I was born on February 3, 2007, in India. My delivery didn't take place in a hospital; instead, it happened at my grandmother's house, facilitated by local women who were paid for their assistance. It's strange to think about this, especially considering that my grandmother was a high school principal. Yet, she was frugal when it came to spending money, particularly for my parents. When I was born, my family didn't express much happiness, even though I was their first child. The reason for their disappointment was that I was a girl, and they had hoped for a boy.
Despite everything, I was lucky to receive love from my maternal grandparents. They made sure I lacked nothing in my upbringing. But love alone couldn't shield me from everything that was wrong.
Since childhood, I struggled to speak. Words wouldn't form in my mouth like they did for other children. I started talking much later than I should have, and even when I did, I barely understood the world around me. Because of this, I fell behind-always one step slower, always a year behind kids my age.
And then, as if fate hadn't already played its cruel hand, my grandmother decided to reveal a new side of herself. The milk that came for the household? It was hers. Not mine. Not for a child who needed it to grow. "Give your children rice water!" she'd scream at my mother. "But not a single drop of milk!"
She was ruthless. A two-year-old drinking milk was enough to set her blood on fire. If I reached for it, her glare alone was enough to make my tiny hands freeze in place. I wasn't even worth a glass of milk in her eyes.
My father worked in the Air Force, so we moved constantly. His first posting was in Telangana, where we stayed for two years, followed by Assam for one. By then, I had grown old enough to remember things-to truly understand what was happening around me.
His third posting was in Punjab, where, at the age of five, I started school for the first time. I was placed in LKG, learning to interact with other children, finally experiencing a sense of happiness. For a brief moment, life felt simple. But as time passed, I began to understand my world more clearly.
I didn't know how to talk to people. I didn't know how to eat properly. I didn't understand the complexities of life. But I was good at studying-maybe because I had no choice. I was taught through scolding, beaten into learning. Yet, at least I managed to get one thing right.
But studies weren't everything. Whenever I played in the park, other women would approach my mother. They would whisper, their words laced with pity or disgust. "There's something wrong with her mind," they'd say. "You should put her in a special school. Take her to a doctor."
I never heard these words myself, but I can't stop thinking about how my mother must have felt hearing them. Did she swallow her pain? Did she clench her fists in frustration? Did she ever cry when no one was watching? The thought makes my heart ache.
By the time I turned three, my parents decided to have another child. Maybe they thought, So what if we didn't get a boy the first time? We can try again.
But fate can be cruel.
My mother gave birth to another daughter-at my grandmother's house, just like me. My father couldn't even be there; his leave was denied. And when my mother told him it was another girl, he took it the hardest. He didn't even rush back home. He came months later-by then, the weight of his disappointment had settled, numbing him.
In our family, only my mother had two daughters. People laughed at her, mocked her. Two daughters? All your wealth will be wasted on them. My aunts and grandmother never missed a chance to remind her of what she lacked-a son. They made her feel that her life's greatest failure was bringing two girls into the world.
But my mother never wavered. She looked them in the eye and said, "So what if I have two daughters? They will study, they will make me proud."
Even today, I think about that. About how, in a house filled with disappointment and scorn, my mother never let anyone's words shake her. She carried the weight of everything alone-and never once let us feel it.