Why Haryana's Missing Daughters Reveal the Limits of State Power
By Ramphal Kataria
Haryana's sex ratio at birth has once again slipped to 900 girls for every 1,000 boys during the first half of 2026. The decline has triggered predictable calls for stricter enforcement of the law, more inspections, more surveillance and renewed public campaigns. Yet the uncomfortable question remains: how much more can the State realistically do? Over the past decade, governments have legislated, prosecuted, monitored, incentivised and campaigned with remarkable persistence. Illegal ultrasound canters have been raided, awareness drives intensified and the Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao programme elevated into a national movement. Still, the numbers continue to oscillate. The crisis exposes an inconvenient truth. Administrative action can regulate behaviour, but it cannot transform belief. Haryana's missing daughters are not merely a failure of governance; they are a mirror reflecting the values that continue to shape family decisions long before the law ever enters the room.
On a July morning, the Civil Registration System quietly recorded another imbalance. Across Haryana, more than two hundred thousand children had been born in the first six months of the year. Yet for every thousand boys, only nine hundred girls entered the register. Nothing in the database revealed the conversations that had preceded those births—the whispered anxieties about dowry, inheritance, family lineage or old-age security. The numbers appeared clinical. Their origins were deeply human.
A Missing Girl Begins as a Conversation
No girl disappears from society the day she is not born.
She disappears much earlier.
She disappears in an ordinary conversation inside an ordinary home.
The conversation rarely sounds dramatic. It unfolds over cups of tea, in hushed voices after dinner, during visits to relatives or between anxious grandparents who have witnessed generations shaped by the same expectations. Someone worries about dowry. Someone speaks of family lineage. Someone quietly asks who will care for ageing parents. Someone reminds the young couple that daughters eventually "leave". No law is broken during this conversation. No police officer is present. No court records its proceedings. Yet it is here, within these invisible negotiations, that the fate of countless daughters is often decided.
Months later, the consequences appear not as stories but as statistics.
The Civil Registration System records fewer girls than boys. Demographers prepare tables. Districts are ranked. Governments issue advisories. Newspapers report another decline in the sex ratio at birth. Public debate returns briefly before fading into familiar silence.
Numbers, however, do not create social reality.
They merely reveal it.
The latest figures from Haryana are therefore not simply demographic indicators. They are moral indicators. They expose the distance between constitutional ideals and lived social attitudes. Every missing girl represents not only an individual tragedy but also a collective judgement about whose life is considered more valuable before birth.
The question confronting Haryana today is therefore larger than demography.
It concerns the character of society itself.
I. When Numbers Become a Moral Mirror
The provisional data released for the first six months of 2026 should disturb anyone who believed Haryana had permanently turned the corner.
Between January and June, the State registered 2,30,068 births, comprising 1,21,072 boys and 1,08,996 girls. The resulting sex ratio at birth of 900 girls per 1,000 boys marks a decline of twenty-three points from the State average recorded in 2025. Behind this seemingly technical statistic lies the absence of more than twelve thousand girls who would have been expected under a biologically normal sex ratio.
Nobel Laureate Amartya Sen famously described India's demographic imbalance as the tragedy of the "missing women." Three decades later, Haryana's figures suggest that the tragedy has not disappeared; it has merely become more sophisticated.
Equally revealing is the uneven geography of the decline.
Karnal emerged as the best-performing district with a sex ratio at birth of 945, followed by Palwal (930) and Faridabad (920). At the other end of the spectrum, Charkhi Dadri reported a deeply disturbing ratio of 829, while Mahendragarh (869), Gurugram and Jhajjar (871 each), Jind (878) and Panipat (880) remained substantially below the State average.
Such variation tells us something important.
The decline cannot be explained by biology.
It cannot even be explained by economic development.
Some of Haryana's most prosperous districts continue to struggle with adverse sex ratios, while comparatively less affluent districts perform considerably better. Wealth alone has not erased son preference. Urbanisation has not dissolved patriarchy. Rising incomes have often expanded opportunities without fundamentally altering inherited social attitudes.
That contradiction deserves careful attention.
For nearly two decades, Haryana has occupied a unique position in India's demographic imagination. Once regarded as one of the country's most difficult landscapes for the survival of the girl child, the State gradually became an example of determined administrative intervention. District administrations monitored birth registrations with unprecedented rigour. Health departments coordinated enforcement under the Pre-Conception and Pre-Natal Diagnostic Techniques (PC-PNDT) Act. Police agencies investigated organised networks engaged in illegal sex determination. Panchayats, schools and community organisations joined campaigns celebrating the birth of daughters.
The launch of Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao from Panipat on 22 January 2015 gave these efforts unprecedented national visibility. Haryana was no longer merely the site of the problem; it became the laboratory for the solution.
For a time, the strategy appeared to work.
The State's improving sex ratio was widely celebrated as evidence that sustained political commitment and administrative vigilance could reverse decades of discrimination. Haryana began to replace its old reputation with a new narrative of cautious optimism.
The latest decline therefore feels particularly unsettling.
Not because it proves that previous efforts failed.
But because it demonstrates that administrative success is inherently fragile when deeper social beliefs remain unchanged.
Demography is often described as destiny.
In reality, demography is memory.
It remembers the choices that societies make when nobody is watching.
A falling sex ratio is therefore not simply an administrative challenge.
It is society's annual report card.
And Haryana's latest report card asks a question that statistics alone cannot answer:
What more can the State possibly do?
That question has no easy answer.
Governments can strengthen surveillance.
They can prosecute offenders.
They can improve registration systems.
They can reward districts that perform well.
They can launch new awareness campaigns and allocate larger budgets.
But can any government legislate affection?
Can Parliament enact a law requiring families to value daughters and sons equally?
Can an executive order abolish centuries of inherited assumptions about lineage, inheritance, marriage and family honour?
The uncomfortable truth is that the State has already employed most of the instruments available to a modern government.
If the numbers continue to fluctuate despite sustained administrative effort, perhaps the real battlefield lies somewhere beyond the reach of government.
Perhaps it lies where every missing daughter first begins—
around the family dining table.
II. The State Has Reached Its Limits
If Haryana's latest demographic figures teach us anything, it is not that the State has failed. It is that the State has reached the outer boundary of what law and administration can realistically achieve.
This distinction matters.
Too often, public debate swings between two simplistic positions. One blames governments for every decline in the sex ratio. The other assumes that stricter enforcement alone will eventually solve the problem. Both overlook a more uncomfortable reality: governments can regulate institutions, but they cannot legislate values.
Over the past decade, Haryana has perhaps mounted one of the most comprehensive administrative responses to gender discrimination anywhere in India.
The launch of Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao from Panipat on 22 January 2015 transformed the declining sex ratio from a statistical concern into a matter of public consciousness. District administrations began reviewing birth data with unprecedented frequency. The Civil Registration System became an instrument of demographic surveillance. Health authorities intensified inspections under the PC-PNDT Act. Decoy operations exposed illegal diagnostic centres. Interstate coordination sought to dismantle networks transporting pregnant women across state borders for unlawful sex determination.
The message was unmistakable.
The State was watching.
These measures produced tangible gains. Haryana's sex ratio at birth improved substantially during the years that followed. The campaign succeeded in making discrimination visible. It generated public debate where silence had prevailed. Schools organised awareness drives. Village panchayats celebrated the birth of girls. Religious leaders, sportspersons and public figures began speaking the language of gender equality.
These achievements should neither be underestimated nor dismissed.
Without them, the demographic situation would almost certainly have been worse.
Yet the figures for the first half of 2026 reveal an uncomfortable truth.
Administrative success has proved easier to achieve than social transformation.
Why?
Because the State can regulate the supply of illegal services, but it cannot eliminate the demand that sustains them.
Close one illegal clinic and another appears elsewhere.
Confiscate one ultrasound machine and clandestine networks adapt.
Strengthen surveillance in one district and unlawful activities migrate across state boundaries.
Technology changes.
Methods evolve.
The demand survives.
That demand is not created inside hospitals.
It is created inside homes.
This is why every decline in the sex ratio should prompt society to ask not merely whether enforcement has weakened, but whether our own beliefs have changed.
Perhaps we have mistaken the symptom for the disease.
Sex-selective abortion is not the disease.
It is the symptom.
The disease lies deeper.
It lies in a social imagination that continues to assign unequal value to sons and daughters.
Unless that imagination changes, the demand for sex selection will merely discover newer technologies, newer routes and newer methods of concealment.
Laws can suppress behaviour.
Only culture can transform belief.
A behavioural scientist such as Cass Sunstein or Robert Cialdini would describe this as the limit of regulation. Laws alter incentives; social norms alter behaviour. Governments can compel compliance, but only communities produce internal acceptance.
III. The Architecture of a Liability
There is a fundamental question that public debate rarely asks.
Why do otherwise loving parents—people who educate their daughters, celebrate their achievements and often make enormous sacrifices for them—still experience anxiety when the unborn child is female?
The answer is not biology.
Nor is it cruelty.
It is architecture.
A social architecture carefully assembled over centuries that persuades families that daughters are economically, socially and emotionally more expensive than sons.
The tragedy is that the daughter herself is never the burden.
The burden is the structure that society has built around her.
That structure rests upon four pillars.
Marriage.
Dowry.
Safety.
Patrilocality.
Together, they create what may be called the architecture of a liability.
Not because girls are liabilities.
But because society has systematically organised institutions in ways that make daughters appear so.
The Cost of a Daughter: Perception versus Reality
Society thinks | Reality |
Daughter leaves | Many daughters now support parents |
Daughter is expensive | Education yields lifelong returns |
Son provides old-age security | Migration and nuclear families have weakened this assumption |
Dowry is unavoidable | It survives because society tolerates it |
This table visually dismantles the myths that sustain son preference.
The First Pillar: Marriage as an Economic Event
Marriage should represent the beginning of two lives.
Instead, in much of northern India, it continues to resemble the largest financial transaction a family will ever undertake.
Across villages and cities alike, wedding celebrations increasingly function as public exhibitions of social status. Families borrow beyond their means. Agricultural land is sold. Retirement savings disappear. Jewellery accumulated over decades changes hands within a single week.
When a daughter is born, many parents begin saving not for her education but for her wedding.
That single expectation transforms birth into future expenditure.
The arithmetic is subtle but devastating.
If society teaches parents that a daughter's marriage will cost twenty or thirty lakh rupees, while a son's marriage is expected to bring gifts, prestige and continuity, then discrimination begins long before pregnancy.
No government advertisement can compete with such economics.
The Second Pillar: Dowry Without Its Name
Officially, India abolished dowry more than six decades ago.
Socially, it merely changed its vocabulary.
Today it appears as gifts.
As custom.
As family expectations.
As voluntary contributions.
Everyone knows the fiction.
Everyone participates in maintaining it.
Parents therefore continue to measure the birth of daughters against future financial obligations that society itself has manufactured.
Ironically, the same communities that publicly condemn female foeticide often privately negotiate marriages in terms that perpetuate the very discrimination they denounce.
This contradiction remains one of the least discussed features of the sex ratio debate.
A society cannot celebrate daughters in maternity wards while commodifying them in marriage halls.
According to the National Crime Records Bureau, thousands of dowry-related cases continue to be registered annually across India despite six decades of legal prohibition. The law has survived. The practice has adapted.
The Third Pillar: Fear as Social Policy
Perhaps no burden weighs more heavily upon Indian parents than fear.
Fear that daughters may face harassment.
Fear that public spaces remain unsafe.
Fear that educational opportunities far from home expose them to danger.
Fear that one incident may permanently alter both their future and the family's social standing.
These fears are not imaginary.
Violence against women remains an undeniable reality.
But the social response to that violence has often been deeply misplaced.
Instead of demanding safer streets, stronger policing and greater accountability from institutions, society frequently confines the girl.
Her movements become restricted.
Her aspirations become negotiable.
Her independence becomes conditional.
In effect, the burden of making society safe is transferred from society to the daughter herself.
Protection gradually becomes control.
Control gradually becomes dependence.
Dependence gradually reinforces the belief that daughters require lifelong guardianship.
Thus another pillar of the liability narrative is quietly strengthened.
Social psychologists describe this as the "culture of fear", where families respond to unsafe environments not by demanding structural reform but by restricting girls themselves. Safety becomes surveillance; surveillance gradually becomes dependence.
The Fourth Pillar: The Idea of 'Paraya Dhan'
Perhaps no phrase has shaped North Indian attitudes towards daughters more profoundly than Paraya Dhan.
Its violence lies not in its words but in its assumption.
It tells parents that the daughter does not truly belong.
She will eventually leave.
She will carry another family's name.
She will strengthen another household.
She will care for another set of parents.
If this assumption becomes socially accepted, then unequal investment begins to appear rational.
Why devote equal property, equal opportunity or equal inheritance to someone who is expected to depart?
The Constitution rejects this logic.
The Hindu Succession (Amendment) Act rejects it.
The Supreme Court rejects it.
Yet millions of households continue to organise family life as though the old belief still governs social reality.
Here lies perhaps the deepest contradiction of modern India.
Legally, daughters have never possessed stronger rights.
Socially, many continue to experience conditional belonging.
These four institutions together explain why son preference survives despite legal equality.
They explain why stricter enforcement alone cannot permanently stabilise the sex ratio.
And they explain why Haryana's demographic challenge is not fundamentally administrative.
It is civilisational.
A government can prosecute a doctor who illegally determines the sex of a foetus.
It cannot prosecute a grandmother who sincerely believes that only a grandson can carry forward the family name.
It can seal a clinic.
It cannot seal an inherited prejudice.
The real revolution, therefore, cannot begin in the courtroom.
It must begin in the family.
"Every missing daughter is preceded not by an ultrasound, but by an idea."
IV. The Invention of Son Preference
One of the most persistent myths surrounding India's gender imbalance is that sons have always been preferred over daughters. History suggests otherwise.
Patriarchy in the Indian subcontinent has never been a fixed or uniform institution. It evolved over centuries, shaped by changing patterns of land ownership, inheritance, political authority and family organisation. The contemporary preference for sons is therefore not an ancient instinct but a historical construction—a social arrangement that hardened over time until it began to appear natural.
In the earliest Vedic texts, women occupied a more visible intellectual and social space than later centuries would permit. Figures such as Gargi Vachaknavi and Maitreyi participated in philosophical debates preserved in the Upanishads. This should not be romanticised as evidence of complete gender equality; ancient India was not a feminist utopia. Yet it reminds us that the systematic devaluation of daughters was neither universal nor inevitable.
The decisive shift came with the consolidation of settled agrarian society.
As agriculture replaced pastoral life, land became the principal source of wealth, power and identity. Families sought certainty over inheritance. Property increasingly flowed through the male line, while marriage required women to move permanently into their husband's household. Over generations, these practices produced a powerful economic calculation: investment in sons remained within the family; investment in daughters appeared to benefit another household.
Thus emerged the social logic that still haunts large parts of northern India.
The daughter became Paraya Dhan—someone who would love her parents but ultimately belong elsewhere.
What began as an arrangement of residence gradually transformed into an arrangement of value.
Inheritance followed sons.
Lineage followed sons.
Family names followed sons.
Old-age security followed sons.
The daughter, despite her labour, affection and contribution, increasingly came to be viewed as temporary.
History then reinforced economics.
Centuries of political instability, warfare and rigid notions of family honour placed extraordinary emphasis on controlling women's mobility. Marriage became earlier. Female autonomy narrowed. Community prestige became intertwined with regulating women's choices. The result was a society in which the birth of a daughter increasingly generated anxiety rather than celebration.
Independent India attempted to reverse this inheritance.
The Constitution promised equality before law. The Hindu Succession Act, particularly after its landmark amendment in 2005, granted daughters equal coparcenary rights in ancestral property. The Supreme Court, in Vineeta Sharma v. Rakesh Sharma (2020), affirmed that daughters possess these rights by birth, not by circumstance.
The Republic rewrote the law.
Society continued to read from the older manuscript.
This contradiction explains why legal equality has not automatically produced social equality.
The architecture of patriarchy has weakened in legislation.
It survives in imagination.
V. Why India Is Different
The distortion of the sex ratio at birth is often attributed to poverty.
The evidence says otherwise.
Many poorer societies maintain biologically normal sex ratios, while several relatively prosperous regions of Asia have historically recorded severe demographic imbalances. Haryana itself illustrates the paradox. Gurugram, among India's wealthiest districts and home to multinational corporations, has repeatedly reported adverse sex ratios. Economic growth, by itself, has not dismantled patriarchal preferences.
The explanation lies elsewhere.
Across much of Western Europe, daughters continue to maintain lifelong relationships with their parents after marriage. Residence patterns are flexible. Inheritance laws are largely gender-neutral. State-supported pensions and social security reduce dependence upon sons for old-age care. Marriage creates a new household rather than transferring a daughter permanently into another lineage.
Consequently, there is little economic incentive to prefer sons before birth.
Scandinavian countries deepen this contrast. Universal childcare, high female labour-force participation, generous parental leave and robust welfare systems enable women to remain economically independent throughout life. Daughters are not viewed as future dependants but as equal contributors to family prosperity and parental support.
The demographic outcome reflects these institutions.
Sex ratios remain close to biological norms.
An equally revealing comparison comes from parts of Sub-Saharan Africa. Despite significantly lower per capita incomes, many societies have never experienced the scale of prenatal sex selection observed in India or China. Anthropologists point to differing kinship systems and marriage practices. In several communities, variations of bridewealth acknowledge the productive and social value of daughters within extended family structures. These customs have their own complexities and should not be idealised, but they demonstrate an important principle: poverty alone does not produce missing girls.
Institutions do.
China offers a different lesson.
For decades, the combination of deep-rooted son preference and the one-child policy dramatically distorted the country's sex ratio. Yet as urbanisation accelerated, pension systems expanded, women entered the workforce in larger numbers and family structures evolved, demographic distortions gradually moderated.
India shares many structural features with China's earlier experience—patriliny, patrilocality and the expectation that sons alone preserve lineage—but without the one-child policy. Instead, declining fertility has intensified the pressure on smaller families to ensure that at least one child is male. Demographers describe this phenomenon as "intensified son preference under low fertility."
The lesson from international experience is unmistakable.
Countries do not restore demographic balance merely by banning sex selection.
They restore it by transforming the social and economic value attached to daughters.
That is precisely where Haryana now stands.
The State has acted.
The law has evolved.
The Constitution has spoken.
The unanswered question is whether society is prepared to follow.
"The future of Haryana's daughters will not be determined by the next government scheme. It will be determined by whether families continue to measure daughters through the arithmetic of liability or the language of equality."
VI. The Republic We Still Have to Build
The decline in Haryana's sex ratio at birth should not be read merely as an administrative setback. It is a reminder that demographic indicators are ultimately social indicators. They measure not only births, but beliefs; not only population trends, but the moral architecture of society itself.
For more than a decade, Haryana has demonstrated what determined governance can achieve. Few states have invested comparable political attention, administrative energy and institutional resources in addressing gender imbalance. The implementation of the Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao campaign, strengthened enforcement of the PC-PNDT Act, continuous monitoring through the Civil Registration System, coordinated action against illegal diagnostic centres, and sustained public awareness campaigns have together created one of the country's most comprehensive responses to sex-selective practices.
These interventions have undoubtedly saved lives.
They have altered public discourse.
They have made discrimination visible.
They deserve recognition.
But they also reveal an important truth.
The State cannot permanently solve a problem that society continues to reproduce every day.
No government, however determined, can station an inspector inside every household. No legislation can compel parents to celebrate the birth of a daughter with the same spontaneous joy reserved for a son. No police investigation can detect a prejudice that quietly passes from one generation to the next through ordinary conversation.
The State can punish discrimination.
Only society can abandon it.
That distinction is now central to Haryana's future.
Beyond 'Saving' the Girl Child
Perhaps it is time to rethink the very language through which India has discussed the girl child.
For decades, public campaigns have urged society to save daughters, protect daughters and educate daughters. These are noble objectives. Yet they also unintentionally reinforce an older assumption—that girls are vulnerable beings requiring perpetual protection.
The next phase of reform must move beyond protection towards partnership.
Girls do not seek sympathy.
They seek equality.
They do not seek ceremonial celebration on National Girl Child Day while being denied equal inheritance within their own homes.
They do not seek speeches about empowerment while marriage negotiations quietly revive dowry under another name.
They do not seek symbolic praise while family property continues to pass almost exclusively through sons.
Real empowerment begins when daughters cease to be treated as exceptions.
When a daughter's education receives the same financial priority as a son's.
When parents register land jointly in the names of sons and daughters without considering it an extraordinary act.
When elderly parents feel neither embarrassment nor social pressure in accepting care from married daughters.
When a girl's career is planned with the same seriousness as her wedding.
When the phrase Paraya Dhan disappears not because governments prohibit it, but because families no longer believe it.
That is how social revolutions occur.
Quietly.
One household at a time.
Changing the Conversation
Every generation inherits two legacies.
One consists of property, wealth and institutions.
The other consists of ideas.
The first is easier to distribute.
The second is far more difficult to transform.
Haryana's daughters have already inherited a Constitution that recognises their equality. They have inherited laws that grant equal rights in property, education, employment and public life. They have inherited opportunities that earlier generations of women could scarcely imagine.
What they have not yet fully inherited is equal social imagination.
Too many families still measure sons through the language of investment and daughters through the language of responsibility.
Too many conversations continue to begin with inheritance and end with marriage.
Too many aspirations for girls are still negotiated within invisible boundaries drawn by fear.
This is why changing laws, although essential, can never be sufficient.
The Republic has travelled much farther than society.
The law now waits for culture to catch up.
"No country has corrected its sex ratio by policing hospitals alone. Every successful society first changed the social value of daughters."
Conclusion: The Girl Was Never the Liability
There is a tendency, whenever adverse demographic figures emerge, to ask what government should do next.
The more difficult question is what society should do differently.
The answer begins with honesty.
The crisis of Haryana's declining sex ratio is not fundamentally a crisis of administration.
It is a crisis of imagination.
For generations, society has imagined daughters through the arithmetic of expenditure and sons through the arithmetic of investment. Weddings became economic spectacles. Dowry survived by changing its vocabulary. Family honour became inseparable from controlling women rather than trusting them. Patrilocal traditions persuaded parents that daughters ultimately belonged elsewhere. Layer upon layer, these institutions created the illusion that a girl was an economic and emotional liability.
The illusion became tradition.
Tradition became common sense.
Common sense became discrimination.
And discrimination eventually appeared in the most objective place imaginable—a demographic table.
The numbers, therefore, are not merely statistics.
They are society looking into a mirror.
If Haryana wishes to restore balance, it must look beyond enforcement and ask deeper questions.
Why does a daughter's birth still provoke anxiety in families that proudly educate their daughters?
Why do communities that publicly condemn female foeticide continue to celebrate extravagant weddings financed through lifelong savings?
Why do parents who lovingly raise daughters still hesitate to transfer property equally in their names?
These questions cannot be answered through government notifications.
They must be answered within families.
History reminds us that social institutions are created by people.
What people create, people can also change.
The Republic has already done its part.
It has rewritten the law.
It has recognised daughters as equal citizens.
It has guaranteed equality before the Constitution.
The unfinished task belongs to society.
Until daughters are welcomed not as future brides but as equal heirs, equal caregivers, equal decision-makers and equal bearers of family legacy, the demographic imbalance will continue to return in new forms.
Haryana's challenge, therefore, is no longer to prove that it can enforce the law.
It has already done that.
Its greater challenge is to prove that it can transform the culture that makes the law necessary.
The battle for India's daughters will not ultimately be won in courtrooms, police stations or government offices.
It will be won around family dining tables, where children first learn what it means to belong.
The Republic has already given daughters equality.
Society still owes them belonging.
Perhaps the real measure of progress will never be the annual sex ratio released by government. It will be the day when the birth of a daughter no longer triggers calculations about dowry, inheritance or safety; when families instinctively imagine the future through equal hope rather than unequal expectation. On that day, Haryana's demographic tables will simply record what society has already accepted—that daughters were never the liability. Our thinking was.
References
1. Amartya Sen (1990). More Than 100 Million Women Are Missing. The New York Review of Books.
2. Government of Haryana. Civil Registration System (CRS), Sex Ratio at Birth Data, January–June 2026.
3. Government of India. National Family Health Survey (NFHS-5), 2019–21.
4. Ministry of Women and Child Development. Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao – Scheme Guidelines.
5. UNFPA (2020). State of World Population: Against My Will.
6. UNICEF. The State of the World's Children (latest edition).
7. Martha C. Nussbaum (2011). Creating Capabilities. Harvard University Press.
8. Pierre Bourdieu (2001). Masculine Domination. Stanford University Press.
9. Vineeta Sharma v. Rakesh Sharma, (2020) 9 SCC 1.
10. Hindu Succession (Amendment) Act, 2005.
11. Pre-Conception and Pre-Natal Diagnostic Techniques (Prohibition of Sex Selection) Act, 1994.
12. Census of India (2011) and Sample Registration System Reports.
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