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.

— “I’ll take my daughter to my mother’s home for the rites. No one will stop me now.”

Verma nodded:

— “Under CrPC, biological parents have rights when the husband’s family is under investigation.”

When the two coffins reached Lucknow, neighbors gathered along the lane. No one spoke; hands hovered to touch the corner of the lids as if afraid to wake them. Sunita placed a red shawl—Kavya’s favourite colour—over the coffin. I knelt and slipped her phone into her hand, the missed call from that morning still on the screen. Dark though it was, every missed ring testified to what had occurred.

During the prayer the priest urged:
— “Tomorrow we will appear before the Women’s Commission, file a petition to end extreme restrictions and make postpartum medical check-ups mandatory. Kavya’s suffering must not di:e unheard.”

Afterwards a provisional hearing convened at Barabanki SDM. Rohit kept his head bent, voice breaking:

— “I was frightened, Mother. I thought neighbours would mock me if I took her to hospital during sutak… I was wrong.”

I looked him straight in the eye.

— “If you were wrong, you will answer for the truth. Sign this: from now on any home delivery must be followed by hospital birth. Apologise—there is no shame in calling 108.”

The SDM agreed.

— “We’ll note it in the community minute and notify the panchayat and neighbourhood association.”

Mrs. Kathryn was quiet for a long time. Then she placed the house keys before me:

— “I don’t deserve to keep them. When the rites end, hang Kavya’s wedding picture in the main hall.”

I closed my eyes. Tears came not as apology, but as a letting go of rage.