Tara is pregnant with her third girl child which her husband & Mother-in-Law want aborted. Will Tara be able to save her daughter? 

Tara entered quietly that morning. The clang of her anklets was subdued; the pleats of her faded saree clung damply to her frail frame. Her eyes, usually alert with stories of neighbourhood drama, held a distant fog. She went straight to the sink and began scrubbing the previous day’s dishes, her bangles making dull, apologetic sounds.

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From the kitchen doorway, Ruhi watched her, brows drawn. “Tara? You’re so quiet today.” Tara didn’t look up. Her fingers moved over steel plates as if polishing memories, not grime. Ruhi noticed the tremble in her hands. After the dishes, Ruhi handed her a cup of tea and a sweet bun. Tara took the tea, but tucked the bun into the corner of her saree. “For my daughters,” she said softly. She hesitated, then added in a whisper “Didi… he wants me to go for a test. A determination test. He fears… the third might be a girl again. “Ruhi’s hand tightened on her own cup. “Tara, no. That’s illegal. And cruel.” “I know.” Tara nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on the teacup. “But if I say no, he and Ammaji will throw me out. I’ve already failed twice. What is a woman without kumkum, Didi? Without a husband… where do I go with two girls clinging to my saree?”

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Ruhi said nothing at first. Her mind screamed, but her voice was searching for words. She had read the headlines—India’s vanishing daughters, a million missing dreams—but Tara was not a case study. She was a Sita without a Rama, a mother shielding her daughters from exile. A line from Rabindranath Tagore came rushing back, one she had clung to in her college years: “Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high…” But how could a woman hold her head high when the very womb that bore love was shamed for bearing the ‘wrong’ kind?

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Her phone buzzed sharply. “Mithu? Slow down… what happened?” She turned to Tara. “Your husband. He’s been badly beaten in a brawl. They’ve taken him to the hospital. Come, I’ll go with you.“ Tara gasped. The teacup clattered from her hands. She grasped Ruhi’s wrist like a drowning woman.

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Two days later, the hospital reeked of antiseptic and despair. Maniram lay on the bed, his left eye swollen shut, ribs tightly bandaged. His silence—once rooted in control—now resembled confusion. Ruhi sat beside him, her voice steady. “Maniram bhaiya, Tara isn’t well. Every pregnancy leaves a mark. Her body is fragile. And her soul? Fraying. “He looked away. Ruhi leaned closer. “You may not know this, but I once lived with a grandmother who wept when I was born. ‘Another girl,’ she whispered. My father held me tight, said I was a gift. That’s the only reason I’m still here.” Her words hung between them like incense—soft, persistent. “She won’t say it, but I will. This need for a son is slowly burying the woman who serves your family, who bears your name. “Still no reply. But his grip on the bedsheet tightened.

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Later, Ruhi confided in Ritesh, her husband. “There was something in his eyes today. A kind of... reckoning. “Ritesh responded thoughtfully, “Some men learn compassion too late. But some… just in time. “And as he sipped his tea, he murmured again the words Ruhi had once underlined in his diary: “The real test of progress isn’t public feminism… it’s personal equity.” The next week, Ruhi took Tara and Maniram to her friend, Dr. Sunila—a gynaecologist known for her steel-wrapped empathy. In the sonography room, the monitor blinked with life. A rhythmic flutter, faint yet persistent. Sunila guided Maniram’s hand toward Tara’s belly. “That’s your baby. “He hesitated. The cold gel, the warm beat—it stirred something old and buried. “She’s too weak,” Ruhi said gently. “Even the baby seems to whisper— ‘Baba, let me come… but Ai can’t hold me much longer.’” Maniram’s breath caught. “I was scared. I thought... if it’s a girl again... the village will mock me. Ammaji will rage.”

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His voice cracked. “But now… I hear them. The ones I never met. Whispers of the unseen. Daughters lost to silence. And one unborn… asking not to prove worth, but just to be.” Dr. Sunila touched his shoulder. “Then begin by seeing. By listening. Not to the crowd… but to her.”

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Outside, Sunila said to Ruhi, “Sometimes, a father’s awakening is the only inheritance a daughter needs. “That evening, Tara sat beside her daughters. Mithu’s hand rested over her stomach, as if shielding the sister within. She remembered when Mithu had once asked, “Ma, why doesn’t Dadi say my name?” Back then, she had no answer. But now, her voice was steady. “One day, Mithu, they will not only say your name. They will remember it.”

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In the courtyard, Maniram helped Ammaji into her chair. She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I warned you. Three girls, no heir—what will people say?” Maniram didn’t flinch. “Maybe they’ll say I chose love over legacy. “She opened her mouth to rebuke, then paused. In a low voice, nearly lost to the evening wind, Ammaji murmured, “There was a time… long ago. I was younger. I lost a girl too. I didn’t fight hard enough. And no one remembered her name. “It was the first time Tara saw tears in the old woman’s eyes—not rage, but something softer. Regret, maybe. Or recognition.

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The next morning, Tara moved with a new grace. The kitchen was filled with clinking vessels and the scent of fried coriander. She hummed a lullaby that had no words but carried centuries of unsung songs. Ruhi entered with two buns. “For your daughters?” she asked. Tara tucked one into her pallu. Then, without hesitation, picked the second and pressed it to her heart. “Yes, Didi. One for them… and this time, one for myself too.” And somewhere between the hum of the stove and the echo of unborn cries, the whispers of the unseen turned into a song—a lullaby not of despair, but deliverance. Of love not silenced, but spoken aloud

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Let the unborn speak through the womb’s quiet night,

A star not fallen, but waiting for light.

Her name unsaid may echo once more,

In the song of the mother who finally swore

Not to yield to fear, nor bend to scorn,

But cradle the future in a daughter born.