I came to Italy with my family when I was six years old, to a small town in the province of Brescia. After high school, my marriage was arranged.
Growing up in a free country like Italy, I loved dressing in Western clothes, driving, and speaking Italian. My husband, who had lived in India until our marriage, immediately started making me feel guilty for being an independent woman, isolating me from everyone.
Two years later, he continued to humiliate me, transitioning from psychological abuse to physical abuse. I endured in silence, hoping for a change, but at one point he began hit my children. This, I could not bear, and I responded firmly. He beat me violently, and the neighbors called the Police and my family. Only then did my family understand what I had been enduring for years. They convinced me to report him.
While I was preparing to go to the police station, my uncle arrived. He took off his turban, a sign of the highest honor for us Sikhs, and placed it at my feet, saying, "If you don't want to dishonor your family, you will return to your husband and apologize." Faced with this gesture, even my parents couldn't oppose it.
Forced to obey, I went to the house of my husband's mother and brother, who made me kneel and ask for forgiveness. My mother-in-law, spitting on my head, said, "Do you understand what your place is? At our feet." My dignity completely disappeared there.
Four months later, I told him I wanted to start a new life with my children. He began to douse me in lighter fluid. I tried to escape, but all the doors were locked, and I managed to get out into the garden. But then I stopped, worried he might do something to my children. Before I could even gather my thoughts, he was already behind me with a red lighter, and he set me on fire. As I fell to the ground engulfed in flames, I locked eyes with my children screaming at the door.
My five years old daughter was covering the eyes of the three-year-old brother. I prayed to God to let me live for them. He must have heard me.

After a month and a half in a coma, with burns on 90% of my body, I woke up tied down. I had undergone a tracheotomy and no longer had a voice. I didn't know if I was alive or dead. Fortunately, my physical condition improved, but I was forced to stop treatment as it was considered cosmetic surgery and not covered by insurance. I returned to work without receiving any support.
The trial was conducted in a summary manner, and my husband was sentenced to 15 years in prison.

Today, I have decided to help other women and am a spokesperson for The Wall of Dolls, a permanent installation inspired by an ancient Indian tradition. Each time a woman suffers violence, a doll is affixed to the door of her home. It was inaugurated in Milan on the initiative of Jo Squillo. Now it is a non-profit organization, and we conduct various fundraising activities for projects supporting victims of violence.