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.

— “She was frail, still in the sutak period, not allowed to leave. The village midwife gave leaves to stop the bleeding…”
— “Midwife’s name?”
— “Shanti, the house at the lane’s end.”

I looked Rohit straight in the eye and told him:

— “My daughter phoned every night, at two or three in the morning. I have the call logs.”

The officer pressed a paper into my hand:

— “Auntie, please sign here. We will stop the cremation.”

Before any river rites could happen, both bodies were sealed and taken to Barabanki District Hospital for autopsy under Section 174 CrPC, since the deceased had been married less than seven years and there were signs of denial of emergency medical aid.

As the ambulance drove off its siren screaming, rumor fell over the neighborhood like dry leaves.

I sat on the steps, tears cutting my cheeks. Sri Shankar put a shaking hand on my shoulder:

— “You… I’m sorry. I always thought we shouldn’t make trouble with the in-laws…”

“This is not the time for apologies. It’s time to seek justice for my daughter,” I said, voice rough as sandpaper.

Sunita, an ASHA worker from the health centre, arrived breathless: