Every afternoon, usually about two or three o’clock, my daughter Kavya would ring me.
She had delivered only ten days earlier and was confined at home with her husband in Bhawanipur village, Barabanki district, Uttar Pradesh. Her voice thundered through the receiver:
— “Mom, I’m exhausted… I’m terrified… Please come, I can’t bear this any longer…”
Hearing those words shattered me completely, yet glancing at my husband, Sri Shankar, I only breathed:
— “Wait. Your daughter is newly married; don’t fuss about the in-laws. It’s common to be homebound—her tears aren’t surprising.”
I couldn’t find peace. Night after night the phone rang; the newborn wailed as if her chest had been broken. I wept too, clutching at my heart, but I feared the gossip if I went to fetch her.
Then one morning I reached my limit. I woke my husband and declared firmly:
— “I must go now. If her in-laws refuse, I will take Kavya home regardless.”
We sped from Lucknow to his parents’ house, more than thirty kilometers away. When we arrived at the red-tiled gateway, I saw something that made the world tilt. Everything blurred and I sank onto the courtyard floor.
At the centre lay two coffins, set side by side, draped in white and garlanded with marigolds; incense smoke curled from the shrine and a funeral horn moaned.
My husband gave a despairing cry, saw me and shouted:
— “Oh God… Kavya!”
My daughter had passed away that night…
Her husband’s family had not informed us after the delivery. The worst cruelty was that beside Kavya’s coffin lay a second small coffin swathed in white: my unnamed newborn granddaughter, the child of Kavya and Rohit Yadav.
I screamed and threw myself toward that small coffin, raw with grief:
— “How many times did you call me, child? Why didn’t I get there in time to save you… How could they hide this from me so cruelly…”
Neighbors began to mutter:
— “Last night she cried, wanting to go to the Barabanki district hospital, but the in-laws insisted she stay, saying her sutak period wasn’t over—just eleven days—and she shouldn’t leave. They trusted the midwife (Rose) and gave her herbal leaves to stop the bleeding. By the time things worsened, it was too late…”
My body went numb. My husband stood rigid; Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) and Mr. Mahendra averted their faces and mumbled, “Old customs.”
Seeing the two bodies lying in the yard made the world spin. Because of blind rites and the in-laws’ harshness, my daughter and grandson had met a tragic end…
— Stop the cremation; save the truth
Funeral horns cut through the morning breeze and marigolds flashed yellow, nearly blinding me. Barely steady, I ran to the midst of the courtyard and halted the funeral bier.
— “No one will touch Kavya or the baby! Stop this now, I beg you!”
Mrs. Kamala Devi tried to shove me aside:
— “Custom dictates they must be carried to the river immediately—”
I flung aside the white shroud, dizzy with fury:
What custom allows a newly delivered mother to cry in the night without calling an ambulance?
What tradition forbids a mother from taking her daughter to the hospital?
I dialed 112. The operator’s tone was measured but decisive amid the emergency:
— “A unit nearby will be there soon.”
I then rang 181, the women’s helpline. Within ten minutes a Uttar Pradesh Police vehicle from Ramnagar station rolled into the yard. Sub-Inspector Verma and two female officers popped out and ordered an immediate halt to the rites and that a report be recorded.
“The family produced birth certificates and antenatal records. Who attended to her last night? Was ambulance 108 called?” Verm requested.
Rohit Yadav, Kavya’s husband, was sweating and kept glancing at his mother. Mrs. Kamala muttered:
— “She was frail, still in the sutak period, not allowed to leave. The village midwife gave leaves to stop the bleeding…”
— “Midwife’s name?”
— “Shanti, the house at the lane’s end.”
I looked Rohit straight in the eye and told him:
— “My daughter phoned every night, at two or three in the morning. I have the call logs.”
The officer pressed a paper into my hand:
— “Auntie, please sign here. We will stop the cremation.”
Before any river rites could happen, both bodies were sealed and taken to Barabanki District Hospital for autopsy under Section 174 CrPC, since the deceased had been married less than seven years and there were signs of denial of emergency medical aid.
As the ambulance drove off its siren screaming, rumor fell over the neighborhood like dry leaves.
I sat on the steps, tears cutting my cheeks. Sri Shankar put a shaking hand on my shoulder:
— “You… I’m sorry. I always thought we shouldn’t make trouble with the in-laws…”
“This is not the time for apologies. It’s time to seek justice for my daughter,” I said, voice rough as sandpaper.
Sunita, an ASHA worker from the health centre, arrived breathless:
— “Last night I heard neighbors saying Kavya was ill. I called 108 repeatedly but the door was bolted from inside. I knocked and Mrs. Kamala said, ‘Wait.’ I tried Rohit too, but his phone was off…”
Silence fell and the courtyard grew heavy. Rohit bowed his head and gripped the altar’s edge.
At the morgue, the Chief Medical Superintendent said the autopsy would be immediate, prioritising “maternal death.” Dr. Tripathi looked at me kindly:
— “From the symptoms and blood on the bed, it seems postpartum hemorrhage (PPH). With oxytocin, IV fluids, and quick transfer, the outcome could have been different.”
My vision blurred. The nightly calls, the sobs behind a locked door… it all felt like a cold blade.
Sub-Inspector Verma registered a preliminary FIR under IPC 304A (de:ath by negligence), IPC 336/338 (dangerous acts), and Section 75 (cruelty to children) of the JJ Act related to the newborn’s d3ath. He also wrote to the SDM requesting a judicial inquiry into the unnatural postpartum d3ath.
Kathryn cried out:
— “They want to rui:n my family’s name!”
Verma answered calmly:
— “We want to prevent another de:ath caused by harmful practice.”
That afternoon midwife Shanti was summoned to the police station carrying a battered cloth bag of roots and a gray-brown powder.
“I treated her like my own mother, my grandmother…” she started.
“You know PPH needs uterine-contracting medicines and fluids, not leaves and rituals, don’t you?” the officer asked, icily.
Shanti opened her mouth and then closed it; confusion clouded her eyes.
I looked at her, no longer furious, only weary:
— “Tradition should protect what is beautiful, not be the blade that stops access to care.”
That night I returned to Lucknow for the pregnancy files: the antenatal care card (ANC), the last month’s ultrasound, and the note flagging “risk of PPH.” The pages were frayed. The doctor had advised delivery in a facility equipped for hemorrhages. I carried those papers in a bag over my shoulder and crumpled at the door. Sri Shankar lifted me, and for the first time I saw him weep like a child.
The following morning the autopsy finished. The provisional report cited massive bleeding and heart failure; neonatal respiratory failure; suspected hypothermia due to inadequate care.
Verma told me:
— “We will send herbal samples for toxicology. Rohit, Kamala, Mahendra, and Shanti have been summoned. Cremation is barred until the SDM completes procedures.”
I gripped the chair’s edge:
— “I’ll take my daughter to my mother’s home for the rites. No one will stop me now.”
Verma nodded:
— “Under CrPC, biological parents have rights when the husband’s family is under investigation.”
When the two coffins reached Lucknow, neighbors gathered along the lane. No one spoke; hands hovered to touch the corner of the lids as if afraid to wake them. Sunita placed a red shawl—Kavya’s favourite colour—over the coffin. I knelt and slipped her phone into her hand, the missed call from that morning still on the screen. Dark though it was, every missed ring testified to what had occurred.
During the prayer the priest urged:
— “Tomorrow we will appear before the Women’s Commission, file a petition to end extreme restrictions and make postpartum medical check-ups mandatory. Kavya’s suffering must not di:e unheard.”
Afterwards a provisional hearing convened at Barabanki SDM. Rohit kept his head bent, voice breaking:
— “I was frightened, Mother. I thought neighbours would mock me if I took her to hospital during sutak… I was wrong.”
I looked him straight in the eye.
— “If you were wrong, you will answer for the truth. Sign this: from now on any home delivery must be followed by hospital birth. Apologise—there is no shame in calling 108.”
The SDM agreed.
— “We’ll note it in the community minute and notify the panchayat and neighbourhood association.”
Mrs. Kathryn was quiet for a long time. Then she placed the house keys before me:
— “I don’t deserve to keep them. When the rites end, hang Kavya’s wedding picture in the main hall.”
I closed my eyes. Tears came not as apology, but as a letting go of rage.
That night I returned to the Gomti’s bank. The sky was golden and two thin threads of white ash floated across the water, almost soundless, as if the storm had not yet arrived. Mr. Shankar held his wife’s hand tightly. I listened to wind whisper among the trees, carrying my daughter’s soft nightly plea for two or three hours:
“Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared…”
I answered faintly, like a message sent to the void:
“Rest now. Mom will do what must be done.”
On my way back I stopped at the health centre. Sunita was pasting a new poster:
“After delivery—do not be alone. Call 108.”
The numbers 112 and 181 were printed beneath. I took a stack and decided to go door to door in Bhawanipur with Sunita and the women’s group. Locked doors that night must be opened to emergency lights next time.
That evening I placed Kavya’s photograph in the most sacred corner and lit a small lamp. The flame shone steady and would not di:e. I muttered to my children and grandchildren,
“Tomorrow I will file another suit, seek custody of evidence, and launch a ‘Don’t shut the door when a mother cries for help’ campaign. Our grief will become a path for other mothers.