Every night my daughter called, crying for me to take her home. The next morning, my husband and I went, but at the doorstep I collapsed—two coffins lay in the yard, and the sight broke me.

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: