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.

— “They want to rui:n my family’s name!”

Verma answered calmly:

— “We want to prevent another de:ath caused by harmful practice.”

That afternoon midwife Shanti was summoned to the police station carrying a battered cloth bag of roots and a gray-brown powder.

“I treated her like my own mother, my grandmother…” she started.
“You know PPH needs uterine-contracting medicines and fluids, not leaves and rituals, don’t you?” the officer asked, icily.

Shanti opened her mouth and then closed it; confusion clouded her eyes.

I looked at her, no longer furious, only weary:

— “Tradition should protect what is beautiful, not be the blade that stops access to care.”

That night I returned to Lucknow for the pregnancy files: the antenatal care card (ANC), the last month’s ultrasound, and the note flagging “risk of PPH.” The pages were frayed. The doctor had advised delivery in a facility equipped for hemorrhages. I carried those papers in a bag over my shoulder and crumpled at the door. Sri Shankar lifted me, and for the first time I saw him weep like a child.

The following morning the autopsy finished. The provisional report cited massive bleeding and heart failure; neonatal respiratory failure; suspected hypothermia due to inadequate care.

Verma told me:

— “We will send herbal samples for toxicology. Rohit, Kamala, Mahendra, and Shanti have been summoned. Cremation is barred until the SDM completes procedures.”

I gripped the chair’s edge: