October 6th, 1974. Jabalpur, Madhya Pradesh. Jaamdar Hospital.
Three daughters already. Thirteen, eleven, five. The village of Ghansor had no hospital, so my mother traveled to the district town for this fourth delivery. Anxious. Hopeful.
Aaji came with her—my maternal grandmother. Frail, old, but wise. They stayed in a rented room near the hospital. Aaji cooked while my mother labored.
My father, a bank clerk posted in Ghansor’s satellite branch, may or may not have been there. The story never included him. Strange, but that’s how it was told. What kind of man he was—that comes later.
The delivery happened.
“It’s a boy!”
Finally. A son.
The two older sisters ran. Through the hospital corridors, into the street, through the chaos of Jabalpur traffic—autorickshaws, bicycles, cows, people. Two little girls in floral cotton frocks, not looking, not caring, just running.
They burst into the lodging.
“It’s a boy! It’s a boy!”
Aaji went quiet. In a quiet relief.