Every night, my daughter would call home crying and ask me to come pick her up. The next morning, my husband and I went home and asked to pick up our daughter to quarantine her. Suddenly, as soon as we reached the gate, I fainted to see two coffins in the courtyard, and then the truth hurt me.

Every night, around 2-3 pm, I would get a call from my daughter Kavya. She had just given birth to a child 10 days ago and was staying at her husband’s house in Bhawanipur village in Uttar Pradesh’s Barabanki district to stay in quarantine. His voice choked on the phone:

“Mom, I’m so tired… I’m so scared… Come and pick me up, I can’t stand it anymore…”

Every time I heard this, my heart seemed to be splitting into pieces, but looking at my husband – Sri Shankar – he simply sighed:

“Be patient. Your daughter is getting married, don’t create problems for her in-laws. It’s normal to be locked in the house, it’s not strange for her to cry. ”

I was restless. The phone kept ringing for several nights in a row, the child cried like a broken heart, I also cried with a clasp to my chest, but did not dare to go to pick her up for fear of criticism.

Until that morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I woke up my husband and said firmly:

“I have to go there today. If my in-laws don’t allow me, I will take my daughter home at any cost. ”

The couple hurriedly set out from Lucknow to reach their in-laws’ house, covering a distance of more than 30 km. But as soon as they reached the gate of the red-tiled house, I saw a scene that made me dizzy, my face darkened, and I fell in 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 on the altar and the mournful sound of the funeral trumpet echoed.

My husband shuddered as he picked me up, looked at me and shouted:

“Oh my God… Kavya!”

It turned out that my daughter died that night…

Postpartum bleeding, but the husband’s family did not call the wife’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 granddaughter, who was yet to be named, Kavya and her husband Rohit Yadav’s baby.

I screamed, ran to hug the suffocating funeral stretcher:

“How many times have you called me, Mom? Why didn’t you come in time to save me… How can they be so ruthless as 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 had not even been 11 days old, and she is 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 was numb. The husband stood there unscathed, while Mrs. Kamla Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) and Mr. Mahendra avoided her with their heads bowed and muttered, “Old tradition”.

Looking at the two corpses parallel to each other in the courtyard, I felt as if the world was spinning. Due to the blind tradition and cruelty of my husband’s family, my daughter and granddaughter had to face a tragic death…

— Stop the funeral fire, preserve the truth

Funeral trumpets whistled in the morning air, garlands of bright yellow marigold flowers pierced my eyes. I could barely get up, ran to the middle of the courtyard and stopped the two funeral stretchers.

“No one is allowed to touch Kavya and the baby! Stop everything for me!”

Mrs. Kamla Devi (Kavya’s mother-in-law) tried to push me away:

“According to the custom of the village, they should be taken to the river bank immediately—”
I pulled the white cloth off, feeling suffocated:

“What custom allows a pregnant woman to cry in the middle of the night without calling an ambulance? What custom prevents a mother from taking her child to the hospital?”

I dialed 112. The operator’s voice was calm and ferocious in panic: “The nearest unit will arrive.” I immediately called 181 (women’s helpline). Within ten minutes, a vehicle of Uttar Pradesh Police from Ramnagar police station entered the courtyard. Sub-Inspector Verma and two women policemen came out and asked the entire family to stop the ceremony and file a report.

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

Rohit Yadav (Kavya’s husband) was stuttering and looking at his mother. Mrs. Kamala was muttering:
— “She was weak, she had not yet been put on the sutak, she was not allowed to go out of the house. The village maid had given her some leaves to stop the bleeding…”
— “The name of the babysitter?”
— “Shanti, the house at the end of the street.” ”

I looked at Rohit silently:
“My daughter calls every night, at 2-3 o’clock. I have the call log. ”

The policeman handed me the paper:
— “Auntie, hang up, we’ll back up the log. ”

Before being taken to the river bank, both the bodies were ordered sealed and sent to the mortuary of Barabanki District Hospital for post-mortem under Section 174 CrPC as the deceased had been married for less than seven years and there were signs of obstruction in emergency care. As the ambulance siren disappeared, whispers fell in the neighbourhood like dry leaves.

I sat down on the stairs, tears streaming down my face. Sri Shankar (my husband) placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder, trembling:
— “You… Forgive me. I believed that ‘don’t create problems for your in-laws’…”
— “This is not the time to apologize. This is the time for my child to hide the truth.” — I said, my voice as heavy as sandpaper.

Sunita, an ASHA worker at the commune health station, came panting:
“Last night I heard from the neighbours that Kavya was ill, I called 108 several times but the gate was locked from inside. I knocked on the door, Mrs. Kamala said, ‘Wait’. I also messaged Rohit, but his phone was switched off…”
The words fell, the whole 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 will take place on the same day, with priority given to “maternal death”. Dr. Tripathi looked at me gently:
— “Looking at the symptoms you have mentioned and the blood that has accumulated on the bed, it is likely to be postpartum bleeding (PPH). If oxytocin, intravenous fluids, and timely transfer were available, the possibilities would have been different.
My eyes blurred. Phone calls in the morning, sobs from the closed gate… All of them were like a cold knife.

Sub-Inspector Verma registered a preliminary FIR under IPC 304A (negligent 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 note to the SDM asking him to initiate a magisterial inquiry into the unnatural death that occurred in the postpartum period.

Mrs. Kamala jumped up:
“You want to ruin the reputation of my family!”
Verma calmly said:
— “We want to save the next person from dying because of bad traditions. ”

In the afternoon, Dai Shanti was called to the police station. In his hand was a worn-out cloth bag, inside which was a bundle of roots, a grayish-brown powder.
— “I treat it like my mother, my grandmother…”
— “You know that PPH requires uterine contraction medicine and intravenous fluids, not leaves and offerings?” — the policeman asked quickly.

Mrs. Shanti opened her mouth and then closed it, her eyes confused.

I looked at him, my voice no longer one of anger, but of weary:
— “Tradition saves beauty, not the knife that blocks the way to the hospital.” ”

That night, I returned to Lucknow to pick up my baby’s records: the ANC card, the results of last month’s ultrasound, and the “sign to track the risk of PPH”. The edges of the paper were yellow, and on the top floor, the doctor had asked me to give birth to a baby in a place where there was a lot of blood. I hugged the record bag and fell in front of the door. Sri Shankar picked up his wife, for the first time in my life I saw her crying like a child.

The next morning, the autopsy was completed. The initial report read: heavy bleeding, heart failure; Severe respiratory distress in a newborn, suspicion of hypothermia due to improper care.

Verma said:
“We will send the herbal samples for toxicology. Rohit, Kamala, Mahendra and Shanti have been called. During this time, cremation is not allowed until the SDM completes the formalities. ”

I grabbed the edge of the chair:
— “I will take my child 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 husband of the deceased is investigated.

As soon as the two coffins were brought to Lucknow, neighbours gathered in a small lane. No one said anything, just raised his hand and gently grabbed one corner of the lid, as if afraid of hurting the sleeping person. Sunita quietly put a red shawl over the coffin—Kavya’s favourite colour. I got down on my knees and put the phone in his hand that had received the call in the morning. The screen was black, but I knew that every call had become a testimony.

During the prayer, the priest/priest gently reminded: “Tomorrow we will speak at the Women’s Commission, file a petition to put a stop to the over-prohibitions, make postpartum medical consultations mandatory. Kavya’s pain should not die quietly for the second time. ”

After this, an interim hearing was held in SDM Barabanki. Rohit lowered his head, his voice broken:
— “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 her eyes:
—”If you are wrong, you will pay the price with the truth. Sign it: From now on, any childbirth at home, only hospital delivery. And you make a clip of apology, plain that it’s not a shame to call 108.
The SDM nodded:
— “We will add it to the minutes of community reconciliation, and send it to the panchayat and RWA for publicity.” ”

Mrs. Kamala was silent for a long time. Then he put the house keys in front of me.
— “I don’t deserve to keep it. When the fire is extinguished, hang Kavya’s wedding picture in the middle room. ”
I closed my eyes. Tears flowed—not of apology, but of an end of anger.

In the afternoon, I returned to the banks of the Gomti river. The sky was golden. Two streaks of white ash dissolved into the water, so calm as if the storm had never arrived. Mr. Shankar held his wife’s hand tightly. I heard the wind blowing through the rows of C trees, which brought the whispering voice of my daughter for 2-3 hours every night: “Mom, I’m so tired… I am very afraid…”
I replied softly, as if sending a message to eternity:
—”Rest in peace.” Mom will fully cooperate. ”

On the way back, I stopped at the health center. Sunita was pasting a new poster: “After the birth of the baby – don’t be alone. Call 108. The numbers 112 and 181 were written at the bottom. I asked for a stack, and decided to go door-to-door in Bhawanipur village with Sunita and the women’s association. Every gate closed that night will have to be opened for emergency lights next time.

That night, I placed Kavya’s portrait in the most sacred place and lit a small lamp. The flame was flickering, but it was not extinguished. I whispered to my children and grandchildren:
— “Tomorrow, I will file an additional lawsuit, ask for the preservation of evidence, and launch the ‘Don’t Close the Door When a Mother Calls for Help’ campaign. Our pain will be a way for other mothers. ”

And I know, Part 3 will be a journey to taking this practice out of the kitchen and putting emergency phone numbers in every shirt pocket—so no mother ever has to hear her child crying out behind a closed door in the middle of the night.