Every day, around two or three in the afternoon, my daughter Kavya would call me. Just ten days ago she gave birth and was living at her husband’s home in Bhawanipur village, Barabanki district, Uttar Pradesh, to stay in quarantine. His voice burst out on the phone:

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

Hearing that, my heart was breaking into a thousand pieces, but looking at my husband, Sri Shankar, I only sighed:

— “Be patient. Your daughter is about to get married; Don’t worry about your in-laws. It’s normal to be cooped up at home — it’s not uncommon for me to cry.”

I was not calm. The phone kept ringing night after night; The girl cried like a broken heart, I also cried holding my chest, but I didn’t dare to go for her for fear of what they would say.

Until that morning when I couldn’t take it anymore. I woke up my husband and firmly told him:

— “I have to go there now. If my in-laws won’t let me, I’ll take my daughter home at all costs.”

We left Lucknow urgently to where his parents were, more than 30 km away. But when I reached the door with red tiles, I saw something that made me dizzy, everything turned dark and I fell to the floor of the patio.

In the center of the courtyard they had placed two coffins side by side, covered with white cloths and garlands of marigolds; The smoke of incense rose on the altar and the sad sound of a funeral trumpet resounded.

My husband sighed in despair, saw me, and shouted:

— “Oh my God… Kavya!”

My daughter passed away that night…

After the birth, her husband’s family had not called her parents. The most painful thing was that, next to my daughter’s coffin, there was another small coffin, covered with a white cloth: it was the remains of the newborn baby, still unnamed, my granddaughter, daughter of Kavya and Rohit Yadav.

I screamed, I ran to hug that infant coffin tired of pain:

— “How many times did you call me, Mom? Why didn’t you arrive in time to save me… How they were so cruel to hide this from me in this way…”

The neighbors murmured:

“Last night, the mother was crying wanting to go to the district hospital in Barabanki, but the husband’s family insisted on keeping her there, saying that Sutak was not yet 11 days old, and that she should not leave the house. They also listened to the midwife (Rose) and gave her some leaves of grass to stop the bleeding. When the situation became serious, it was too late…”

My whole body was numb. My husband stood there, stubborn, while Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) and Mr. Mahendra lowered their heads to avoid us and murmured, “Ancient tradition.”

As I looked at the two bodies lined up in the courtyard, I felt the world turning. Because of blind tradition and the cruelty of my daughter’s in-laws, my daughter and grandson suffered a tragic death…

---

— Stop the Funeral Fire, Preserve the Truth

The funeral trumpets whistled in the morning wind, the garlands of bright yellow marigolds blinded me. I could barely stand, so I ran to the center of the courtyard and stopped the two funeral stretchers.

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

Mrs. Kamala Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) tried to push me out of the way:

“According to the custom of the people, they must take them to the river immediately—”

I pushed aside the white cloth, dizzy with anger:

What custom allows a woman who has just given birth to cry in the middle of the night without calling an ambulance?
What tradition forbids a mother to take her daughter to the hospital?

I dialed 112. The operator’s voice was calm but firm in the face of the urgency:

— “The nearest unit will be coming soon.”
I immediately called 181 (the women’s helpline). In less than 10 minutes, a Uttar Pradesh Police vehicle entered the courtyard from Ramnagar Police Station. Sub-Inspector Verma and two female agents came down and demanded to stop the whole ritual and file a report.

---

— “The family showed birth certificates and prenatal medical records. Who took care of her last night? Did they call ambulance 108?” Verma asked.

Rohit Yadav (Kavya’s husband) was sweating and looking at his mother. Mrs. Kamala whispered:

— “He was weak, the ‘sutak’ period had not yet passed, he was not allowed to leave the house. The village midwife gave her some leaves to stop the bleeding…”
— “Name of the midwife?”
— “Shanti, the house down the street.”

I looked him straight in the eye and said to Rohit:

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

The officer handed me a document:

— “Auntie, please put this down. We are going to return the firewood.”

Before being taken to the river, both bodies were sealed and sent to the morgue of the Barabanki District Hospital for an autopsy under Section 174 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, as the deceased had been married for less than seven years and there were signs of obstruction to emergency medical care.

As soon as the ambulance drove away with its siren, the whispers fell on the neighborhood like dry leaves.

---

I sat on the stairs, tears streaming down my face. Sri Shankara (my husband) placed his hand on my shoulder, trembling:

— “You… Sorry. I always thought that ‘we shouldn’t cause problems with the in-laws’…”

— “This is not the time for apologies. It’s time to stand up for the truth for my daughter.” I said, in a voice as rough as sandpaper.

Si Sunita, an ASHA worker at the commune health center, arrived panting:

— “Last night I heard from the neighbors that Kavya was sick. I called 108 several times, but the door was locked from the inside. I knocked, and Mrs. Kamala said, ‘Wait.’ I also tried to contact Rohit, but his phone was turned off…”

The words faded, and the courtyard fell into deep silence. Rohit lowered his head and with both hands held the edge of the altar.

At the morgue, the Chief Medical Superintendent reported that the autopsy would be performed that same day, giving priority to “maternal death.” Dr. Tripathi looked at me tenderly:

— “Según los síntomas que describes y la sangre acumulada en la cama, parece ser una hemorragia posparto (PPH). Con oxitocina, líquidos intravenosos y una transferencia oportuna, el resultado puede cambiar.”

Mis ojos se nublaron. Las llamadas telefónicas de la mañana, los sollozos detrás de la puerta cerrada… Todo era como un cuchillo frío.

El Subinspector Verma registró una denuncia preliminar (FIR) bajo el IPC 304A (muerte por negligencia), IPC 336/338 (actos peligrosos) y la Sección 75 (crueldad contra niños) del JJ Act, en relación con la muerte de la recién nacida. Además, envió una carta al SDM solicitando una investigación judicial por muerte no natural en el período posparto.

Kathryn gritó:

— “¡Quieren destruir la reputación de mi familia!”

Pero Verma respondió con calma:

— “Queremos salvar a la próxima persona de una muerte por costumbres erróneas.”

Por la tarde, la partera Shanti fue citada en la comisaría. Iba con una bolsa de tela gastada que cargaba raíces y un polvo marrón grisáceo.

— “La considero como a mi madre, a mi abuela…” — comenzó ella.
— “Sabes que la PPH requiere medicamentos para contraer el útero e hidratación, no hojas ni rituales, ¿verdad?” — replicó fríamente el oficial.

Shanti abrió la boca, luego la cerró lentamente, con la mirada turbia por la confusión.

La miré, ya sin ira, solo cansada:

— “La tradición debería preservar la belleza, no el cuchillo que impide el camino al hospital.”

Esa noche regresé a Lucknow para recoger los documentos del embarazo: el carnet de control prenatal (ANC card), los resultados ecográficos del mes anterior y la nota que advertía del “riesgo de PPH”. Los bordes del papel estaban amarillentos. El médico del piso superior me había advertido que debía dar a luz en un lugar preparado para manejar hemorragias. Llevé la bolsa con esos papeles sobre mi hombro y me desplomé frente a la puerta. Sri Shankar me recogió, y por primera vez en toda mi vida, vi cómo lloraba como un niño.

A la mañana siguiente, la autopsia fue completada. El informe preliminar indicaba: hemorragia intensa y fallo cardíaco; insuficiencia respiratoria en el recién nacido, sospecha de hipotermia por falta de cuidados adecuados.

Verma me dijo:

— “Enviaremos muestras herbales para análisis toxicológicos. Han sido citados Rohit, Kamala, Mahendra y Shanti. Mientras tanto, no se permite la cremación hasta que se completen los procedimientos del SDM.”

Apreté el borde de la silla:

— “Llevaré a mi hija a casa de mi madre para la ceremonia. Ya nadie me lo impedirá.”

Verma asintió:

— “Según el CrPC, los padres biológicos tienen derecho si la familia del esposo está siendo investigada.”

Cuando llevaron los dos ataúdes a Lucknow, los vecinos se reunieron en el pequeño sendero. Nadie hablaba; solo levantaron sus manos, con delicadeza tocaron una esquina de la tapa, como temiendo despertar a quien dormía. Sunita colocó silenciosamente un chal rojo —el color favorito de Kavya— sobre el féretro. Me arrodillé y puse su celular en su mano, que aún mostraba la llamada perdida de esta mañana. La pantalla estaba oscura, pero sabía que cada llamada fue un testimonio de lo que sucedió.

Durante la oración, el sacerdote recordó suavemente:
— “Mañana hablaremos ante la Comisión de la Mujer, presentaremos una petición para detener las prohibiciones excesivas, y hacer obligatorias las consultas médicas después del parto. El dolor de Kavya no debe morir en silencio por segunda vez.”

Después de esto, se realizó una audiencia provisional en el SDM de Barabanki. Rohit bajó la cabeza, su voz se quebró:
— “Tuve miedo, mamá. Pensé que los vecinos se burlarían de mí si llevaba a mi esposa al hospital durante el sutak… Me equivoqué.”

I looked him straight in the eye:
“If you are wrong, you will pay the price of truth. Sign this: from now on, any home birth must be a hospital birth. Apologise, there is no shame in calling 108.”
The SDM nodded:
“We will add it to the minutes of the community agreement and send it to the panchayat and the neighborhood association for dissemination.”

Mrs. Kathryn was silent for a long time. Then he put the keys to the house in front of me:
“I don’t deserve to keep them. When the fire goes out, hang Kavya’s wedding photo in the main hall.”
I closed my eyes. Tears rolled, not from apology, but from the end of the anger.

That night I returned to the bank of the Gomti River. The sky was golden. Two strands of white ash slid into the water, very silent, as if the storm had not yet arrived. Mr. Shankar squeezed his wife’s hand tightly. I heard the whisper of the wind in the rows of trees C, which brought my daughter’s whispering voice for 2 or 3 hours each night:
“Mom, I’m so tired… I’m afraid…”
I replied weakly, as if sending a message to infinity:
“Rest in peace. Mom will cooperate fully.”

As I walked back, I stopped at the health center. Sunita was putting up a new sign:
“After the birth of the baby – don’t be alone. Call 108.”
Numbers 112 and 181 were written below. I took a bunch and decided to go house to house in Bhawanipur village together with Sunita and the women’s association. All doors closed that night should be opened for emergency lights next time.

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

And I know Part 3 will be a journey out of the kitchen to put an emergency number in every shirt pocket, so that no mother has to hear her baby crying behind a closed door in the middle of the night.