Every night, my daughter calls home crying and asks me to come pick her up. The next morning, my husband and I go home and ask to pick up our daughter to quarantine her. Suddenly, when we reach the gate, I suddenly lose consciousness when I see two coffins in the courtyard, and then reality hits me.
Every afternoon at 2 or 3 pm, I get a call from my daughter Kavy. She recently gave birth to a child 10 days ago and is staying at her husband’s house in Bhawanipur village in Barabanki district of Uttar Pradesh to stay in quarantine. Her voice exploded on the phone:
“Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared… Come and pick me up, I can’t take it anymore…”
Every time I heard this, my heart seemed to break into pieces, but looking at my husband – Sri Shankar – he only sighed:
“Be patient. Your daughter is getting married, don’t worry about your in-laws. It’s normal to be locked up at home, no wonder she’s crying.”
I couldn’t rest. The phone kept ringing for several nights in a row, the child cried like a broken heart, I cried too, clutching my chest, but I didn’t dare to pick her up for fear of criticism.
Until this morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I woke my husband up and said firmly:
“I have to go there now. If my in-laws don’t let me, I will take my daughter home at any cost.”
The couple had left Lucknow in a hurry to reach their in-laws’ house, covering a distance of more than 30 km. But when they reached the door of the red-tiled house, I saw a sight that made me dizzy, my face darkened, and I fell into the courtyard.
Right in the middle of the courtyard, two funeral pyres were placed next to each other, covered with white cloth and marigold garlands; Incense smoke rose from the altar and the mournful sound of the funeral trumpet echoed.
My husband sighed as he followed me, looked at me and shouted:
“Oh my God… Kavya!”
My daughter died that night…
After the birth, the husband’s family did not call the husband’s parents. What was even more painful was that next to my daughter’s funeral stretcher, a small stretcher was covered with a white cloth – it was the newborn grandchild, who had not yet been named, the baby of Kavya and her husband Rohit Yadav.
I screamed, running to hug the tiring funeral stretcher:
“How many times have you called me, Mother? Why didn’t you come in time to save me… How could they be so cruel to hide it like this!”
The nearby villagers were whispering:
“Last night, the mother was crying and wanted to go to the district hospital in Barabanki, but the husband’s family insisted on keeping her with them, saying that Sutak was not even 11 days old, and that she was forbidden to leave the house. They also 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. The husband stood there stubbornly, while Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) and Mr. Mahendra bent down to avoid them and whispered, “Old tradition.”
As I looked at the two bodies lying side by side in the courtyard, I felt as if the world was spinning. Because of the blind tradition and cruelty of my husband’s family, my daughter and granddaughter suffered tragic deaths…
— Stop the funeral pyre, keep the truth
Funeral trumpets whistled in the morning air, garlands of bright yellow marigold flowers pierced my eyes. Barely able to get up, I ran to the middle of the patio and stopped two funeral stretchers.
“No one can touch Kavya and the child! Stop everything for me!”
Mrs. Kamla Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) tried to push me away:
“According to the village custom, they should be taken to the river bank immediately—”
I tugged at the white cloth, feeling dizzy:
What custom allows a pregnant woman to cry in the middle of the night without calling an ambulance? What custom forbids a mother from taking her child to the hospital?
I dialed 112. The operator’s voice was quiet and fierce with confusion: “The nearest unit will come.” I immediately called 181 (women’s helpline). Within 10 minutes, an Uttar Pradesh Police vehicle entered the courtyard from Ramnagar police station. Sub-inspector Verma and two policewomen came out and asked the entire family to stop the operation and file a report.
— “The family has produced birth certificates and prenatal medical records. Who took care of her last night? Did they call 108 Ambulance?” — Verma asked.
Rohit Yadav (Kavya’s husband) was panting and looking at his mother. Mrs. Kamala was whispering:
— “She is weak, she has not been put in sutak yet, she is not allowed to come out of the house. The village midwife gave her some leaves to stop the bleeding…”
– “The midwife’s name?”
— “Peace, the house at the end of the street.”
I looked at Rohit silently:
“My son calls every night, at 2 or 3 pm. I have the call log.”
The policeman handed me the paper:
— “Auntie, put this down, we will return the log.”
Before being taken to the river bank, both the bodies were ordered sealed and sent to the Barabanki District Hospital mortuary for post-mortem under Section 174 CrPC because the deceased had been married for less than seven years and showed signs of obstructing emergency care. The moment the ambulance siren faded away, whispers fell over the neighbourhood like dry leaves.
I sat on the steps, tears streaming down my face. Sri Shankara (my husband) placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder, trembling:
— “You… I’m sorry. I believe in ‘don’t create problems for your in-laws’…”
– “This is not the time to apologize. It’s time for me to hide the truth for my daughter. — I said, my voice as heavy as sandpaper.
Sunita, an ASHA worker at the commune health station, came 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, Mrs. Kamala said, “Wait.” I also texted Rohit, but his phone was switched off…”
The words fell, 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 the autopsy would take place on the same day, with priority given to “maternal death”. Dr. Tripathi looked at me gently:
— “Given the symptoms you mentioned and the blood that had collected on the bed, it is likely postpartum hemorrhage (PPH). If oxytocin, intravenous fluids, and timely transfers were available, the possibilities would be different.
My eyes were blurring. Morning phone calls, sobbing from behind closed doors… They were all like cold knives.
Sub-Inspector Verma registered a preliminary FIR under IPC 304A (negligence causing death), IPC 336/338 (acts endangering life), and Section 75 (cruelty to children) of the JJ Act in the case of the newborn. He also wrote a letter to the SDM requesting him to initiate a magisterial inquiry into the unnatural death that occurred during the postpartum period.
Kathryn said,
“You want to ruin the reputation of my family!”
Verma calmly said:
— “We want to save the next person from dying due to bad traditions.”
In the afternoon, the midwife Shanti was summoned to the police station. She had a worn cloth bag in her hand, inside it was a bunch of roots, a greyish-brown powder.
— “I consider it like my mother, my grandmother…”
— “You know that PPH requires uterine contraction medicine and intravenous fluids, not leaves and offerings?” — The policeman asked sharply.
Mrs. Shanti opened her mouth and then closed it, her eyes confused.
I looked at him, my voice no longer angry, but tired:
– “Tradition saves beauty, not the knife that blocks the way to the hospital.” ”
That evening, I returned to Lucknow to collect my baby’s records: the ANC card, the results of the previous month’s ultrasound, and the indication to “monitor for the risk of PPH”. The edges of the paper were yellow, the doctor upstairs had asked me to deliver the baby in a place where there was a lot of blood. I put the bag of records around my neck and fell in front of the door. Sri Shankar fetched his wife, and for the first time in my life I saw her crying like a baby.
The next morning, the post-mortem was completed. The initial report said: heavy bleeding, heart failure; Severe respiratory distress in the newborn, suspected hypothermia due to improper care.
Verma said:
— “We will send the herbal samples for toxicology. Rohit, Kamala, Mahendra and Shanti were called. Meanwhile, cremation was not allowed until the SDM completed the formalities. ”
I held the edge of the chair:
— “I will take my son 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 family of the deceased’s wife is investigated.
When the two coffins were brought to Lucknow, the neighbors gathered in a small lane. No one spoke, only raised her hand and gently touched a corner of the lid, as if afraid of hurting the sleeping person. Sunita quietly placed the red shawl on the coffin—Kavya’s favorite color. I knelt down and placed her cellphone in her hand, which received a call the next morning. The screen was dark, but I knew that every call was a testimony.
During the prayer, the priest/priest gently reminded: “Tomorrow we will speak to the Women’s Commission, file a petition to stop the excessive ban, make medical consultations mandatory after childbirth. Kavya’s illness should not die silently for a second time. ”
After this, a temporary hearing was held at SDM Barabanki. Rohit lowered his head, his voice breaking:
— “I was scared, mother. I thought the villagers would laugh at me if I took my wife to the hospital in the middle of the sutaka… I was wrong. ”
I looked straight into his eyes:
—”If you are wrong, you will pay the price with truth. Sign it: From now on, any home birth, only hospital birth. Apologize, it is clear that there is no shame in calling 108.
The SDM nodded:
– “We will add this to the minutes of the community reconciliation, and send it to the panchayat and RWA for publicity.” ”
Mrs. Kathryn was silent for a long time. Then she placed the house key in front of me.
— “I am not worthy of keeping this. Once the fire is extinguished, hang Kavya’s wedding picture in the middle room. ”
I closed my eyes. Tears flowed—not of apology, but of the end of anger.
In the evening, I returned to the banks of the Gomti river. The sky was golden. Two streaks of white ash melted into the water, so calm that it seemed as if the storm had not yet arrived. Mr. Shankar held his wife’s hand tightly. I could hear the wind blowing through the rows of C trees, which carried my daughter’s whispered voice for 2-3 hours every night: “Mom, I am so tired… I am scared…”
I replied weakly, as if sending a message to eternity:
—”Rest in peace.” Mom will cooperate fully. ”
As I walked back, I stopped at the health center. Sunita pasted a new poster: “After the birth of the baby – don’t be alone. Call 108. The numbers 112 and 181 are written below. I asked for a stack, and decided to go door to door in Bhawanipur village with Sunita and the women’s group. All the doors that were closed that night had to be opened for emergency lights the next day.
That night, I placed Kavya’s picture in the most sacred place and lit a small lamp. The flame flickered, but it did not go out. I whispered to my children and grandchildren:
– “Tomorrow, I will file another lawsuit, seek preservation of evidence, and launch the ‘Don’t Close the Door When a Mother Calls for Help’ campaign. Our pain will become a path for other mothers.”And I know, Part 3 will be a trip out of the kitchen to put an emergency phone number in every shirt pocket—so no mother has to hear her baby cry behind a closed door in the middle of the night.