Every night, my daughter would call home crying and ask me to come pick her up. The next morning, my husband and I went home and asked my daughter to come pick her up for quarantine. Suddenly, as we reached the gate, I fainted at the sight of two coffins in the courtyard, and then the truth hit me.

Every night, around 2-3 a.m., I would get a call from my daughter, Kavya. She had just given birth 10 days earlier and was staying at her husband’s house in Bhawanipur village, Barabanki district, Uttar Pradesh, for quarantine. Her voice choked on the phone:

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

Every time I heard this, my heart felt like it was breaking into pieces, but looking at my husband – Mr. Shankar – he simply sighed:

“Be patient. Your daughter is getting married, don’t make things difficult for her in-laws. It’s normal to be cooped up at home, and it’s okay for her to cry.”

I was restless. The phone rang for several nights in a row, and the child cried heartbroken. I cried too, holding her close to my chest, but didn’t dare go to pick her up for fear of criticism.

By that morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I woke my husband and firmly said:

“I have to go there today. If my in-laws don’t allow me, I will take my daughter home at all costs.”

The couple hurriedly traveled more than 30 kilometers from Lucknow to their in-laws’ home. But as they reached the gate of the red-tiled house, I witnessed a sight that made me dizzy, my face turned black, and I collapsed in the courtyard.

Right in the middle of the courtyard, two bier (palanquins) were placed next to each other, covered with white cloth and marigold garlands; the smoke of incense was rising from the altar, and the mournful sound of the funeral trumpet echoed.

My husband trembled as he picked me up, looked at me, and cried out:

“Oh my God… Kavya!”

It turned out that my daughter had died that night…

Postpartum hemorrhage, but the husband’s family didn’t call the wife’s parents. What was even more painful was that next to my daughter’s funeral stretcher, a smaller stretcher was covered in a white cloth – it was Kavya and her husband Rohit Yadav’s newborn granddaughter, who hadn’t yet been named.

I screamed, choking, and ran to embrace the funeral stretcher:

“I called out so many times, Mom… Why didn’t you come in time to save me… How could they be so cruel as to hide it like this!”

Nearby villagers whispered:

“Last night, Mom was crying and wanted to go to the district hospital in Barabanki, but her husband’s family insisted on keeping her with them, saying that the mourning period hadn’t even passed 11 days, and she was forbidden to leave the house. They even listened to the midwife (Rose) and gave her grass leaves to stop the bleeding. By the time the situation became serious, it was too late…”

My whole body went numb. My husband stood there, frozen, while Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) and Mr. Mahendra avoided him with their heads bowed, muttering, “Old tradition.”

Looking at the two funeral stretchers placed parallel to each other in the courtyard, I felt as if the world was spinning. Due to the blind tradition and cruelty of my husband’s family, my daughter and granddaughter suffered a tragic death…

— Stop the Funeral Fire, Protect the Truth

Funeral trumpets whistled in the morning air, garlands of bright yellow marigold flowers stung my eyes. I barely managed to get up, ran to the middle of the courtyard, and stopped the two funeral stretchers.

“No one is allowed to touch Kavya and the baby! Stop everything for me!”

Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) tried to push me away:

“According to village custom, she must be taken to the riverbank immediately—”
I tugged at the white cloth, feeling suffocated:

“What custom allows a pregnant woman to cry in the middle of the night without calling an ambulance? What custom prevents a mother from taking her child to the hospital?”
I dialed 112. The operator’s voice was calm and ruthless in panic: “The nearest unit will arrive.” I immediately called 181 (the women’s helpline). Within ten minutes, a Uttar Pradesh police vehicle from the Ramnagar police station entered the courtyard. Sub-Inspector Verma and two female police officers got out and asked the entire family to stop the celebrations and file a report.

— “The family showed the birth certificate and prenatal medical records. Who cared for her last night? Did they call the 108 ambulance?” Verma asked.

Rohit Yadav (Kavya’s husband) stammered, staring at his mother. Mrs. Kamla mumbled:
— “She was weak, the period of mourning hadn’t begun yet, and she wasn’t allowed to leave the house. The village midwife gave her some leaves to stop the bleeding…”
— “The midwife’s name?”
— “Shanti, the house at the end of the street.”

I quietly looked at Rohit:
— “My daughter calls every night, at 2-3 a.m. I have the call log.”

The policewoman handed me the paper:
— “Aunty, hang up the phone. We’ll back up the log.”

Before being taken to the riverbank, both bodies were sealed and ordered to be sent to the Barabanki District Hospital morgue for post-mortem examination under Section 174 CrPC, as the deceased had been married for less than seven years and there were signs of disruption to emergency care. As the ambulance siren faded, whispers in the neighborhood fell like dry leaves.

I sat on the stairs, tears streaming down my face. Mr. Shankar (my husband) tremblingly placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder:
— “Please… forgive me. I believed in ‘Don’t create problems for your in-laws’…”
— “This is not the time to apologize. This is the time to hide the truth for my child.” I said, my voice heavy as sandpaper.

Sunita, the ASHA worker from the community health station, came running in, panting:
— “Last night I heard from the neighbors that Kavya was sick. I called 108 several times, but the gate was locked from inside. I knocked on the door, and Mrs. Kamala said, ‘Wait.’ I also texted Rohit, but his phone was off…”
The words fell, and the entire courtyard fell silent. Rohit bowed his head, holding the edge of the altar with both hands.

At the mortuary, the Chief Medical Superintendent said that an autopsy would be conducted that day, with “maternal death” as the priority. Dr. Tripathi looked at me slowly:
— “Judging by the symptoms you described and the blood on the bed, it’s likely postpartum hemorrhage (PPH). Had oxytocin, intravenous fluids, and a timely transfer been available, the situation would have been different.”

My eyes blurred. The early morning phone call, the muffled sobs from the closed gate… all of it was like a cold knife.

Sub-Inspector Verma registered a preliminary FIR in the newborn’s case under sections 304A (causing death by negligence), 336/338 (causing death by negligence), and 75 of the JJ Act (cruelty to children). He also wrote a note to the SDM to initiate a magisterial inquiry into the unnatural death that occurred during the postpartum period.

Mrs. Kamala jumped up:
— “You want to tarnish my family’s reputation!”

Verma calmly replied:
— “We want to save the next person from dying due to bad traditions.”

In the afternoon, the midwife, Shanti, was called to the police station. She held a worn cloth bag, inside which was a bundle of roots, a grayish-brown powder.
— “I treat her like my mother, my grandmother…”
— “Do you know that PPH requires uterine contraction medication and intravenous fluids, not leaves and prasad?” — the policewoman asked sharply.

Ms. Shanti opened her mouth and then closed it, her eyes confused.

I looked at her, my voice no longer angry, but weary:
— “Tradition protects beauty, not the knife blocking the way to the hospital.”

That night, I returned to Lucknow to collect my baby’s records: the ANC card, last month’s ultrasound results, and the “Monitor the risk of PPH.” The edges of the paper were yellowed; the doctor upstairs had advised me to give birth in a place where there was more blood. I hugged the bag of records and collapsed in front of the door. Mr. Shankar picked up his wife; for the first time in my life, I saw her cry like a child.

The next morning, the post-mortem was completed. The preliminary report read: massive bleeding, cardiac arrest; severe respiratory distress in the newborn; suspected hypothermia due to improper care.

Verma said:
—“We will send herbal samples for toxicology. Rohit, Kamala, Mahendra, and Shanti have been called. In the meantime, the cremation is not permitted until the SDM completes the formalities.”

I grabbed the edge of the chair:
—“I will take my child to my mother’s house for the ceremony. No one can stop me now.”
He nodded:
— “According to the CrPC, the biological parents have the right if the deceased’s husband’s family is investigated.”

As soon as the two coffins were brought to Lucknow, neighbors gathered in the small alley. No one spoke, just a hand gently held a corner of the lid, as if afraid of hurting the sleeping person. Sunita quietly draped a red shawl—Kavya’s favorite color—over the coffin. I knelt down and placed the phone from which I had called early that morning in her hand. The screen was black, but I knew that every call had become a testimony.

During the prayer, the priest/purohit gently reminded: “Tomorrow we will present our case to the Women’s Commission, file a petition to ban extreme restrictions, and make postpartum medical consultations mandatory. Kavya’s pain must not be silently endured a second time.”

An interim hearing was then held with the SDM, Barabanki. Rohit bowed his head, his voice breaking:
—“I was scared, Mom. I thought the villagers would laugh at me if I took my wife to the hospital during the mourning period… I was wrong.”

I looked him straight in the eyes:
—“If you’re wrong, you’ll pay the price. Sign this: From now on, no home births, only hospital births. And you make a clip of an apology, clearly stating that calling 108 is nothing to be ashamed of.”

The SDM nodded:
—“We’ll add it to the community reconciliation minutes and send it to the Panchayat and RWA for publicity.”

Mrs. Kamla remained silent for a long time. Then she placed the house keys in front of me.
—“I’m not worthy of keeping it. When the fire is out, hang Kavya’s wedding photo in the middle room.”

I closed my eyes. Tears flowed—not of forgiveness, but of the end of anger.

In the afternoon, I returned to the banks of the Gomti River. The sky was golden. Two streaks of white ash dissolved into the water, so calm as if the storm had never come. Mr. Shankar held his wife’s hand tightly. I heard the wind blowing through the rows of Si trees, which for 2-3 hours every night brought my daughter’s whispering voice: “Mom, I’m so tired… I’m so scared…”
I replied softly, as if sending a message to eternity:
— “Rest in peace. Mom will be there for you.”

On my way back, I stopped at the health center. Sunita was pasting a new poster: “After childbirth—don’t stay alone. Call 108.” Below were written the numbers 112 and 181. I borrowed a stack, and decided to go door-to-door in Bhawanipur village with Sunita and the women’s association. Every gate closed that night will have to be opened for emergency lights the next time.

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

And I know, Part 3 will be a journey to take this practice out of the kitchen and put emergency phone numbers in every shirt pocket—so that no mother has to listen to her child’s cries behind a closed door in the middle of the night.