Every night, my daughter calls me from there, crying and begging me to pick her up. In the morning, my husband and I go to get her so she can stay there in quarantine. But when we got to the front door, I fainted when I saw two coffins in the yard, and it truly broke my heart.

Every day, around two or three in the afternoon, my daughter Kavya would call me. She had given birth just ten days earlier and was staying at her husband’s house in the village of Bhawanipur, Barabanki district, Uttar Pradesh, to quarantine. Her voice would crackle on the phone:

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

Upon hearing that, my heart broke into a thousand pieces, but when I looked at my husband, Sri Shankar, I could only sigh:

—  “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 ease. The phone kept ringing night after night; the little girl cried like a broken heart, I cried too, clutching my chest, but I didn’t dare go for her for fear of what people would say.

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

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

We left Lucknow in a hurry to go to where his parents were, more than 30 km away. But when we reached the gate with the red tiles, 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 were placed side by side, covered with white cloths and garlands of marigolds; the smoke of incense rose from the altar and the mournful sound of a funeral trumpet resounded.

My husband sighed in despair, looked at me and shouted:

—  “Oh my God… Kavya!”

My daughter died that night…

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

I screamed, I ran to hug that child’s coffin, weary with grief:

—  “How many times did you call me, Mom? Why didn’t you arrive in time to save me… How could they be so cruel 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 shouldn’t leave the house. They also listened to the midwife (Rose) and gave her some grass leaves to stop the bleeding. By the time the situation became 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 courtyard, I felt like the world was spinning. Because of a blind tradition and the cruelty of my daughter’s in-laws, my daughter and my grandson suffered a tragic death…

— Stop the funeral fire, preserve the truth

Funeral trumpets whistled in the morning breeze, garlands of bright yellow marigolds blinded me. Barely able to stand, I ran to the center of the courtyard and stopped the two funeral stretchers.

—  “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 aside the white cloth, dizzy with anger:

What custom allows a woman who has just given birth to cry in the middle of the night without calling an ambulance?
What tradition forbids a mother from taking her daughter to the hospital?

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

“  The nearest unit will arrive soon.”
I immediately called 181 (the women’s helpline). In less than 10 minutes, a Uttar Pradesh Police vehicle pulled into the courtyard from the Ramnagar police station. Sub-Inspector Verma and two female officers got out and demanded that the entire ritual stop and that a report be 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) was sweating and looking at his mother. Mrs. Kamala whispered:

—  “She was weak, she hadn’t yet gone through 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 bring this down. We’re going to return the firewood.”

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

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

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

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

—  “This is not the time for apologies. It is time to stand up for the truth for my daughter,”  I said, my voice as rough as sandpaper.

Sunita, an ASHA worker from the commune’s 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 told me, ‘Wait.’ I also tried to contact Rohit, but his phone was switched off…”

The words faded away, and the courtyard fell into a profound silence. Rohit lowered his head and grasped the edge of the altar with both hands.

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

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

My eyes blurred. The phone calls this morning, the sobs behind the closed door… It was all like a cold knife.

Sub-Inspector Verma filed a preliminary report (FIR) under IPC 304A (death by 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 due to harmful habits.”

In the afternoon, Shanti the midwife was summoned to the police station. She was carrying 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 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 gaze 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 collect my pregnancy documents: the prenatal care card (ANC card), the ultrasound results from the previous month, and the note warning of the “risk of postpartum hemorrhage.” The edges of the paper were yellowed. The doctor upstairs had warned me that I should give birth in a facility equipped to handle hemorrhage. I carried the bag with these 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 following morning, the autopsy was completed. The preliminary report indicated: severe hemorrhage and heart failure; respiratory failure in the newborn; suspected hypothermia due to lack of proper 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 will 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 rights if the husband’s family is being investigated.”

When the two coffins were brought to Lucknow, the neighbors gathered on the small path. No one spoke; they only raised their hands and gently touched a corner of the lid, as if afraid of waking the sleeping person. Sunita quietly placed a red shawl—Kavya’s favorite color—over the coffin. I knelt and put her cell phone in her hand, which still showed the missed call from this morning. The screen was dark, but I knew that every 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, we will present a petition to halt the excessive prohibitions, and to make medical consultations after childbirth mandatory. Kavya’s pain must not die in silence a second time.”

After this, a preliminary hearing was held at the Barabanki SDM. Rohit lowered his head, his voice breaking:
“I was scared, Mom. I thought the neighbors would make fun of me if I took my wife to the hospital during the 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 minutes of the community agreement and send it to the panchayat and the residents’ association for distribution.”

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 rolled down my face, not tears of apology, but tears of the end of my 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 still, as if the storm had not yet arrived. Mr. Shankar squeezed his wife’s hand tightly. I heard the wind whispering through the rows of trees, carrying my daughter’s hushed voice for two or three hours each night:
“Mama, I’m so tired… I’m scared…”
I answered weakly, as if sending a message into the void:
“Rest in peace. Mama will fully cooperate.”

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 bunch and decided to go house to house in Bhawanipur village with Sunita and the women’s association. Every door that was locked that night should be opened for emergency lights next time.

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

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