The sun had not yet risen over the narrow lanes of Paharganj, a well-established part of Delhi near the New Delhi Railway Station and Connaught Place, right in the heart of the city. It was 5th September 1964. For most families, the day was beginning like any other. But for one household, it was about to become a day they would remember forever.
In the dim light of dawn, a woman stirred awake. She was in her final weeks of pregnancy, and as she felt the familiar discomfort of labour pains, she sat up in her bed. Paharganj, like many parts of Delhi, was home to hard-working families living in small, simple houses, and her household was no exception.
The lady felt the contractions starting—mild at first, more like ripples than waves. Having gone through this once before, with her first child, she knew it was the beginning. But the pains were manageable, and she didn’t want to raise alarm just yet.
She carried on with her day, quietly enduring the pain while attending to her household duties, knowing that Lady Hardinge Hospital, a government facility nearby, would provide the needed care.
In their home, there was no extra time or help. She cooked meals on an ‘angeethi,’ a small coal-burning stove, carefully fanning the coals to heat them. The scent of boiling lentils and chapatis filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of burning coal. Despite the growing discomfort, she fed her little baby, cleaned up after him, and even managed to prepare the evening meal.
Rest was not an option. Women in her position were accustomed to pushing through pain and fatigue. Healthcare was available at the government hospital, but it was sought only when truly necessary. And so, she continued her work in silence, the labour pains growing stronger as the day progressed.
By late afternoon, the dull aches had transformed into sharp, unmistakable labour pains. She knew the time had come. With a deep breath, she approached her mother-in-law, who had been helping to manage the household. The urgency of the situation became clear, and they prepared to make their way to the hospital.
The streets of Paharganj were alive with the evening bustle of vendors calling out their wares and pedestrians weaving through the chaos. There were no ambulances to summon, no taxis waiting at the doorstep. To arrange any transport, the family first had to walk down to the Main Bazar near Six Tooti Chowk.
Finally, they turned to the only option available—a tonga, the simple horse-drawn carriage that jolted and rattled along the uneven roads. As the labour pains grew sharper, the woman held tightly to the sides of the tonga, her teeth clenched with every contraction, while the carriage carried her slowly towards Lady Hardinge Hospital, just a kilometer away, yet feeling much farther in that moment.
Within fifteen minutes, they reached the hospital. The hospital was a lifeline for families—offering care they rely on. The medical staff quickly led her to the labour ward, a bustling but modest space. There was no need for medications to ease the pain, no enema or other interventions. Labour was a natural process, to be endured as it always had been.
Within minutes of arrival, she gave birth to a baby boy. The room filled with the quiet relief that accompanies the safe arrival of a new life. Yet, in her heart, a quiet wish for a daughter lingered. Already a mother to a son, she had imagined how a daughter would complete their family—herself, her husband, their little boy, and now a girl to balance it all. But it seemed that fate or divine forces had other plans.
The birth was uncomplicated, and the medical staff, experienced with such cases, ensured that both mother and baby were healthy. After a few days of rest in the hospital, she was discharged. There was no grand celebration, no lavish gathering of relatives. Life in Paharganj was modest, and while the birth of a child was a joyful event, it was marked with simplicity.
Returning home with her newborn son, she felt a mixture of exhaustion and contentment. The house she shared with her family now felt a little fuller, a little busier. Despite the challenges that lay ahead, there was also a quiet sense of pride in welcoming a new life into their modest home.
In the silence of simplicity, every first breath carries the promise of a journey.