now, and anyway, they’ll say, “Adjust karo, sab aise hi hota hai.” Adjust, adjust, adjust—my whole life is just adjusting.
On X and Instagram, I made these fake accounts, na. No one knows it’s me—not my kids, not my husband, no one. There I write what I feel. “Trapped in a house that’s not mine,” “I’m drowning, but no one sees,” things like that. Sometimes I post pictures—blurry ones, or just black screens with words. People comment, “So deep,” “Stay strong,” but they don’t know my real story. It’s my only escape, yaar. Otherwise, I’ll go mad.
My kids are growing up now—eldest is 22, youngest is 12. I want them to have a better life, but how? My in-laws control everything. My husband listens to them, not me. I tell my daughters, “Study hard, don’t end up like me,” but I’m scared they’ll get married off early too. My sons, they’re good boys, but they see how their father is, how their grandparents treat me. What will they learn? I feel so helpless.
Sometimes I think of running away, but where will I go? No money, no job, four kids—what will I do? I’m not young anymore, na, who will help me start over? So I stay. I cook, I clean, I smile when guests come, I pretend everything is fine. But inside, I’m breaking. That’s why I’m writing this. I want someone to know I’m here, I’m alive, I’m suffering. Maybe someone will read this and understand. Maybe they’ll pray for me.
I don’t know what’s next. I just want peace. One day, maybe, I’ll find it. Till then, I’ll keep writing on my fake accounts, and now here, anonymously. Don’t judge me, haan. I’m just a woman trying to survive.
Disclaimer: The story shared above is a personal confession submitted anonymously to protect the identity of the individual. Realshepower provides a safe space for women to share their experiences, struggles, and triumphs without judgment. If you have a story to tell, we invite you to submit your confession anonymously at [admin@real-shepower.com]. Your voice matters, and we’re here to listen. Please note that all submissions are reviewed to ensure they align with our community guidelines, and we reserve the right to edit for clarity and sensitivity while preserving the essence of your story.
