Every day, around two or three in the afternoon, my daughter Kavya would call me, her voice trembling with fear and exhaustion. Just ten days prior, she had given birth and was living at her husband’s home in the village of Bhawanipur, Barabanki district, Uttar Pradesh, to comply with quarantine restrictions. Each time the phone rang, my heart raced, bracing for the emotional toll her words would bring.

“Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared… Come for me, I can’t take it anymore…” she would plead, her anguish palpable even through the phone line. Listening to her, I felt as if my heart was being shattered into a thousand pieces. But when I glanced at my husband, Sri Shankar, he would only sigh, his patience seemingly unending.

“Be patient,” he would say. “Your daughter is about to get married; don’t worry about your in-laws. It’s normal for her to feel locked up—it’s not unusual for her to cry.”

Yet, I wasn’t calm. The phone calls continued night after night, each one filled with Kavya’s cries that echoed like a broken heart. I too cried, holding my chest, feeling the weight of her despair. But fear of what others might say kept me from rushing to her side.

That morning, however, everything changed. I woke Sri Shankar with determination. “I have to go there now. If my in-laws don’t let me, I will bring my daughter home at any cost.” His eyes widened, but he could see the resolve in mine.

We set off from Lucknow, urgency propelling us toward her in-laws’ home, over 30 kilometers away. But when we arrived and I saw the red-tiled entrance, I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me. In the center of the yard, two coffins lay side by side, covered with white cloths and adorned with marigold garlands. The smoke of incense rose from an altar, and the mournful sound of a funeral trumpet echoed through the air.

My heart sank, and I collapsed onto the ground. “Oh my God… Kavya!” my husband cried out in despair, the horror of the scene hitting him like a freight train.

Kavya had passed away that night.

The reality of the situation was unbearable. After giving birth, her in-laws had not informed us. The most painful sight was not just the coffin of my daughter but the smaller one beside it, also draped in white—a coffin for my granddaughter, Kavya’s newborn daughter, who had not even been named.

I screamed, rushing to the tiny coffin, my heart heavy with grief. “How many times did you call me, Mom? Why didn’t you come in time to save me? How could they be so cruel to hide this from me?”

The murmurs of the neighbors filled the air. “Last night, the mother cried, wanting to go to the district hospital in Barabanki, but the family insisted on keeping her there. They said that Sutak hadn’t been completed for 11 days and that she shouldn’t leave the house. They heard the midwife, Rose, and gave her some herbs to stop the bleeding. By the time the situation worsened, it was too late…”

I felt numb all over. My husband stood there, stubbornly, while Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) and Mr. Mahendra avoided our gaze, murmuring about “old traditions.” Looking at the two bodies lined up in the yard, I felt the world spin. Because of blind tradition and the cruelty of my daughter’s in-laws, both my daughter and grandchild had suffered tragic deaths.

“Stop the funeral pyre, preserve the truth!” I cried, my voice breaking through the somber atmosphere.

The funeral trumpets whistled with the morning wind, and the bright yellow marigold garlands seemed to blind me. Barely able to stand, I ran to the center of the yard, stopping the stretchers that held my daughter and granddaughter. “No one can touch Kavya or the baby! Stop this, I beg you!”

Mrs. Kamala tried to push me aside, insisting, “According to village customs, they must be taken to the river immediately—”

I pushed aside the white cloth, my anger boiling over. “What custom allows a newly delivered woman to cry out in the night without calling an ambulance? What tradition forbids a mother from taking her daughter to the hospital?”

In desperation, I dialed 112. The operator’s calm voice cut through my panic. “The nearest unit will arrive shortly.” I also called 181, the women’s helpline. Within ten minutes, a police vehicle from Uttar Pradesh arrived, and officers rushed into the yard.

Sub-Inspector Verma and two female officers demanded that the rituals stop and asked for an explanation. “Did the family call for medical assistance? Who was responsible for her care last night?” Verma asked, his eyes scanning the scene.

Rohit Yadav, Kavya’s husband, looked panicked, glancing at his mother. Mrs. Kamala whispered, “She was weak; it hadn’t been 11 days since Sutak. The village midwife gave her herbs to stop the bleeding…”

“Who is the midwife?” Verma pressed.

“Shanti, she lives at the end of the street,” Rohit stammered.

I locked eyes with him. “My daughter called every night at two or three in the morning. I have the call logs.”

The officer handed me a document. “Please lower your voice. We need to gather evidence.”

Before the bodies could be taken to the river, they were sealed and sent to the district hospital’s morgue for an autopsy under Section 174 of the Criminal Procedure Code. The circumstances were dire, with indications of obstruction to emergency medical care.

As the ambulance drove away with its siren wailing, whispers filled the neighborhood like falling leaves. I sat on the steps, tears streaming down my face. Sri Shankar placed his hand on my shoulder, trembling. “I’m sorry. I always thought we shouldn’t cause issues with the in-laws…”

“This isn’t the time for apologies,” I replied, my voice rough like sandpaper. “It’s time to fight for the truth for my daughter.”

Sunita, an ASHA worker from the health center, arrived, breathless. “I heard from neighbors that Kavya was sick. I called 108 multiple times, but no one answered. When I knocked, Mrs. Kamala told me to wait. I also tried reaching Rohit, but his phone was off…”

The words hung heavy in the air, and the yard fell silent. Rohit bowed his head, gripping the edge of the altar with both hands.

At the morgue, the Chief Medical Superintendent informed me that the autopsy would prioritize “maternal death.” Dr. Tripathi looked at me with compassion. “Based on your description and the blood found, it appears to be postpartum hemorrhage (PPH). With timely intervention, the outcome could have been different.”

My eyes blurred with tears. The morning calls, the sobs behind the closed door… it all felt like a cold knife twisting in my heart.

Sub-Inspector Verma filed a preliminary report under IPC 304A (death by negligence), IPC 336/338 (dangerous acts), and Section 75 (cruelty against children) of the Juvenile Justice Act concerning the newborn’s death. He also sent a letter to the SDM requesting a judicial inquiry into the unnatural death during the postpartum period.

Kathryn, Rohit’s mother, shouted, “They want to destroy my family’s reputation!”

Verma responded calmly, “We want to prevent another death caused by misguided customs.”

That afternoon, the midwife Shanti was summoned to the police station. She arrived with a worn cloth bag filled with roots and a grayish-brown powder.

“I consider her like my mother, my grandmother…” she began.

“You know that PPH requires medications to contract the uterus and hydration, not herbs or rituals, right?” the officer replied coldly.

Shanti opened her mouth, then slowly closed it, confusion clouding her gaze.

I looked at her, no longer angry, just exhausted. “Tradition should preserve life, not wield a knife that blocks the path to the hospital.”

That night, I returned to Lucknow to gather Kavya’s medical records: the prenatal care card, the ultrasound results from the previous month, and the note warning of “risk of PPH.” The edges of the papers were yellowed. The doctor had warned me that she needed to give birth in a place equipped to handle emergencies. I slung the bag over my shoulder and collapsed at the door. Sri Shankar helped 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 hemorrhage and cardiac failure; the newborn showed signs of respiratory failure and hypothermia due to inadequate care.

Verma informed me, “We’ll send herbal samples for toxicological analysis. Rohit, Kamala, Mahendra, and Shanti have been summoned. Cremation is not allowed until the SDM procedures are completed.”

I gripped the edge of the chair. “I will take my daughter to my mother’s house for the ceremony. No one will stop me.”

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

When the two coffins arrived in Lucknow, neighbors gathered along the narrow path. No one spoke; they gently touched the corners of the lids, as if afraid to awaken those who slept within. Sunita quietly placed a red shawl—the color Kavya loved—over the coffin. I knelt and placed her phone in her hand, still displaying 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 softly reminded us, “Tomorrow we will speak before the Women’s Commission, presenting a petition to end excessive prohibitions and make medical consultations mandatory after childbirth. Kavya’s pain must not die in silence again.”

Afterward, a provisional hearing was held at the SDM’s office in Barabanki. Rohit lowered his head, his voice trembling. “I was afraid, Mom. I thought the neighbors would mock me if I took my wife to the hospital during Sutak… I was wrong.”

I looked him straight in the eyes. “If you’re wrong, you will pay the price of the truth. Sign this: from now on, any home birth must be conducted in a hospital. Apologize; there is no shame in calling 108.”

The SDM nodded. “We will add this to the community agreement and send it to the panchayat and the neighborhood association for dissemination.”

Mrs. Kathryn remained 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 goes out, hang Kavya’s wedding photo in the main room.”

I closed my eyes, tears rolling down my cheeks—not in apology, but as an end to my anger.

That night, I returned to the banks of the Gomti River. The sky was golden. Two threads of white ash floated silently in the water, as if the storm had yet to arrive. Mr. Shankar held his wife’s hand tightly. I heard the whisper of the wind through the rows of trees, carrying my daughter’s voice for two or three hours each night: “Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared…”

I weakly responded, as if sending a message into the infinite: “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 took a handful of flyers and decided to go door to door in the village of Bhawanipur with Sunita and the women’s association. All the closed doors that night must open to emergency lights the next time.

That night, I placed Kavya’s photo in the most sacred spot and lit a small lamp. The flame shone brightly, unwavering. I whispered to my children and grandchildren, “Tomorrow I will file an additional complaint, request custody of evidence, and launch a campaign: ‘Don’t close the door when the mother calls for help.’ Our pain will pave the way for other mothers.”

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