Fasting and Liquid
Every day, around two or three in the afternoon, my daughter Kavya called me. She had become a mother only ten days earlier and was now living at her husband’s house in Bhawanipur village, Barabanki district, Uttar Pradesh, where she was in quarantine. Her voice broke on the phone:
“Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared… Please pick me up, I can’t go any further…”
When I heard that, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. But when I looked at my husband, Sri Shankar, he simply sighed:
“Be patient. Your daughter just got married; don’t worry too much about her in-laws. It’s normal for her to stay home and cry sometimes.”
But I found no comfort in those words. Night after night, the phone rang; my daughter cried, heartbroken, and I, too, pressed my hands to my chest, sobbing. But I didn’t dare go to her—my fear of what people would say was too great.
Until that morning, when I couldn’t bear it any longer. I woke my husband and said firmly:
“I have to go immediately. If her in-laws don’t let her go, I will take her, no matter what.”
We hurried away, a journey of more than 30 kilometers from Lucknow to her village. But when we reached the red-brick house, I felt a wave of fear: in the middle of the courtyard stood two coffins, covered with white cloths and wreaths of marigolds. Incense rose to the heavens, and the sound of a funeral trumpet pierced my heart.
My husband let out a desperate cry:
— “My God… Kavya!”
My daughter had died that night.
Even more horrifying: Next to her coffin lay a smaller one, covered with a white cloth—the child, my nameless granddaughter, the daughter of Kavya and Rohit Yadav.
I rushed forward to embrace the small coffin and cried:
— “How many times have you called me, my child? Why didn’t I come in time? Why have you hidden everything from me?”
The neighbors whispered:
— “Last night she wanted to go to the hospital in Barabanki. But the family wouldn’t let her go—because the sutak wasn’t finished yet.” Instead, they gave her herbs to stop the bleeding. By the time it got serious, it was too late…
My body froze. My husband stood still, while Kavya’s mother-in-law, Kamala Devi, and her husband, Mahendra, bowed their heads and muttered, “That’s the tradition.”
I looked at the two bodies in the garden—victims of superstition and cruelty. My daughter and grandson had died because they hadn’t received help.
I ran to the center of the garden, ripped off the white cloth, and screamed:
“What custom allows a woman to give birth without calling a doctor? What tradition forbids a mother to take her daughter to the hospital?”
I called 112 and soon after, 181, the women’s helpline. Within minutes, the Ramnagar police arrived. Sub-Inspector Verma ordered all rituals to stop and asked questions:
— “Who was taking care of her? Did anyone call an ambulance?”
Rohit, my son-in-law, remained tremblingly silent. Kamala whispered:
— “She was weak. The sutak wasn’t over yet. The midwife gave her leave…”
Verma asked for her name. “Shanti,” she finally replied.
I showed my daughter’s call logs: cries for help at 2 or 3 a.m. during the night. The police recorded everything and had the bodies taken to the district hospital for an autopsy—according to the Code of Criminal Procedure, since she hadn’t been married for seven years yet.
The ambulance drove away, sirens blaring, as an icy silence descended over the village.
My husband placed a trembling hand on my shoulder:
— “Forgive me… I always thought we shouldn’t risk a fight with my in-laws.”
— “This isn’t the time for apologies,” I replied in a hoarse voice. “It’s the time to stand up for my daughter’s truth.”
At that moment, Sunita, the ASHA worker, ran to me, breathless:
— “Last night I heard from the neighbors that Kavya was ill. I called 911 several times, but the door remained locked. I knocked—Kamala just said, ‘Wait.’ Rohit wasn’t available either.”
Her words trailed off, and a paralyzing silence fell over the courtyard. Rohit stood there, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly around the altar.
At the morgue, the chief coroner explained that an autopsy was a priority that day because it was a “maternal death.” Dr. Tripathi looked at me kindly:
“Given the symptoms you describe and the blood on the bed, there is a strong indication of postpartum hemorrhage (PPH). With oxytocin, intravenous fluids, and a timely transfer, her life could probably have been saved.”
My vision blurred. The late-night phone calls, the crying behind closed doors—it all cut like a knife through my heart.
Inspector Verma registered an FIR under IPC 304A (causing death by negligence), IPC 336/338 (performing dangerous acts), and Section 75 of the JJ Act (child abuse) for the death of the newborn. He also requested a judicial inquiry into the unnatural death during childbirth at the SDM.
Katryn shouted indignantly:
— “You want to ruin my family’s reputation!”
Verma replied calmly:
— “We want to prevent the next death from superstition.”
That afternoon, midwife Shanti arrived at the police station with a worn bag full of roots and powder.
— “I treated her like my mother…” she muttered.
The officer looked at her sharply:
— “You know PPH requires medication and fluids—not leaves and rituals, right?”
Shanti remained silent, her eyes clouded with uncertainty. I looked at her exhausted and without anger:
— “Tradition should preserve beauty—not be the dagger that blocks the way to the hospital.”
That same evening, I returned to Lucknow to collect the documents: the maternity records, the ultrasound results, the note that read “Risk of PPH.” The doctor had specifically instructed that the delivery take place in a room prepared for hemorrhage. Holding the bag with the papers, I collapsed in front of the door. Sri Shankar lifted me up—and for the first time in my life, he cried like a child.
The next morning, the autopsy report was ready: death from massive hemorrhage and heart failure; the newborn had respiratory failure, likely due to hypothermia and lack of care.
Verma told me:
— “We’re sending the herbs for toxicology. Rohit, Kamala, Mahendra, and Shanti have been summoned. Cremation is prohibited until the procedure is complete.”
I clung to the chair:
— “My daughter must return to my mother’s house. The ceremony will take place there.”
Verma nodded:
— “The CrPC grants this right to biological parents if the husband’s family is suspected.”
As the two coffins were being brought to Lucknow, the neighbors stood silently along the roadside. Some gently placed their hands on the lids, as if not wanting to wake the sleeping people. Sunita placed a red scarf—Kavya’s favorite color—on the coffin. I knelt down and placed her cell phone in her hand: a missed call from that morning was still flashing on the screen.
The priest whispered during the prayer:
— “Tomorrow we will address the Women’s Commission. We will petition to end the childbirth ban and ensure that every mother receives mandatory postnatal care. Kavya’s pain must not disappear in silence again.”
Before the SDM in Barabanki, Rohit bowed his head:
— “I was afraid of the neighbors’ gossip. I thought I would be ridiculed if I took her to the hospital during the sutak… I was wrong.”
I looked at him intently:
— “Mistakes have a price. Sign: From now on, every birth must take place in a hospital. There’s no shame in calling 911.”
The SDM nodded:
— “We’ll record it in the minutes and pass it on to the panchayat and the neighborhood council.”
Katryn was silent for a long time and then handed me the house keys:
— “I don’t deserve them. If the fire goes out, Kavya’s wedding photo will hang in the main hall.”
Tears streamed down my face—not out of apology, but because my anger had finally subsided.
That evening, I stood on the banks of the Gomti River. Two wisps of white smoke drifted across the water. Shankar held my hand. The wind rustled through the trees as if carrying Kavya’s voice:
— “Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared…”
I whispered softly into the night:
— “Rest in peace. Mom will fight.”
On the way back, I stopped at the health center. Sunita put up a new poster:
“After giving birth: Don’t be alone. Call 108.”
Below it were the numbers 112 and 181. I took a stack of them with me—we went house by house, so that no door would remain closed when a mother needed help.
At home, I placed Kavya’s picture in the most sacred place and lit a candle. The flame flickered but didn’t go out. I vowed to my children and grandchildren:
— “Tomorrow I’ll file more lawsuits, gather evidence, and start a campaign: Don’t close the door when a mother calls.” Our pain will become the path for others.
And I know: part three will be a journey—from the kitchen, to every village, every pocket, every hand. So that no mother ever has to hear her child cry behind a closed door again.
