Against God’s men: A nun, a bishop, and the trial of India’s Catholic Church

“You have to understand. I’m a nun. I took a vow of chastity. To stand in court and say I was raped felt like I was the sinner,” said Sister Ruth*, almost in a whisper. “I felt unworthy of God.”

We spent most of the hour in silence. The group of nuns sat in a row, scepticism heavy in the air. At first, they didn’t reveal who among them had accused a bishop of rape. 

Outside, the light drizzle and the afternoon humidity lulled the two policemen into a slumber. This was in October 2024 — our first meeting.

After tea, when the awkward conversation drew to a close, one of the nuns came forward, smiling as she took my hand. At 50, her skin had begun to wrinkle. She led me to a door that opened onto a garden. I admired the colours of bougainvillaea in bloom. 

“When the police came to take our statements, they took cuttings of the bougainvillaea and planted them outside their station. Apparently, they’ve ​​named the plants after each of us,” she said, referring to the case for the first time.

“Yes, I’m the one.” 

We stood there, not taking our eyes off the flowers, until she broke the silence again. “I have tried not to think about it for a long time now,” Ruth said very softly.

Behind us stood the three-storeyed, 28-room convent. We were surrounded by the six acres of land that belong to the diocese of Jalandhar under the Catholic Church.

Inside, four nuns — Ruth, Alphy, Ancitta, and Anupama — move swiftly along the corridors. Their strides are short and purposeful. They go from chore to chore, room to room, knowing fully well that they are only going in circles.

During the day, after prayer, food is cooked, the chapel is cleaned, and the chickens are fed. Eggs, chillies, and vegetables are collected, and tamarind is peeled. The electricity goes off multiple times. When the day lulls, they sometimes do embroidery, moving the clock along with their needles.

At night, the building creaks in the wind. The sound of crickets is louder than the voices in one’s head — which is good. 

Sometimes the nuns stop each other in the corridors. The desolate building echoes with their words, laughter, and even their arguments. Disagreements about a chicken’s behaviour or the spiciness of a dish can turn lengthy. Seemingly banal matters often gain presidential importance. But this is intentional. 

Every single morning — in that private moment when one has just woken up and the world hasn’t come into focus yet — each of them quietly resolves to attend to the ordinary, argue about the mundane and laugh at the inevitable. 

That is the only way to live in the same building where Sister Ruth accused Franco Mulakkal, the former Bishop of Jalandhar diocese, of raping her multiple times.

The violence allegedly took place between 2014 and 2016. Ruth filed a police complaint in 2018. This was the very first time in India that a nun had filed a rape case against a bishop.

Franco was a powerful man. At the age of 44, he had been chosen by the pope to head the Jalandhar diocese of the Latin Catholic Church. This gave him direct spiritual and administrative powers over a congregation that spanned multiple states, several religious orders, and over a hundred convents, including Ruth’s. 

This fiduciary relationship is central to the legal and moral dimensions of the case and its aftermath.

The trial lasted two years. In 2022, Franco was acquitted. 

Over 60% of the 6 million Christians in Kerala are Catholic, which is why this story is not just about sexual abuse. It is a case that grabbed an entire community’s faith by its neck. 

After the verdict, the case quickly slid off the news cycle. But life, as it does, continued, and the story took a turn that the nuns never expected. 

The Church began arm-twisting and steadily exhausting them financially, emotionally, and spiritually. The hierarchy wanted them out of nunhood. 

At the beginning of this case, Ruth lived with five ally nuns in the convent. By the end of August 2025, only two remained.

Throughout the investigation, trial, judgement, and the years after, Ruth has never spoken out.

Nearly 11 years since she was allegedly raped, Ruth is now ready to tell her story. 

Speaking to a journalist was never her first choice. In our 10 months of conversations, she often insisted that talking to me was not a mere act of strength but a last resort. 

“The only reason I’m talking is because I want people to know that we have not gone anywhere. We are still here,” Ruth said.

Forty minutes away from her convent is the retreat centre where Franco now lives. In 2023, he met the late Pope Francis and resigned. He now spends his time conducting prayers and counselling women and children. He conducts regular retreat and prayer sessions across Kerala.  

When I first went to him with my questions, he said he could not speak to me as the case is under appeal at the Kerala High Court. 

But later he agreed.  

“I am a diamond,” he declared. “You can put me in dirty water or on Queen Victoria’s crown, my value doesn’t change.”

Franco still speaks as if he is at the pulpit rather than a man in a small room with an audience of one. 

He may not admit it, but Ruth’s allegations did force him into exile. 

Franco’s acquittal sentenced Ruth to indefinite and absolute isolation.

But she has faith. 

“Imagine if the whole system is one massive rock. I know I’m not capable of splitting it in two, but I can definitely scar it with a nail.”

This is her story. 

Chapter 1: Leap of faith

Elegantly dressed women, clean surfaces, and gentle, fatherly men — this is how the Church imprinted itself on 8-year-old Ruth’s mind.

Until she joined the convent, Ruth was the shy one in her family of four sisters and a brother. Her father was a Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) officer, and her mother was a homemaker. 

Ruth recalled her childhood as sunny and carefree, wrapped in her mother’s love and the warmth of her siblings.

She spent her days detesting school and trailing after her boisterous elder sister. “I did not like confronting people. But my sister argued with boys and had lots of friends. I was the one carrying both our school bags, running after her,” Ruth said, bursting into a laugh. 

It was at the local church where she crept out of her shell. She danced, sang, and prayed under the guidance of the nuns. 

Given her reserved ways, everyone in her neighbourhood told her mother, “Oh ee kochu Sister aavueullo.” This roughly translates to “Oh, this child is going to become a nun.” 

By the time she reached high school, Ruth told everyone that she wanted to be a nun. It was not a carefully considered answer but one that seemed to silence the pressure of further studies. 

When she turned 15, life took a sudden turn. Her mother, the centre of her universe, was diagnosed with cancer. Almost overnight, Ruth and her sister became caregivers. Within two years of the diagnosis, their mother passed away. 

It has been 35 years since then. Her voice still trembles when speaking of her mother. “I’m glad she didn’t live to witness my life,” she said.

To Ruth, her life exists in two parts — before Amma and after Amma. 

Young Ruth was angry with God. “I used to say, ‘God doesn’t have eyes. How could He take away my mother when we were just kids? Does God really listen when we pray?‘” she recalled. 

Months after her mother’s death, her cousin, who was a priest, visited and saw how inconsolable Ruth was. He offered to take her to Punjab with him. In 1993, she left for Jalandhar. 

Punjab was in a period of cautious transition.

The Sikh insurgency demanding a separate Khalistani state had largely subsided, and the region was returning to normalcy. Democratic elections had reaffirmed civilian governance. Yet, violence lingered in pockets. Security operations were ongoing. A devastating flood had triggered a humanitarian crisis.

But Ruth was unaware of any of this. For her, it was simply her first train journey to a place where she would experience her first winter. 

In Jalandhar, she stayed with her family before moving into a convent. She followed the nuns to church and to villages where they taught at schools.

The quiet, regimented life of the convent steadied her. In time, Ruth was more convinced that she wanted to be a nun.