𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂 -  This chapter contains a graphic depiction of childbirth complications and infant loss. The scene may be distressing or triggering for some readers.

Reader discretion is advised.

𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍'𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀 - The following delivery scene you are about to read is a REAL LIFE incident that happened to my grandmother during the birth of her first child when she was 16 years old.

Unfortunately, her firstborn didn't survive, and this is how her deceased baby was taken out from her womb.

This experience was shared by many women at that time due to a lack of medical care.

This chapter is DEDICATED to her and women like her.

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The weather outside had started to turn ominous, with dark clouds gathering overhead, threatening to unleash their burden at any moment.

Inside the room where Tara lay, the group of women, assistants to the head midwife, moved with increased urgency.

"Ask them to bring a tub of warm water boiled with neem leaves. We need to clean her," the midwife ordered firmly, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere.

One of the women nodded and swiftly left the room to relay the instructions. Time was of the essence, and every action needed to be executed with precision.

"Crush those leaves quickly and prepare the paste. And you, make the herbal drink fast," the midwife directed, her instructions clear and concise.

The women responded with practiced efficiency. Some hurried to prepare the neem leaf water, ensuring it was at the right temperature to soothe and cleanse Tara's body after the traumatic ordeal.

Others set to work grinding the neem leaves into a paste, their movements deft and purposeful.

In another corner of the room, a fire crackled beneath a pot of water, where herbs simmered, infusing the liquid with their healing properties.

The aromatic steam filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of neem.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall, tapping against the windows and roof with a soothing rhythm.

Inside Tara's room, however, there was little respite from the tension that hung thick in the air.

The midwife continued to oversee the preparations, her brow furrowed with concentration.

She had seen countless births and tragedies in her long career, yet each one weighed heavily on her heart.

As the women worked diligently, their movements synchronized in a silent dance of care and compassion, they offered silent prayers for Tara's recovery and solace for the loss that had befallen her.

The room filled with the scent of herbs and the sound of whispered prayers, creating a cocoon of support and healing amidst the storm that raged both outside and within.

" Daima, the water is ready " said one woman.

The midwife nodded solemnly and retrieved a clean cloth, soaking it in warm water.

As she approached Tara's vulnerable figure, her heart sank at the sight before her.

Tara lay naked and unconscious, her body bearing the brutal marks of her ordeal. Blood seeped from between her legs, a stark testament to the violence she had endured.

Handprints and burn marks from red-hot knives marred her skin, vividly illustrating the torment inflicted upon her.

Internally, the midwife cursed the merciless perpetrators, her anger and sorrow intertwining into a silent prayer for justice.

The midwife's hands moved with practiced gentleness as she tended to Tara's injuries.

She first cleaned the wounds on Tara's body, carefully removing dirt and debris, her touch tender yet methodical.

The sight of Tara's battered form stirred a mix of compassion and resolve within her.

Next, with utmost care and sensitivity, the midwife attended to the bleeding from Tara's vagina, using clean cloths and warm water to cleanse the area.

She worked diligently to ensure Tara's comfort and hygiene, understanding the importance of preventing infection in such delicate circumstances.

Simultaneously, the midwife instructed others gathered around to prepare a healing paste, guiding them through the process to apply it to Tara's wounds.

Each step was performed with meticulous attention, aiming to promote healing and alleviate Tara's pain amidst the grim reality they faced.

Even as she tended to these critical tasks, the midwife mentally prepared herself for the solemn duty ahead.

With quiet determination, she readied the necessary supplies and equipment, bracing herself for the difficult task of delivering the stillborn baby from Tara's womb.

In the midst of sorrow and anguish, the midwife's professionalism and compassion shone through, her actions a testament to her dedication to providing comfort and care in the face of tragedy.

The weather had swiftly turned, casting the room into an eerie twilight as dark clouds obscured the daylight, making it seem as though night had descended prematurely.

Undeterred by the dimness, the midwife rolled up her sleeves with a sense of solemnity and purpose.

Taking the sterilized knife in hand, she approached Tara with a steady resolve.

With practiced skill, the midwife carefully made a cut on Tara's vagina, her movements precise and measured despite the challenging conditions.

The room was filled with an atmosphere of focused urgency, heightened by the urgent need to assist Tara in delivering the stillborn baby safely.

"Press gently on her belly," she instructed her assistant, her voice steady and authoritative amidst the somber surroundings.

The assistant nodded, hands poised to provide the necessary support as the midwife continued her delicate work.

Meanwhile, the other women in the room were busy applying healing paste to Tara's wounds, their actions a quiet testament to their shared determination to provide comfort and aid in this moment of profound difficulty.

Each gesture, from the application of paste to the careful pressing on Tara's belly, was performed with utmost care and compassion, aiming to alleviate her pain and facilitate the process as smoothly as possible amidst the gloomy backdrop of the stormy day-turned-night.

"It's not coming, I can't see the head of the baby," the midwife murmured, her voice tinged with concern.

The room, cloaked in the sudden darkness of the storm, seemed to hold its breath as everyone focused on Tara's critical situation.

Her hands, accustomed to delivering new life, now navigated the complexities of a heartbreaking loss.

She paused, assessing the situation with a practiced eye, the weight of responsibility heavy upon her.

Beside her, the assistants exchanged worried glances, their silence echoing the gravity of the moment.

Despite knowing the baby was already gone, the midwife steeled herself to ensure Tara's safety through this harrowing ordeal.

After thinking for a moment, the midwife said, "Give me some soap."

Her request hung in the air, met with puzzled expressions from the assistants and other women in the room.

They exchanged confused glances, unsure of her intentions. The midwife's eyes, however, held a determined glint as she prepared to take the next step in aiding Tara.

After a brief pause, one of the women hurriedly fetched a bar of soap and handed it to the midwife. The midwife took it, her mind clearly set on a plan.

"Soap will help create lubrication,"

she explained, her voice firm and steady. She quickly lathered her hands, ensuring they were well-coated.

The room was silent except for the occasional rumble of thunder outside, the storm a fitting backdrop to the tense atmosphere within.

With her hands now slick with soap, the midwife carefully reached into Tara, her movements gentle but purposeful. She focused intently, feeling for the baby.

"Now press gently," she instructed her assistant once more. "We need to help guide the baby out."

"And the rest of you, keep a hold on Tara," she said, her voice commanding but calm.

With utmost care, she gently thrust her hand inside Tara's vagina, trying to get a hold of the baby's head. Her movements were deliberate and precise, guided by years of experience.

The air in the room was thick with tension, the only sounds being the midwife's quiet instructions and the soft murmurs of the assistants as they worked in unison to support Tara through this harrowing ordeal.

The midwife's brow furrowed in concentration as she carefully maneuvered her hand. The tension in the room was palpable, each woman silently praying for Tara's safety.

"I can feel it," the midwife said, her voice strained but steady. "Keep pressing gently."

The assistant pressed on Tara's belly with measured pressure, trying to assist the midwife in guiding the baby out.

The other women held Tara's limbs firmly but gently, preventing her from moving and causing any further injury.

With a deft and practiced motion, the midwife managed to get a firm grip on the baby's head.

She carefully began to guide the baby out, her movements slow and precise to avoid causing more damage.

The storm outside seemed to rage in sympathy, thunder rumbling as the midwife finally began to pull the baby out.

The room was tense with a mixture of hope and dread, every woman present holding her breath.

"Almost there," the midwife murmured, her voice tight with effort and focus.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she gently pulled the baby free from Tara's womb.

Blood and mucus gushed out like a wave, spilling onto the cloths beneath.

"Quick, press the cloth there," the midwife instructed urgently.

One of the assistants moved swiftly, pressing a clean cloth against Tara's vagina to staunch the flow of blood.

The midwife continued working with a relentless focus, ensuring Tara's safety as the room buzzed with quiet, efficient activity.

The storm outside mirrored the intensity of their efforts, a fitting backdrop to the life-and-death struggle within.

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Prithvi was sitting in the corridor, the silence around him broken only by the relentless rain and the occasional crash of thunder. The atmosphere was heavy with tension, the air thick with unspoken fears.

Padma sat on the khatiya, sipping her tea her eyes fixed on Prithvi with an intense, piercing gaze.

Her face was a mask of cold determination, her thoughts veiled but clearly dark and calculating.

Everyone else remained silent, the weight of the situation pressing down on them.

Kusum's occasional sobs punctuated the quiet, a heartbreaking reminder of their collective pain.

Padma's patience snapped, her voice cutting through the silence with sharp cruelty.

"Thodi der ke liye apna yeh Ganga Yamuna bahana band nahi kar sakti !!" she shouted, her tone harsh and unyielding.

( Can't you stop this Ganga Yamuna flow for a while? )

Kusum flinched at the harsh words, her sobs stifled as she tried to compose herself.

The tension in the air grew thicker, the unspoken pain and anger simmering beneath the surface.

Padma snapped at Manvi, "Ee ladki, yeh chai mein chinni kam kyu hai!!"

( Hey girl, why is there less sugar in this tea? )

Manvi quietly took the cup from Padma, her face a mask of calm despite the tension in the air. Without a word, she went to make another cup of tea for her.

In the background, the sound of the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder filled the silence.

The storm outside mirrored the turmoil within the haveli, each drop of rain echoing the tears and unspoken words of those inside.

Prithvi, lost in his grief, barely noticed the exchange.

He was consumed by thoughts of Tara and Manik, the pain of their suffering weighing heavily on his heart.

Kusum, still reeling from Padma's harsh words, tried to hold back her sobs, the sound of rain mingling with her quiet cries.

Manvi returned with a new cup of tea, handing it to Padma without a word. Padma took it, her gaze still fixed on Prithvi, a cruel satisfaction flickering in her eyes.

The storm outside mirrored the turmoil within, each clap of thunder a reminder of the fragile state of their family.

Then the door of the room swung open, and the assistant emerged with something cradled in her arms, wrapped in a clean white cloth.

Prithvi's head snapped up at the sight, and he hurried towards her with a desperate urgency.

The assistant's voice trembled with sadness as she softly said,

"Ladki hui thi..." and gently placed the small, lifeless baby into Prithvi's trembling arms.

( It's a girl)

Time seemed to stand still as Prithvi gazed down at his daughter.

Emotions surged through him like a storm—grief, disbelief, and a profound sense of loss.

His heart felt as though it had shattered into a thousand pieces. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision, yet he couldn't tear his gaze away from the tiny form before him.

Beside him, Kusum gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle her sobs.

Her eyes filled with tears, reflecting the pain and devastation they all felt in that moment.

The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the sound of stifled weeping.

Prithvi held his daughter close, his hands trembling as he cradled her fragile body against his chest.

It was a scene of unbearable sadness, the weight of their grief palpable in the air.

The only sound that filled the room was the soft patter of rain against the windows, a mournful backdrop to the tragedy that had unfolded.

In the midst of their sorrow, Padma's voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

"Ladki?" she questioned incredulously, her tone laced with bitterness and accusation.

( A girl?)

"Inta mannat mange ke baad bhi ladki hui ?" Her words dripped with scorn, casting a shadow over the already heavy atmosphere.

( Despite asking for so many blessings, did a girl still happen? )

"Achha hua maar gai haramzadi... Base bhi zanam ke baad bhi marna hi tha," Padma uttered callously, her harsh words echoing with cruelty and resentment.

( It's good she died, bastard... After all she had to die even after birth. )

Prithvi's grip tightened around his daughter, shielding her from the venomous words that pierced the air.

" Maaji inta sab kuch kone ke baad bhi aap iss baat par atki hui hai? " asked Kusum, disbelief coloring her voice.

( Maaji, after everything we've been through, you're stuck on this?)

" Toh.. Yeh ladki thodi hamara vanshaj badhati? " replied Padma harshly.

( So... is this girl supposed to carry forward our lineage? )

" Yeh maat bhuliye Maaji aap bhi ek Aurat hai... Aur kisi ka nahi toh upar wale se dariye... Aap ke muh se ese sabd thik nahi hai " said Kusum firmly

( Don't forget, Maaji, you're also a woman... If not anyone else, at least fear the one above... Such words shouldn't come from your mouth)

"So, what's wrong in that, this girl was destined to die... So what's wrong if she has died in this way. I must-"

Padma's words were abruptly cut off as a flower pot flew past the side of her face and crashed loudly against the wall behind her.

Shock froze Padma's features as she realized the pot had narrowly missed her.

Her hands trembled at her sides, the nearness of danger sinking in. The room fell into a tense silence, everyone's eyes wide with alarm.

In front of Padma, Prithvi stood, his presence a storm of grief and fury. His bloodshot eyes bore into Padma, accusing and anguished.

In his arms, his daughter lay motionless, a tragic testament to the violence of their world.

Padma's breath caught in her throat as she met Prithvi's gaze.

She saw the depth of his sorrow, the shattered remnants of a father's hopes and dreams.

The air thickened with unspoken pain and regret. No words could bridge the chasm of loss that engulfed them all.

The room was heavy with the weight of tragedy, each heartbeat echoing the profound grief that bound them together in sorrowful silence.

The hair strands hung disheveled on his forehead, his eyes bloodshot and piercing into Padma's soul.

Each strand seemed to echo the turmoil within him, a reflection of the shattered emotions that gripped his being.

His gaze bore into Padma with an intensity that spoke volumes of grief, accusation, and profound loss.

"Prithvi! What kind of behavior is this?" Deepak demanded angrily, his voice echoing through the room.

Prithvi's chest heaved with emotion as he held his lifeless daughter tighter. "She has no right to speak such things about my daughter," he shot back, his voice trembling with barely controlled fury.

The strands of hair on his forehead seemed to quiver with his every word, and his red, bloodshot eyes never left Padma.

Deepak's face contorted with a mix of anger and confusion, but before he could respond, Prithvi took a step forward.

"Enough is enough. Just tell her to keep her mouth shut..." His voice dropped to a calm, deadly whisper,

"Otherwise, I will forget that she is my grandmother."

With that, Prithvi turned sharply, his movements rigid with the weight of his grief and anger, and left the place, leaving the room in stunned silence.

Prithvi walked out of the room, his movements slow and burdened by grief.

He found a secluded corner and sank to the ground, cradling his baby girl gently in his arms.

He looked down at her tiny face, his heart breaking anew with each glance.

"She would have been beautiful, just like her mother," he murmured to himself. He traced a finger over her delicate features, imagining the life she would have had.

"Her nose would have been sharp like me," he added, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

Tears blurred his vision as he continued to gaze at her, his mind filled with thoughts of what could have been.

He could see her running through the fields, her laughter filling the air, her eyes shining with joy.

But those dreams were shattered, replaced by the harsh reality of loss.

Prithvi's grip tightened slightly, his determination hardening.

"I will make sure you get justice, my little one," he whispered, his voice filled with a steely resolve. "I promise you that."

The world around him seemed to fade away, leaving him alone in his grief and resolve.

The future he had imagined for his daughter was gone, but he would not let her memory fade without a fight.

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𝙏𝙊 𝘽𝙀 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙐𝙀𝘿....

I don't know how much I can convey the reality of the delivery scene, but this is what I heard from my mom, and it made me cry when I heard it.

After having more such 3 miscarriages my DAD was born as her first child.