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 rang 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 sighed:

— “Be patient. Your daughter is about to get married; don’t worry about her 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 and said firmly:

— “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 from Lucknow to Bhawanipur, 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 center of the courtyard, two coffins had been placed side by side, covered with white cloths and garlands of marigolds. Incense smoke rose, and the mournful sound of a funeral trumpet echoed.

My husband sighed in despair, seeing me collapse:

— “Oh my God… Kavya!”

My daughter had passed away that night.

Next to her coffin, there was another small coffin: the remains of her newborn baby, my granddaughter. I screamed, ran to embrace the tiny coffin, exhausted by 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?”

Neighbors murmured:

— “Last night, the mother was crying, wanting to go to the district hospital, but the husband’s family insisted on keeping her there, saying the ‘sutak’ wasn’t yet complete. They listened to the midwife and gave her herb leaves to stop the bleeding. By the time things got serious, it was too late…”

My whole body went numb. Sri Shankar stood there, and Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) and Mr. Mahendra lowered their heads muttering, “Ancient tradition.”

Looking at the two bodies in the yard, I felt the world spinning. Blind tradition and cruelty had claimed my daughter and granddaughter.

Stop the Funeral, Preserve the Truth

The funeral trumpets blew in the morning wind, the garlands of bright yellow marigolds blinding me. Barely able to stand, I ran to the center of the courtyard:

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

Mrs. Kamala Devi tried to push me away:

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

I pushed aside the white cloth, dizzy with anger:

What custom allows a newborn mother to cry all 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:

— “The nearest unit will arrive soon.”

I also called 181, the women’s helpline. Within ten minutes, a police vehicle from Ramnagar station arrived. Sub-Inspector Verma and two female officers got out and demanded that the ritual be stopped and a report filed.

“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, not yet past the ‘sutak’ period. The midwife gave her some leaves to stop the bleeding…”

I looked him straight in the eyes:

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

The police documented everything. Both bodies were sent to Barabanki District Hospital for autopsy under Section 174 of the Criminal Procedure Code, as there were signs of obstruction of emergency medical care.

The Cold Reality

At the morgue, Dr. Tripathi explained:

— “Based on the symptoms and blood pooling, it appears to be postpartum hemorrhage (PPH). With oxytocin, fluids, and a timely transfer, the outcome could have been changed.”

My eyes blurred. The phone calls, the sobbing behind the locked door… everything cut 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), and sent a letter to the SDM requesting a judicial inquiry.

Midwife Shanti was summoned. She carried a worn cloth bag with roots and powder.

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

— “You know that PPH requires medication, not leaves or rituals, right?” the officer interrupted.

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

I looked at her, exhausted:

— “Tradition should preserve beauty, not block the path to the hospital.”

Fighting for Change

That night, I returned to Lucknow to collect Kavya’s antenatal records. The doctor had warned that PPH could be fatal without proper hospital care. I carried the bag of papers and collapsed at the door. Sri Shankar lifted me, and for the first time, I saw him cry.

The autopsy confirmed severe bleeding and heart failure; respiratory failure in the newborn, suspected hypothermia due to inadequate care.

The coffins were brought to Lucknow. Neighbors gathered silently, touching the corners of the lids as if afraid of waking them. Sunita, the ASHA worker, placed a red shawl—Kavya’s favorite color—over her coffin. I knelt and placed her phone in her hand, still displaying the missed calls.

During prayers, the priest reminded us:

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

At the SDM hearing, Rohit confessed:

— “I was scared, Mom. I thought the neighbors would laugh if I took her to the hospital during sutak… I was wrong.”

I looked him in the eye:

— “If you’re wrong, you’ll pay for the truth. From now on, any home birth must be a hospital birth. Apologize—there’s no shame in calling 108.”

Mrs. Kathryn placed the house keys in front of me:

— “I don’t deserve to keep them. Hang Kavya’s wedding photo in the main hall.”

That night, I returned to the banks of the Gomti River. The sky was golden. Two threads of white ash drifted silently across the water. Mr. Shankar held my hand tightly. I whispered to my children and grandchildren:

— “Tomorrow, I’ll file an additional lawsuit, request custody of evidence, and launch a campaign: ‘Don’t close the door when the mother calls for help.’ Our pain will protect other mothers.”

And I know Part 3 will take the journey further—placing emergency numbers in every household, so no mother has to hear her baby cry behind a closed door in the middle of the night.