Athulya’s death in Sharjah puts focus back on domestic abuse and why Bollywood film 'Thappad' still hits hard

Dubai: “It was just one slap.”
That’s the line women are fed over and over again—by families, by society, and sometimes even by themselves. That minimisation, that dismissal of pain, is exactly what makes domestic abuse so insidious.

When I read about Athulya’s tragic death in Sharjah—a young woman who repeatedly said she was unhappy in her marriage, met with tacit support but never enough to prompt real action—I couldn’t stop thinking about Thappad, one of the few Hindi films that dared to explore the quieter forms of violence. The kind you can’t see, but feel.

Directed by Anubhav Sinha and led by an outstanding Taapsee Pannu, Thappad is not your typical domestic abuse drama. There are no black eyes, no broken bones, no screaming matches. Just a single moment of violence—a slap at a party—that becomes the tipping point for a woman to reassess everything she thought was normal, everything she was taught to endure.

Amrita (Pannu) is a stay-at-home wife who finds purpose in supporting her husband, Vikram (Pavail Gulati). Their life appears harmonious: she shares a respectful relationship with her in-laws, tends to the home lovingly, and sips her morning chai in quiet contentment. But one evening, Vikram, frustrated over being passed up for a promotion, vents his anger on Amrita—in public—with a slap.

That single, humiliating moment sparks a personal reckoning.

The brilliance of Thappad lies in its restraint. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t preach. It simply peels back the layers of marital dynamics, showing us how often women are conditioned to accept disrespect in the name of love, compromise, and family honour.

The film refuses to vilify Vikram as a monstrous abuser—instead, he’s painted as an entitled, ambitious man, a product of deep-rooted patriarchy who doesn’t even realise the gravity of what he’s done.

And that’s what makes it so real. So devastating. Because many abusers don’t look like villains. They look like men we know—charming, well-meaning, “good” husbands who believe they're entitled to one mistake, one outburst, one slap.

Athulya’s story brings that reality crashing back. According to reports, she told friends and colleagues she was deeply unhappy in her marriage. That she was suffering. But like Amrita, her words likely sounded too quiet to register as cries for help. After all, there were no visible scars. No threats anyone could quote. So the world moved on. Until it was too late.

Thappad asks an uncomfortable but necessary question: why do we wait for a woman to be beaten black and blue before we believe she’s hurting? Why does one slap not count?

The film’s emotional crescendo comes when Amrita finally breaks down at a family prayer gathering and admits how the slap stripped her of dignity, how the love she once felt has corroded. It’s a moment that mirrors the inner conflict so many women face: the disconnect between what they’ve been taught to tolerate and what their soul can no longer endure.

In the aftermath of Athulya’s death, it’s hard not to see the parallels. Society still doesn’t take emotional abuse seriously. We continue to treat it as something that can be reasoned with, explained away, or tolerated for the greater good. But what if that “good” costs a woman her life?

Films like Thappad matter precisely because they challenge that thinking. They push us to confront the grey areas, to question the quiet conditioning that tells women to keep the peace at the cost of their own.

Athulya’s tragedy is not just a headline. It’s a wake-up call we’ve ignored before—and one we can’t afford to ignore again.