"Whenever Daddyji [that's how he was addressed] came back home from work or for holidays, we used to hide behind the doors, under the bed, just anywhere to escape facing him..." This forms part of a narration of someone I have known since age 13. I have heard of domestic violence and abuse, and always thought about it as something fictional until this close, heart-to-heart conversation with my friend. Lets call her X. X's father was an army officer. To the world, he was a man of honour who fought many a battle and won laurels for the country. To his family, he was the ultimate sign of terror. The abuse surfaced early on in life. As a toddler and as a pre-teen, X recalls how she often, unknowingly, walked into her father's room to see him invariably with a new woman each time. And each time she was flung out of the room with the choicest of abuses and beatings. Her mother who came in between was equally hit by this demonic creature who had reduced her to nothingne