The calls always came in the quiet hours of the afternoon. Around two or three o’clock, the phone would ring, and it was my daughter Kavya. She had given birth just ten days earlier, and was staying at her husband’s home in Bhawanipur village.
Her voice, usually soft and playful, now came sharp with fear and exhaustion. “Mom, I’m so tired… I’m scared… please come and take me home.”
Each time, those words cut straight into me. I could hear the newborn crying in the background, the sound of tiny lungs gasping for comfort.
My own chest tightened with helplessness. But sitting beside me, my husband urged caution. “She’s newly married,” he said gently.
“Don’t interfere with the in-laws too much. It’s common for a young mother to feel overwhelmed. Let them handle it.”
I nodded, though my heart churned with worry.
Night after night, the phone rang. My daughter cried, and I wept silently with her, clutching the receiver as if it could bridge the distance between us. One morning, after another sleepless night of hearing my child beg for comfort, I could no longer bear it.
I woke my husband and said firmly, “I’m going today. If her in-laws refuse, I’ll bring her home myself.”
We left Lucknow at dawn, the road stretching thirty kilometers toward her village. I clutched my sari tight against me, praying with every bump of the car that we would find her safe.
But when we reached the red-tiled gateway of her in-laws’ home, my world collapsed. In the courtyard lay two coffins, side by side. White sheets draped over them, marigold garlands glowing bright against the pale fabric.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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