BY SHIKHA DAS SHANKAR*
When a woman’s marriage ends, she may lose more than a spouse. Friendships fade, invitations stop, and judgment often replaces compassion. In this NRI Pulse deep dive, five Indian American women share powerful stories of loss, isolation, resilience and rebuilding their lives. Experts weigh in on the stigma surrounding divorce and how communities can offer support instead of judgment.
The waves in Malika Jiwani’s life never seemed to stop. A new country, two small children, a marriage coming apart: they kept coming, one after another, with no time for her to catch her breath.
She worked long shifts at salons to make ends meet, had no money for full-time childcare, and leaned on a neighbor and her young son to look after her baby daughter. And when her marriage ended, the judgment followed. People in her community had their own ideas about why, and they didn’t hold back in sharing them. Malika chose not to explain. “I know what I’m going through. You don’t know my story, and I’m not going to sit and tell you my story,” she says.
Soon, the invitations stopped. For years, she went out perhaps twice a year.
Her story raises a larger question. What happens to a South Asian woman after she leaves her marriage? Does she lose more than a spouse? Malika’s experience of rejection was not unique, but neither was it universal.
“It’s very hard. Doing it is hard. Not doing it is also hard,” Vindali Vartak says of leaving a marriage. For many South Asian women, the hardest voice to argue with is not a relative’s or a neighbor’s. It is their own. Before an outsider asks whether she tried hard enough, a woman has asked herself the same question, repeatedly, sometimes for years. She carries the burden of an unspoken belief she was raised with: a marriage that ends is a marriage she failed to save. And underneath it all lies the hardest question to answer: Is it bad enough?
Every divorce leaves more than one story behind. This one belongs to the women rebuilding their lives, bit by bit, in the aftermath. As Gita Vemparala, a chemical engineer and environmental professional turned divorce strategy coach, puts it, “Divorce is hard. For men and women alike. I work primarily with women, so I hear and see their perspective more. I’ve lived it too, and I know what’s at stake for us.”
Through these women’s stories, this article looks at what they lose, what the blame costs them, and what the community can do. The answers matter to the woman building a life she never planned on living, and to the people around her who want to help but don’t always know how.
What Women Lose
For a woman, the end of a marriage can mean losing far more than a husband. The circle of friends built over years of potlucks, birthdays and festivals can be lost. Parents and extended family may not know where to stand or how to support her. The home, everyday routine, financial security and the future she had pictured for her children: all of it becomes a blur. But what distresses her most is losing her place in a community that has always known her as someone’s wife.
“You are silently removed from social circles, and you find yourself losing years of relationships you had built with your in-laws and extended families,” says Rachna Bhadury, a mother of two and sales operations manager.
Even women whose friends stood by them feel the shift. At gatherings, Vindali suddenly found herself counting couples. “Husband, wife. Husband, wife. And then me, the only one who was single,” she says. Social life, she explains, was organized around couples, and most events assumed you arrived with a partner. Even now, when an invitation does come, singles are expected to come alone, without the option of a plus-one.
For Rachna, it showed up most around the festivals. The family had always been part of a busy social circle, hosting parties and attending them. Then the invitations stopped, with no explanation. “I wasn’t getting invited to the Diwali parties, and my kids were asking me, ‘Why aren’t we going? Why are we not invited?’ And I really had no answers for that,” she says.
Anjali Guntur, director of programs at Raksha, an Atlanta nonprofit serving South Asian communities, often hears from women who have lost their circles. “They have felt isolated because, sometimes, as a couple, you end up making friends who are common to both the husband and the wife,” she says. “So people have lost a lot of friendships and community connections.” And it happens when women need them most. “This is a time when you would want connections and support, and some women don’t get it.”
Some friends fall away. Others stay for the wrong reasons. Anju Gattani, an acclaimed author, paralegal and mother of two grown sons, spent 29 years in a marriage that took her across four countries. When it ended, some stayed close, “pretending to be a part of your life just to gather information about what’s happening to so-and-so.” She refused to play along. “I was very clear in my mind that I am not gossip or fodder for anybody’s life,” Anju says.
For Anju, the deeper loss was the years themselves. “When you look back on 30 years of your life, the prime years of your life, and you see that nothing about those three decades was real, except your two children and your books. Everything was a mirage.”
And many of the losses are practical. Gita says one of the most common is financial, and it often catches even women with thriving careers off guard. Many of the women she speaks with, she says, don’t even have a credit card in their own name. “And these are professional working women who are earning money.” Gita knows that feeling herself. “I used to say, ‘Oh, I don’t care about finances.’ Looking back, that was such a stupid thing to say.”
For Rachna, the hardest part was not any single loss, but facing all of them on her own. Friends and family helped during the day. “But when night comes and you are alone in your bedroom, in bed, that’s when it hits you hard.”
What Blame and Guilt Cost Her
Losing friends, family ties and financial footing all at once takes a toll. “It undermines their confidence, and it makes rebuilding more difficult,” Anjali says. And right on the heels of the loss comes the blame.
The blame doesn’t come from nowhere. It grows out of expectations passed down for generations. In a 2016 study published in Gender Issues, Portland State University researcher Gita R. Mehrotra interviewed 30 South Asian women in the US, including both immigrants and those raised here. Across both groups, marriage functioned as a “cultural script,” a set of unwritten rules everyone knew to follow—grow up, remain marriageable, marry, and make it last, no matter the cost.
“We’ve been holding the family together. That’s what we’ve been taught our entire lives,” Anju says. “We have never even been taught to think about I, me, myself first.” The result, she says, is that “you always put yourself at the end.”
When a marriage ends, those same expectations come back at her, this time as advice. Anjali hears the same phrases from women again and again. “Log kya kahenge [what will people say]? Why don’t you adjust? Think about your children. How can you be so selfish?”
For Malika, the verdict was swift. “So I am the bad person who broke the family. I am the bad person who is not staying with them,” she says. Women who knew the couple had a saying for it: Sone jaisa ladka isne chod diya. She left a man worth his weight in gold.
Even success can be turned against a woman. Vindali was a senior corporate executive, a community builder, and a familiar face on the community stage. That visibility came at a price. When marriages like hers end, the common narrative is, “A successful woman may be neglecting her marriage, and the husband is left to adjust. So naturally, the fallout is on her,” she says.
Over time, the blame turns inward. “There is so much guilt that we see in all these women because they feel they are the backbone of the marriage, and somehow, if they couldn’t keep it going, there must be something wrong with them,” Anjali says.
“The guilt and introspection come from deep social conditioning and create self-doubt that grows deeper in an unhealthy relationship. This takes a long time to break free from,” Vindali says. Years later, she still wonders why it took her 17 years to get out of it, despite her education and financial independence.
Anjali’s message to women, and to the people around them, is simple. “We need to tell women that seeking help is not failure, and that divorce is not a reason to ostracize somebody.”
What the Children See
For many women, the children are the reason they give for staying. Gita hears it all the time, but she believes something deeper often holds them back: fear of the unknown. “We have been told over and over again that known hell is better than unknown heaven,” she says. The unknown takes many forms. Will she be able to manage money on her own? Will her friends stand by her? For many women, the questions pile up until leaving feels impossible. “A lot of women in these situations feel like there are only walls. There’s no door,” Gita says. And often, the most difficult of the uncertainties is how it affects children. The questions she hears most are about them: “What will happen to my children? Will I be able to afford this same lifestyle?”
Anju held on for decades. “I was waiting for the last child to grow up, spread his wings and get out,” she says. But children are not oblivious to what is happening in a marriage, however hard their parents try to shield them. “Children are seeing and absorbing everything,” Gita says.
“The children also go through the same emotions. In fact, I feel the impact is slightly greater, and you would see it even in their adult lives,” Anjali says. Many lose friendships and family connections along with their parents. “They’re not part of some celebrations and such. You need to feel that you belong. That sense of belonging is lost.”
Yet in these stories, the children are not only affected. They are part of how their mothers rebuild.
Malika’s son grew up fast. “He became a second parent very soon in our family,” she says. From the age of eight, while she worked long salon shifts, he picked up his little sister from the babysitter, fed her and put her to sleep. As a teenager, he skipped his own prom. “I tried to force him to go to his prom, but he said, ‘No, there are fees. It costs money, and I don’t want to spend it.’” Today, at 18, he works full time. “He takes care of us,” she says.
For Anju, it was her younger son who gave her the final push. Headed to a new job on the other coast, he refused to leave without her. “Mom, if I leave you behind and go start my new life, I will not be able to hold my job or live because I will be thinking of you every minute,” he told her. “We’ll do this together.” Looking back, Anju has a question. “We bring our children into this world. So what do you call it when your children give you a second life? Is there a word for it?”
Vindali raised her son on her own after the divorce. As she reflects on the people who carried her through the transition, she says, “The biggest support was my son.” And when asked what she is proudest of in her new life, the answer is the same. “My son.”
The children saw everything, and in their own ways, they helped their mothers begin again. But a new beginning can only come with some level of closure from the past. And with so much inner turmoil and confusion about the future, closure becomes one of the most difficult parts of the journey.
What Closure Means
Closure begins with facing grief. “The first thing you have to overcome as a woman is a sense of grief and loss,” Anju says. Gita puts it plainly. “The trauma of divorce is second only to the loss of a loved one. We have to recognize that and acknowledge it. Yes, it is a loss. But look at what you’re gaining in the process.”
The same questions—“Why me?” and “Why did it happen the way it did?”—stay stuck in a woman’s head, and she can spend years searching for answers. Gita’s answer surprises many of her clients. “You don’t need to know,” she says. “If you are looking for closure, you will never get it from the outside.” The closure, she says, “has to come from inside,” and it is nearer than most women believe. “It’s closer than you think it is, right? It’s not there. It’s here,” she says, pointing to her heart.
For each woman, that looked different. For Vindali, it meant no longer explaining herself. “I learned that I did not owe anyone any explanation for my decisions. My struggles and triumphs, my losses and my wins were for me to carry. For community, family and friends who were there for me, I owed them respect, and that’s all I wanted back.” Seven years after her divorce, she says, “Healing takes a long time. I am still working on getting the real me back and becoming the version I want to be.”
For Malika, peace came through faith. “God will take care of that. I’m no one to do all that, so I don’t hold grudges.” For Anju, it meant asking a question she had spent decades avoiding. “Ask yourself, ‘What do I want?’ Not what does my son want? What does my daughter want? What does my mom want? What do I want?”
Getting there, Anjali says, depends on rebuilding what years of struggle wore down. “Building their confidence would be great for them,” she says. “They need to feel like themselves again.”
But that doesn’t mean it comes quickly. Gita tells women not to expect to be healed in a year. “It’ll take time,” she says. “Healing isn’t linear.” It is work, she says, but it is worth it. “You have to do the work, and once you start doing the inner work, it’s a beautiful life because you can live on your terms.”
What the Community Can Do
In the diaspora, community is more than a social life. It is the safety net that the extended family back home once provided. Living here as immigrants means having people who take your children for an afternoon, bring food when you are sick, and remind you that you are not alone. When a marriage ends, that net is tested, and every step after becomes harder.
Sometimes, though not as often as it should, that safety net holds. For Vindali, the community stood by her. “I truly underestimated the community support,” she says. “I got invited to parties and events, just the way I used to. My friends have made some changes, for example, shifting from couples’ dances to mixed group dances at events. These simple changes can make attending events more inclusive for singles.”
Anjali sees both sides. “There are many situations where friends have stepped in and helped,” she says. “But equally, there are situations where the woman literally starts everything from scratch after the divorce.”
Part of the problem is that people simply don’t know what to say. You guys just need a vacation. It’s just a rough patch. Tum log second honeymoon pe jao. Go on a second honeymoon. Most women who have left a marriage have heard some version of these lines, usually offered with love. But a woman who has finally decided, after 10, 17 or 25 years, is not going through a phase. She has lived with the decision for many years before she tells anyone. Gita knows that feeling well. “I struggled and struggled before finally making the decision,” she says of her own divorce.
Some friends react so strongly that the roles flip. When Rachna told friends her marriage was ending, many of them broke down. “Shouldn’t you be consoling me instead of me consoling you?” she says. It may sound strange, but it is a reality many women describe. In the middle of their own upheaval, they end up reassuring everyone else.
Malika wants the community to stop judging divorced women and start listening to them. “She’s not asking for sympathy. She’s not asking for help. Just at least listen to what she wants to share,” she says. Her larger dream is to establish a nonprofit where women facing difficult family circumstances can discover their skills, become financially independent, and build identities of their own.
What would help is often simpler than people think. By the time a woman opens up, Gita says, she doesn’t need anyone to weigh in. “Definitely don’t judge when somebody is leaving or has decided. Listen to the person. If you can help, help, but be there.”
Anjali sees the same need. Listen without judging, she says, and without pushing her to stay or to leave. If she asks, help connect her to the right resources. And above all, keep what she shares to yourself. “And for all you know, maybe she simply wanted you to be a sounding board.” According to her, help can be as simple as a ride, groceries for the week, or an afternoon with her children. “Some of the smallest things that we think are small can be very big for this woman,” she says.
Most of all, Anjali says, the community needs to make room. “First of all, create that sense of belonging. Make sure that whether it’s a single woman, a divorced woman, a divorced woman with children or a divorced woman without children, everybody feels welcome.” Leaving someone out to spare her feelings is still leaving her out. “Sometimes I have heard friends say, ‘Hey, I didn’t invite her because I didn’t want her to feel bad.’ But why did you make that assumption?” Anjali says. “Extend your invitation. It’s her choice.”
And a friend doesn’t need to fix anything. As Vindali puts it, “You are not expected to be the therapist, doctor or lawyer. Be the nonjudgmental friend she needs and deserves at this time.”
In the end, Anjali says, the community has a choice. “They are already isolated in so many ways. So why are we adding to that isolation?”
What Rebuilding Looks Like
For each of these women, rebuilding has taken a different shape.
For Vindali, it has meant pouring herself into Leap to Shine, the nonprofit she is a founding member of, building her corporate professional network, traveling and pursuing her hobbies, while watching her son head off to college. When asked about dating, she says she is open to finding someone who feels right. “I believe there are great men out there,” she says. Looking back on the decision to leave, she doesn’t hesitate. “It’s absolutely empowering. It’s absolutely liberating.”
For Anju, rebuilding meant starting a new career at 50. Her divorce attorney, impressed by how closely she had followed her own case, suggested she become a paralegal. “Are you crazy? Why would I ever want to do any of this again?” she remembers asking him. His answer stayed with her. “Imagine if you could fight for other women without that level of anger and emotion.” She finished the course in half the time and now works as a paralegal back in Atlanta. She is also finishing her third book. What matters to her is not the awards her books have won, but the reader she may never meet. “If that one woman can read this book and series, and wake up and get herself out of there, then the life that I have been given, and saved, is a life [worth having lived].”
For Rachna, rebuilding meant rediscovering herself and creating a life on her own terms. She advanced in her corporate career, raised two children, and pursued her entrepreneurial ambitions by launching an event-planning business. Supported by a strong circle of friends, many from her married years, she also became someone other women turn to for guidance. Drawing from her own experience, she listens, shares insights, and connects them with the right resources.
For Malika, the turning point came through the Violence Against Women Act, which allowed her to secure legal status on her own. With that security, she could finally build. She works at a personal injury law firm, for an employer she still credits with changing her life. “He gave me a chance when nobody else was giving me a chance,” she says. She taught herself to drive and now teaches others. “I learned on my own because I know what kind of suffering I went through.” She now lives in suburban Atlanta’s best school districts, and for the first time in more than a decade, she has a circle of friends.
This year, she went to her first garba. Getting ready, she wasn’t sure what to wear. Her daughter took charge. “My daughter insisted, ‘Come on, Mama, go out with your friends. I’m going to dress you up,’” Malika recalls. “I didn’t even know what to wear.”
Divorce is one road to being single. It is not the only one. If a community struggles to stand by a woman whose marriage has ended, how does it treat a woman who never married? With the same suspicion? Or with something closer to acceptance? Part 2 follows the women who never married, and the community still figuring out what to make of them.
Research cited: “South Asian Women and Marriage: Experiences of a Cultural Script” (2016) by Dr. Gita R. Mehrotra.
*Shikha Das Shankar is a feature writer for NRI Pulse.
