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.
