When I met Rajkumari Markam two weeks ago, she was alone in a shelter home with a capacity of 50. The others were sent home in buses and trains, but none were leaving for her hometown in Chhattisgarh.

The 23-year-old smiled at me but her eyes were sad. She began telling me her story; "my husband took my three-year-old son and ran away in March. I've been alone since then. I used to work as domestic help in Noida."

"My employers told me to stop coming because I could be a carrier," she said, matter-of-factly. Unable to pay rent, she sought help from the police, who sent her to the shelter.

She tried to stay positive. When asked how she spent her time alone at the shelter, she said she watched films; some Hindi, mostly Bhojpuri. She didn't talk to her parents. Why, you ask? She couldn't.

"My brother-in-law is the only person with a phone in the family. He does not want me to go back home because he thinks I will take up a share of the property. He does not facilitate the conversation with my family, nor does he want me to go return to the village."

The woman is mistreated by all the men in her family, her misfortune, only intensified by the lockdown. My heart reaches out to all the Rajkumaris of our country - mother's carrying children on their backs, pregnant women walking home, women bleeding through it all.

Rajkumari left for Chhattisgarh last week. There's no way to tell how she's doing because she does not own a phone.