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.

That night I returned to the Gomti’s bank. The sky was golden and two thin threads of white ash floated across the water, almost soundless, as if the storm had not yet arrived. Mr. Shankar held his wife’s hand tightly. I listened to wind whisper among the trees, carrying my daughter’s soft nightly plea for two or three hours:

“Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared…”

I answered faintly, like a message sent to the void:

“Rest now. Mom will do what must be done.”

On my way back I stopped at the health centre. Sunita was pasting a new poster:

“After delivery—do not be alone. Call 108.”

The numbers 112 and 181 were printed beneath. I took a stack and decided to go door to door in Bhawanipur with Sunita and the women’s group. Locked doors that night must be opened to emergency lights next time.

That evening I placed Kavya’s photograph in the most sacred corner and lit a small lamp. The flame shone steady and would not di:e. I muttered to my children and grandchildren,

“Tomorrow I will file another suit, seek custody of evidence, and launch a ‘Don’t shut the door when a mother cries for help’ campaign. Our grief will become a path for other mothers.