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.

— Stop the cremation; save the truth

Funeral horns cut through the morning breeze and marigolds flashed yellow, nearly blinding me. Barely steady, I ran to the midst of the courtyard and halted the funeral bier.

— “No one will touch Kavya or the baby! Stop this now, I beg you!”

Mrs. Kamala Devi tried to shove me aside:

— “Custom dictates they must be carried to the river immediately—”

I flung aside the white shroud, dizzy with fury:

What custom allows a newly delivered mother to cry in the night without calling an ambulance?

What tradition forbids a mother from taking her daughter to the hospital?

I dialed 112. The operator’s tone was measured but decisive amid the emergency:

— “A unit nearby will be there soon.”

I then rang 181, the women’s helpline. Within ten minutes a Uttar Pradesh Police vehicle from Ramnagar station rolled into the yard. Sub-Inspector Verma and two female officers popped out and ordered an immediate halt to the rites and that a report be recorded.

“The family produced birth certificates and antenatal records. Who attended to her last night? Was ambulance 108 called?” Verm requested.

Rohit Yadav, Kavya’s husband, was sweating and kept glancing at his mother. Mrs. Kamala muttered:

— “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.”