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Nawda (Murshidabad): “If they had not melted me with acid, maybe my daughter would still be alive,” says Moyna Pramanik, her voice flat with grief, “I would have educated her and married her off, but I, too, had been destroyed by acid. Still, all the blame for how I look fell on me. Now I struggle to see with one eye, and I have lost an ear.”

For Moyna, acid attack did not end with the fire on her skin. It kept burning through her life, her body, dignity, family and, she says, even her daughter’s future. In West Bengal, where acid attacks scar women with alarming frequency, Moyna’s story lays bare the brutal truth of this crime. It is not only meant to injure, but to punish, isolate and destroy a woman in slow motion.

Married as a teenager in Nawda, Murshidabad, to a small businessman from Bangdubi village, Moyna says she discovered soon after that her husband had been married before. She tried to adjust. Soon, however, the marriage turned into a site of relentless abuse. Her husband, mother-in-law and sister-in-law allegedly began demanding money and gold as dowry. When those demands were not met, the violence they inflicted on her intensified.

“My father is a small farmer. How could he meet thwie demands?” Moyna says. “The torture became a daily affair. After my daughter was born, it became worse.”

In 2001, while she was cooking, her husband and in-laws allegedly assaulted her and threw acid on her face. Neighbours arrived on hearing her screams and rushed her to a hospital. She was later treated in Kolkata. She has survived, but at a heavy cost. She lost an ear, part of her vision, and the face with which she had once moved through the world.

“When I came home, people ran away seeing me. They called me a ghost,” Moyna says. “Even I was frightened to look at myself in the mirror.”

With support from the Acid Survivors and Women Welfare Foundation and a government school job as a midday meal cook, Moyna slowly began rebuilding her life. But the violence had spread beyond her body. Her daughter, Puja, died by suicide after some time.

“She was in Class 10. We were poor, and there were constant insults about my face. She could not bear it,” Moyna says. “They think if they melt a woman’s face, they can kill her slowly. But I have learned over 25 years that I cannot give up.”

Her story is not an exception in West Bengal. It is part of a larger and deeply disturbing pattern.

Also read: West Bengal Has Second-Lowest Conviction Rate in Country For Cases of Crimes Against Women

In Kharibaria village under the Amtala Police Station in South 24 Parganas, Kakoli Das remembers the moment acid hit her. That was in 2016. She was walking to a local doctor with her young son and her one-year-old daughter in her arms when she was attacked from behind.

“It felt like liquid fire falling on my body,” Kakoli says. “It splashed on my daughter’s face and on my son too. I pushed them away and turned back, and I saw Lav Ghosh throwing that liquid at me again.”

She says she once had a relationship with him. Her body began to burn so badly that her clothes started falling apart. She jumped into a pond to save herself, then climbed out when she heard her children crying.

Neighbours took all three to Amtala Rural Hospital, but it lacked facilities to treat acid burns. Still, Kakoli remembers the doctors with gratitude. “The doctors there spent money from their own pockets to buy medicines and arranged to send us to Bangur Hospital,” she says, “I will never forget that.”

A case was registered. The accused surrendered and was later released on bail. Kakoli says she received Rs 3 lakh from the government, but treatment is ongoing – the family has collapsed financially.

Official data shows that West Bengal is one of India’s heaviest-burden states for acid violence, repeatedly appearing at the top of the national count since 2018. National Crime Record Bureau (NCRB) figures cited in parliament show that reported acid attacks on women in the state rose significantly, from 27 in 2014 to 57 in 2023.

On paper, India has a robust framework of compensation, mandatory treatment and restrictions on the sale of acid. In practice, survivors and activists say the system is riddled with gaps.

Mumbai-based Meer Foundation, which works on treatment, rehabilitation and legal support for acid attack survivors, has found that 36% of acid attacks on women take place after she rejects a proposal for marriage, love or sexual advances. Another 13% attacks are linked to marital discord, while 5% are tied to dowry-related violence.

“In a patriarchal society, this is about domination,” says Rumela Sarkar of the Acid Survivors and Womens’s Welfare Foundation in Kolkata. “The thinking is: if I cannot control a woman, I will destroy her face and force her into a life of pain. Many accused are arrested, but they get bail through legal loopholes. The cases drag on for years.”

That concern is echoed by early case-processing data, which showed very low convictions in acid attack cases against women in West Bengal between 2014 and 2016. The figures do not explain why the convictions were low, but they point to a justice system that often fails to deliver timely deterrence.

The other major failure is prevention. The Supreme Court, in the Laxmi case, laid down clear restrictions on acid sales: identity checks, stock registers, age restrictions and local administrative oversight. Yet acid remains available through poorly regulated markets, industrial supply chains and even domestic cleaning products.

Also read: Violence Against Women Is Fundamentally About Power

A district police officer in North 24 Parganas acknowledged the problem. “Police move quickly when an acid attack occurs, and we do arrest accused persons,” the officer said. “But legal loopholes mean they often get bail. And because rules around sale are not enforced strictly enough, acid is still coming into the market too easily.”

For campaigners, that easy availability lies at the heart of the crisis. Manisha Pailan of Brave Souls Foundation, which works on awareness in rural areas, says attackers use both industrial and household corrosives.

“We have heard of attacks using nitric acid bought through goldsmith-related sources, but also cleaning acids being used to blind women,” she says. “Restrictions may exist in one area, but actual enforcement is weak. Without stricter law and stronger awareness, there is no real deterrent.”

Experts say the motives are grimly familiar: rejection, dowry disputes, marital abuse, quest for revenge and the desire to exert control over women who say no. The perpetrators are rarely strangers. They are often husbands, former lovers, rejected suitors or relatives – men known to the victim, men who know exactly how to strike.

Psychiatrist Dr Gautam Bandyopadhyay says the psychology behind acid attacks is rooted in domination. “If I kill her, she dies once. If I disfigure her, I can sentence her to lifelong suffering. That is how the perpetrator thinks,” he says, “And society often makes it worse by not standing beside the woman.”

That may be the deepest failure exposed by acid violence in West Bengal. The law against it exists. Courts exist. Compensation exists, at least in principle. Yet survivors are still left to fight almost alone.

Moyna still joins protests whenever she hears of another acid attack. Kakoli is still undergoing treatment. Their stories are not only about brutality. They are about what happens when the state reacts after the fact, once it has failed to prevent the crime.

Names of the survivors have been changed. In India, the identity of acid attack survivors is legally protected to ensure their dignity, privacy and protection from further trauma, as reinforced by Supreme Court directives.

© The Wire