Around two or three o’clock, the phone would ring, and it was my daughter Kavya. She had given birth just ten days earlier, and was staying at her husband’s home in Bhawanipur village. Her voice, usually soft and playful, now came sharp with fear and exhaustion.
“Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared… please come and take me home.”
Each time, those words cut straight into me. I could hear the newborn crying in the background, the sound of tiny lungs gasping for comfort. My own chest tightened with helplessness. But sitting beside me, my husband urged caution.
“She’s newly married,” he said gently. “Don’t interfere with the in-laws too much. It’s common for a young mother to feel overwhelmed. Let them handle it.”
I nodded, though my heart churned with worry. Night after night, the phone rang. My daughter cried, and I wept silently with her, clutching the receiver as if it could bridge the distance between us.
I feared the whispers of neighbors. I feared offending her husband’s family. But a mother’s heart can only hold back so long.
The Decision to Go
One morning, after another sleepless night of hearing my child beg for comfort, I could no longer bear it. I woke my husband and said firmly, “I’m going today. If her in-laws refuse, I’ll bring her home myself.”
We left Lucknow at dawn, the road stretching thirty kilometers toward her village. I clutched my sari tight against me, praying with every bump of the car that we would find her safe.
But when we reached the red-tiled gateway of her in-laws’ home, my world collapsed.
Two Coffins in the Yard
In the courtyard lay two coffins, side by side. White sheets draped over them, marigold garlands glowing bright against the pale fabric. Incense smoke curled upward, carrying the low moan of funeral horns.
My knees buckled, and I sank to the ground. My husband’s cry echoed through the yard: “Oh God… Kavya!”
One coffin held my daughter. The other, heartbreakingly smaller, cradled the body of my newborn granddaughter.
I rushed forward, hands trembling, voice breaking. “You called for me every night… and I didn’t come in time. How could they keep this from me? How could they let you suffer alone?”
Whispers of What Happened
Neighbors gathered, murmuring what they had seen and heard.
“She cried last night, begging to go to the district hospital,” one said. “But the in-laws insisted she stay. They said it was still her sutak period, not yet twelve days after delivery. They gave her herbs from the midwife to stop the bleeding. By the time they realized it was serious, it was too late.”
My body went cold. My daughter had begged for help, and tradition—twisted and rigid—had been placed above her life.
Stopping the Funeral
As the horns blared and relatives prepared for cremation, I stumbled to my feet and blocked the bier. “No one will touch my daughter or the baby! Stop this now!”
Her mother-in-law tried to push me aside. “The custom is to take them to the river immediately,” she snapped.
“Custom?” I cried. “What custom forbids a mother from taking her daughter to the hospital? What custom allows a woman to bleed to death while her child cries for help?”
My hands shook as I dialed 112, the emergency line. Then 181, the women’s helpline.
Within minutes, a police vehicle pulled into the yard. Officers stepped out and halted the rites. Sub-Inspector Verma demanded records: birth certificates, medical files, any proof of treatment.
When I showed them my phone with days of missed calls from Kavya, the truth began to unfold.
The Investigation
The officers ordered the coffins sealed and sent to the district hospital for postmortem. Since Kavya had been married less than seven years, and there were clear signs of neglect, the law demanded investigation.
At the hospital, the Chief Medical Superintendent confirmed what I already feared: postpartum hemorrhage. A condition dangerous but treatable—with the right medicines, fluids, and timely transfer to a proper facility.
“She could have been saved,” the doctor said quietly. “Both of them could have been saved.”
Facing the Family
At the police station, the midwife arrived carrying a worn cloth bag of leaves and powders. “I treated her as best I knew how,” she insisted.
The officer’s voice was stern. “You know this condition requires proper drugs, IV fluids, and blood transfusion. Herbal leaves do not stop postpartum hemorrhage.”
The midwife faltered, eyes dropping. My fury had burned to ashes by then; all that remained was exhaustion. “Tradition should protect life,” I whispered. “Not take it away.”
Her husband Rohit sat silent, his head bowed. “I thought people would laugh at me for breaking custom,” he admitted. “I was afraid of shame.”
But shame had already arrived—shame far heavier than what the neighbors could ever say.
Carrying Her Home
The investigation barred the cremation until legal steps were complete. When the coffins were released, I took my daughter and grandchild home with me to Lucknow. Neighbors lined the lane, some weeping silently, others bowing their heads in respect.
I slipped Kavya’s phone into her hand, the final missed call still glowing on the screen. It was proof—proof that she had asked for help, and proof that I had not come soon enough.
During the prayers, the priest urged us not to let her suffering vanish unheard. “This must become a lesson,” he said. “Postpartum care is not optional. No tradition is worth more than a mother’s life.”
A Mother’s Promise
As the days unfolded, the case moved forward. Charges of negligence and cruelty were filed. Officials recommended a judicial inquiry into maternal deaths caused by denial of care.
But for me, justice was more than papers or courtrooms.
Justice meant making sure no other mother cried into the night while help stood locked outside the door. Justice meant turning my grief into a movement.
With the local women’s group and health workers, I began carrying posters door to door. They read: “After delivery—do not be alone. Call 108.” Numbers for emergency and women’s helplines were printed bold.
When I lit the evening lamp by Kavya’s photo, I whispered a promise: “Your cries will not vanish into silence. They will become a path for others to find help.”
The Lasting Lesson
My daughter’s story is not only about loss—it is about the cost of silence, the weight of customs misused, and the need for change. Maternal health is not a luxury. Postpartum care, emergency access, and community health programs are what stand between life and tragedy.
No family should ever lose a daughter, or a newborn, because help was delayed by fear of what neighbors might say.
Every time I hear the echo of her late-night calls in my memory, I answer: “Rest, child. I’m here now. And I will not let your voice go unheard.”
