Every day, around two or three in the afternoon, my daughter Kavya would call me. She had given birth just ten days ago and was living in quarantine with her husband in Bhawanipur village, Barabanki district, Uttar Pradesh. Her voice boomed over the phone:

— “Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared… Come for me, I can’t take it anymore…”

Hearing that, my heart broke into a thousand pieces, but looking at my husband, Sri Shankar, I just sighed:

— “Be patient. Your daughter is about to get married; don’t worry about your in-laws. It’s normal to be stuck at home—it’s not unusual for her to cry.”

I wasn’t at peace. The phone kept ringing night after night; the baby girl was crying like a broken heart. I was crying too, clutching my chest, but I didn’t dare go to her for fear of what people would say.

Until that morning when I couldn’t take it anymore. I woke my husband up and firmly said:

— “I have to go there now. If my in-laws don’t let me, I’ll take my daughter home no matter what.”

We rushed out of Lucknow to his parents, more than 30 km away. But when we reached the red-tiled gate, I saw something that made me dizzy. Everything went dark, and I fell to the ground in the courtyard.

In the center of the courtyard, two coffins had been placed side by side, covered with white cloths and garlands of marigolds; incense smoke rose from the altar, and the mournful sound of a funeral trumpet resounded.

My husband sighed in despair, saw me and shouted:

— “Oh my God… Kavya!”

My daughter passed away that night…

After the birth, her husband’s family hadn’t called her parents. The most painful thing was that, next to my daughter’s coffin, there was another small coffin covered with a white cloth: the remains of the still-unnamed newborn baby, my granddaughter, daughter of Kavya and Rohit Yadav.

I screamed, I ran to embrace that child’s coffin, tired of pain:

— “How many times did you call me, Mom? Why didn’t you arrive in time to save me… How cruel were you to hide this from me like this…”

The neighbors murmured:

— “Last night, the mother was crying, wanting to go to the district hospital in Barabanki, but the husband’s family insisted on keeping her there, saying that Sutak wasn’t even 11 days old yet and that she shouldn’t leave the house. They also listened to the midwife (Rose) and gave her some herb leaves to stop the bleeding. By the time things got serious, it was too late…”

My whole body was numb. My husband stood there, stubborn, while Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) and Mr. Mahendra lowered their heads to avoid us and muttered, “Ancient tradition.”

Looking at the two bodies lined up in the yard, I felt like the world was spinning. Because of blind tradition and the cruelty of my daughter’s in-laws, my daughter and grandson suffered a tragic death…

---

— Stop the funeral fire, preserve the truth

The funeral trumpets whistled in the morning wind, the garlands of bright yellow marigolds blinding me. Barely able to stand, I ran to the center of the courtyard and stopped the two funeral litters.

— “No one can touch Kavya or the baby! Stop all this, I beg you!”

Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) tried to push me out of the way:

— “According to the custom of the people, they must be taken to the river immediately—”

I pushed away the white cloth, dizzy with anger:

What custom allows a newly born woman to cry in the middle of the night without calling an ambulance?
What tradition prohibits a mother from taking her daughter to the hospital?

I dialed 112. The operator’s voice was calm but firm in the face of urgency:

— “The nearest unit will arrive soon.”
I immediately called 181 (the women’s helpline). Within 10 minutes, a Uttar Pradesh Police vehicle drove into the yard from the Ramnagar police station. Sub-Inspector Verma and two female officers got out and demanded that the entire ritual be stopped and a report filed.

---

” The family showed birth certificates and prenatal medical records. Who took care of her last night? Did they call ambulance 108?” Verma asked.

Rohit Yadav (Kavya’s husband) sweated and looked at his mother. Mrs. Kamala whispered:

— “She was weak, she hadn’t yet passed the ‘sutak’ period, she wasn’t allowed to leave the house. The village midwife gave her some leaves to stop the bleeding…”
— “Name of the midwife?”
— ​​“Shanti, the house at the end of the street.”

I looked him straight in the eyes and said to Rohit:

— “My daughter called every night, at 2 or 3 in the morning. I have the call log.”

The officer handed me a document:

— “Auntie, please put this down. We’re going to return the firewood.”

Before being taken to the river, both bodies were sealed and sent to the Barabanki District Hospital morgue for an autopsy under Section 174 of the Criminal Procedure Code , as the deceased had been married for less than seven years and there were signs of obstruction of emergency medical care.

As soon as the ambulance drove away with its siren, whispers fell on the neighborhood like dry leaves.

---

I sat on the stairs, tears streaming down my face. Sri Shankara (my husband) placed his hand on my shoulder, trembling:

— “You… Sorry. I always thought we shouldn’t cause problems with the in-laws…”

“ This isn’t the time for apologies. It’s time to stand up for the truth for my daughter,” I said, my voice as rough as sandpaper.

Si Sunita, an ASHA worker at the commune health center, arrived panting:

— “Last night I heard from the neighbors that Kavya was sick. I called 108 several times, but the door was locked from the inside. I knocked, and Mrs. Kamala said, ‘Wait.’ I also tried to contact Rohit, but his phone was off…”

The words faded, and the courtyard fell silent. Rohit lowered his head and held the edge of the altar with both hands.

At the morgue, the Chief Medical Superintendent announced that the autopsy would be performed that same day, giving priority to “maternal death.” Dr. Tripathi looked at me tenderly:

— “Based on the symptoms you describe and the blood pooling in the bed, it appears to be postpartum hemorrhage (PPH). With oxytocin, intravenous fluids, and a timely transfer, the outcome can be changed.”

My eyes blurred. The morning phone calls, the sobbing behind the closed door… Everything was like a cold knife.

Sub-Inspector Verma registered a preliminary complaint (FIR) under IPC 304A (death due to negligence), IPC 336/338 (dangerous acts), and Section 75 (cruelty to children) of the JJ Act in connection with the death of the newborn. He also sent a letter to the SDM requesting a judicial inquiry into the unnatural death in the postpartum period.

Kathryn shouted:

— “They want to destroy my family’s reputation!”

But Verma calmly replied:

— “We want to save the next person from dying from bad habits.”

In the afternoon, midwife Shanti was summoned to the police station. She was carrying a worn cloth bag containing roots and a grayish-brown powder.

“I consider her like my mother, my grandmother…” she began.
“You know that PPH requires medication to contract the uterus and hydration, not leaves or rituals, right?” the officer replied coldly.

Shanti opened her mouth, then slowly closed it, her eyes clouded with confusion.

I looked at her, no longer angry, just tired:

— “Tradition should preserve beauty, not the knife that blocks the way to the hospital.”

That night I returned to Lucknow to pick up the pregnancy documents: the antenatal care card (ANC card), the ultrasound results from the previous month, and the note warning of the “risk of PPH.” The edges of the paper were yellowed. The doctor upstairs had warned me that I should give birth in a facility equipped to handle hemorrhages. I carried the bag with those papers over my shoulder and collapsed in front of the door. Sri Shankar picked me up, and for the first time in my life, I saw him cry like a child.

The next morning, the autopsy was completed. The preliminary report indicated severe bleeding and heart failure; respiratory failure in the newborn; suspected hypothermia due to lack of adequate care.

Verma told me:

— “We will send herbal samples for toxicological analysis. Rohit, Kamala, Mahendra, and Shanti have been summoned. Meanwhile, cremation is not permitted until the SDM procedures are completed.”

I gripped the edge of the chair:

— “I’ll take my daughter to my mother’s house for the ceremony. No one will stop me now.”

Verma nodded:

— “According to the CrPC, biological parents have the right if the husband’s family is under investigation.”

When the two coffins were brought to Lucknow, the neighbors gathered on the small path. No one spoke; they just raised their hands, gently touching a corner of the lid, as if afraid of waking the sleeper. Sunita silently placed a red shawl—Kavya’s favorite color—over the coffin. I knelt and placed her cell phone in her hand, which still displayed the missed call from that morning. The screen was dark, but I knew that each call was a testament to what had happened.

During the prayer, the priest gently reminded her:
“Tomorrow we will speak before the Women’s Commission, present a petition to stop the excessive prohibitions and make postpartum medical consultations mandatory. Kavya’s pain must not die in silence a second time.”

After this, a provisional hearing was held at the Barabanki SDM. Rohit lowered his head, his voice breaking:
“I was scared, Mom. I thought the neighbors would laugh at me if I took my wife to the hospital during sutak… I was wrong.”

I looked him straight in the eye.
“If you’re wrong, you’ll pay the price for the truth. Sign this: From now on, any home birth must be a hospital birth. Apologize; there’s no shame in calling 108.”
The SDM nodded.
“We’ll add it to the community agreement minutes and send it to the panchayat and the neighborhood association for dissemination.”

Mrs. Kathryn was silent for a long time. Then she placed the house keys in front of me:
“I don’t deserve to keep them. When the fire is out, hang Kavya’s wedding photo in the main hall.”
I closed my eyes. Tears flowed, not of apology, but of the end of anger.

That night I returned to the banks of the Gomti River. The sky was golden. Two threads of white ash drifted across the water, very silent, as if the storm had not yet arrived. Mr. Shankar held his wife’s hand tightly. I listened to the wind whispering in the rows of C trees, carrying my daughter’s hushed voice for two or three hours each night:
“Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared…”
I replied weakly, as if sending a message to infinity:
“Rest in peace. Mom will cooperate fully.”

As I walked back, I stopped at the health center. Sunita was putting up a new poster:
“After the baby is born – don’t be alone. Call 108.”
The numbers 112 and 181 were written below. I grabbed a bunch and decided to go house to house in Bhawanipur village with Sunita and the women’s association. All the doors locked that night should be opened for emergency lights next time.

That night, I placed Kavya’s photo in the most sacred place and lit a small lamp. The flame shone brightly, but it wouldn’t go out. I whispered to my children and grandchildren,
“Tomorrow, I’ll file an additional lawsuit, request custody of evidence, and launch a ‘Don’t close the door when the mother calls for help’ campaign. Our pain will be the path for other mothers.”

And I know Part 3 will be a journey outside the kitchen to put an emergency number in every shirt pocket, so no mother has to listen to her baby crying behind a closed door in the middle of the night.