Birth

The summer of 1992 was sweltering, even by Punjab’s standards. Inside a small, crowded hospital room in Amritsar, Parvati’s cries pierced the air for the first time. She was born in the early hours of dawn after a long and complicated labor, one that required an emergency C-section. For the family, the cost of the operation was a wound in itself, but the real blow came when they learned the child was a girl.

Parvati’s grandmother, Dadi, stood at the foot of the hospital bed, her face a mask of cold disdain. "A girl," she muttered, her voice low but cutting. "After all this trouble, it’s just a girl?" Her words sliced through the room, but her daughter-in-law, Meena, lay too weak to respond, clutching her newborn daughter protectively

.Parvati’s birth should have been a moment of celebration, but in the Saini household, it was anything but. Her father, Rajeev, didn’t even look at her when the nurse brought her into the room. He stood in the corner with his arms crossed, staring out of the hospital window as though ignoring her existence would make her disappear. Unlike his brothers, who both had sons, Rajeev felt cheated by fate. In his eyes, Parvati’s arrival was not a blessing but a reminder of his failure.

Rajeev wasn’t like his wife, Meena, whose heart ached at the sight of her newborn daughter. But under the weight of her mother-in-law’s constant taunts, even Meena struggled to bond with Parvati in those early days. Rajeev’s coldness wasn’t surprising; he had always been a distant husband and father. While he showered their eldest son, Raj, with affection, he ignored Parvati completely, barely acknowledging her presence in the house.

In contrast, Raj, who was ten years older than Parvati, was overjoyed when she was born. He had long wished for a sibling and was thrilled when he finally had a baby sister. The first time he saw her, wrapped in a soft white cloth, he was mesmerized by her angelic features. Her skin was pale as moonlight, her cheeks carried a natural blush, and her large, innocent eyes seemed to hold the depth of the universe. Raj declared to anyone who would listen that his sister was the most beautiful baby he had ever seen.

But Raj’s love couldn’t shield Parvati from the hostility brewing in the household. Her grandmother, Dadi, was the loudest voice of discontent. She didn’t hesitate to call Parvati a burden, blaming her for every inconvenience, no matter how small. The cost of her delivery, the time Meena needed to care for her, and even the family’s strained finances were all pinned on Parvati.

Worse still, Dadi worked to poison Meena’s mind against her own daughter. “That child is a bad omen,” Dadi would whisper as they prepared meals in the kitchen. “Look at the hardships you’ve faced since she came into our lives. You’d be better off focusing on your son, Raj. At least he’ll carry the family’s name forward.”

For a time, Meena, overwhelmed by the pressures of her household and her husband’s indifference, allowed these words to sink in. She threw herself into her chores, avoiding the sight of her youngest child. But Parvati’s maternal grandmother, Nani, saw through the coldness. On her visits, she took Meena aside and said firmly, “A child is a gift from God, Meena. Look at her—so small, so innocent. How can you let others’ words cloud your love for her?”

Nani’s words began to soften Meena’s heart. Slowly, she started to see the innocence and beauty in her daughter. She noticed how Parvati’s laughter filled the house, how her tiny fingers reached out for love, and how her smile lit up even the darkest corners. Though Meena still gave more attention to Raj, she began to hold Parvati close, singing her lullabies at night and protecting her from Dadi’s sharp tongue.

Parvati’s childhood was a mix of light and shadow, love and neglect. While her brother adored her unconditionally, and her mother grew to cherish her, the weight of her father’s indifference and Dadi’s hatred cast a long shadow over her early years.

Parvati was born into a large, joint Punjabi family where the dynamics were as complex as the sprawling household itself. She was the only girl among five children, with four cousins who were all boys. From the very beginning, her presence was seen as an anomaly in a family that placed immense value on sons. Her chachis and bua, who had long held sway over the household, were far from welcoming.

Parvati’s bua, Rajni, was an unmarried woman in her thirties, whose bitterness toward life often found its target in Parvati’s mother, Meena. Rajni harbored a deep resentment rooted in jealousy. Meena, with her radiant beauty and serene demeanor, was often compared to the moon. Her fair skin, sharp features, and soft smile had once been the talk of the town. Rajni, on the other hand, was considered less attractive by traditional standards, and her marriage prospects had dwindled over the years. The sight of Meena, happily married and now the mother of two, only deepened Rajni’s insecurities.

“You may have a pretty face, but what’s the use if you can’t give the family a son?” Rajni would sneer, taking every opportunity to belittle Meena. Her words were sharp and cutting, designed to undermine Meena’s confidence and remind her of her so-called failure in producing an heir.

Parvati’s two chachis were no better. Both were mothers to boys, and their pride in their sons knew no bounds. They strutted through the house with an air of superiority, making sure everyone knew their worth was tied to having sons. To them, Meena was beneath them simply because she had given birth to a girl. “What good is a daughter?” they would taunt. “She’ll just leave the house one day and take everything with her.”

Amid this environment of hostility, Parvati’s father, Rajeev, remained distant and indifferent. He was an absent figure in her childhood, more focused on his work and social obligations than on his family. He left Meena to navigate the complexities of the household on her own, offering little support or protection from the constant barbs of his sisters and sisters-in-law.

In this chaos, Parvati’s older brother, Raj, emerged as her greatest ally. At just ten years old, he took on responsibilities far beyond his years. While the adults in the family turned their backs, Raj stepped in to care for his baby sister. He would cradle her in his arms, ensuring she drank her milk on time and stayed comfortable. He even kept a careful watch to ensure none of their cousins mishandled her, insisting that he alone would look after her.

Raj’s love for Parvati was unwavering. He brought her toys, sang her lullabies, and shielded her from the unkindness that surrounded them. In a household that saw her as a burden, Raj saw her as a blessing. For little Parvati, her brother’s warmth was a beacon of light in an otherwise cold and unwelcoming home.

Parvati’s childhood was a mixture of innocence, resilience, and quiet longing. Born into a large joint family in rural Punjab, she was the only girl among five children, her cousins all being boys. This made her a rarity, but not in a way that brought her special affection. Instead, her existence was often met with disdain, indifference, or outright hostility, especially from the women in the household.

From an early age, Parvati learned that she was different, though she didn’t fully understand why. Her chachis and bua looked at her with narrowed eyes, their words laced with scorn whenever they spoke of her. They called her “unnecessary,” a burden, a bad omen for being born a girl. Her bua, Rajni, was particularly harsh. Bitter about her own unmarried status and envious of Parvati’s mother, Meena, Rajni often made snide remarks about Parvati’s presence in the house. “She’s just like her mother,” Rajni would mutter, “causing trouble everywhere she goes.”

Parvati’s chachis, on the other hand, saw her as a reminder of their own superiority. Both were mothers to sons, which gave them a sense of pride that they flaunted at every opportunity. They made a habit of comparing their boisterous, adored boys to Parvati, as if to emphasize her insignificance.

In the midst of this, Parvati’s father, Rajeev, remained emotionally absent. He rarely acknowledged her, and when he did, it was with a passing glance or a dismissive comment. For Rajeev, Parvati was a source of quiet disappointment—a reminder of his failure to produce another son.

But Parvati’s childhood wasn’t devoid of love. Her older brother, Raj, became her steadfast protector and greatest source of comfort. Ten years her senior, Raj had been overjoyed at her birth, and his love for her only grew stronger as she did. He took it upon himself to shield her from the harshness of their household.

When the taunts of their relatives grew too loud, Raj would distract Parvati with stories, toys, and games. He would hold her tiny hands and lead her outside to the courtyard, where they’d chase the butterflies flitting around the marigold plants. If she cried, he was the one who soothed her. If she needed feeding, he made sure she drank her milk on time. His protective nature extended to their cousins, whom he didn’t trust to handle her gently. “She’s my sister,” he would say firmly, “and I’ll take care of her.”

Parvati’s mother, Meena, was a more complicated figure in her life. At first, overwhelmed by the negativity around her, Meena distanced herself from Parvati, unsure of how to navigate the situation. But over time, thanks to her own mother’s words of wisdom, she began to see her daughter’s innocence and beauty. Slowly, Meena warmed to Parvati, offering her the quiet but steady love that only a mother can give.

Despite the challenges, Parvati’s childhood had its moments of light. She was a curious, wide-eyed child with a knack for finding joy in the small things. Her laughter was infectious, her eyes so expressive that anyone who truly looked at her couldn’t help but soften. She loved to sit on her brother’s lap, listening to his stories, or follow her mother around the kitchen, watching her cook.

Yet, beneath the surface of her smiles, Parvati carried an unspoken burden. She understood, even as a child, that she wasn’t fully accepted by everyone in her family. This awareness planted the seeds of resilience in her young heart, shaping her into someone who would grow up to face challenges head-on, with quiet strength and determination.

As Parvati began to grow up, her innocent and timid nature became more apparent to everyone around her. She was a shy child who often hid behind her mother or clung to her brother’s hand whenever someone unfamiliar came into the house. Her large, expressive eyes seemed to absorb the world around her, but she rarely spoke unless spoken to.

Parvati loved playing quietly at home, creating little worlds with her toys, unaware of why her father’s affection never extended to her the way it did to her brother. While her father, Rajeev, adored her older brother, Raj, he never looked at Parvati with the same warmth. The indifference stung her, though she didn’t have the words to describe it.

When Parvati turned four, her mother, Meena, began pleading with her husband and mother-in-law to let Parvati attend school. “Maa ji, ladki ko padhai toh zaroori hai. Aaj ke zamaane mein bina padhai ke kaise chalega?” Meena argued one evening. ("Mother, it’s important for a girl to study. How will she manage in today’s world without education?")

Her mother-in-law scoffed. “Ladki ka kya kaam padhai likhai se? Aakhir toh shaadi karke ghar hi sambhalna hai.” ("What use does a girl have for education? In the end, she has to marry and take care of a household.")

But Meena didn’t give up. After weeks of convincing, Rajeev reluctantly agreed, more to stop the nagging than out of any real belief in Parvati’s education.

On the first day of kindergarten, Parvati clung to her mother’s dupatta, tears streaming down her face. “Mujhe mat chhodo, Maa! Main aapke bina nahi rahungi!” she cried, her small hands gripping Meena tightly. ("Don’t leave me, Maa! I can’t stay without you!")

Meena knelt down and cupped Parvati’s face gently. “Beta, sab tumhara khayal rakhenge. Main bas thodi der ke liye jaa rahi hoon. Tum dekhna, tumhe maza aayega,” she said lovingly. ("My child, everyone will take care of you. I’m leaving for just a little while. You’ll see, you’ll enjoy it.")

But Parvati didn’t feel any excitement. As her mother walked away, she felt a wave of fear and sadness wash over her. Inside the classroom, she sat quietly in the corner, too scared to even look at the other children. When the teacher approached her, Parvati shrank back, her eyes wide with apprehension.

At home, her family often called her "sharmili" for her reserved nature. “Yeh ladki toh bilkul chup rehti hai, kuch bolti kyun nahi?” her chachi would comment. ("This girl stays completely silent. Why doesn’t she speak?") But for Parvati, it was easier to stay invisible.

In school, things didn’t improve. Parvati struggled with her lessons, not because she didn’t understand but because fear held her back. Whenever the teacher asked her a question, she would stammer, her voice barely audible. Her teacher, frustrated by her hesitance, often scolded her. “You are such a loser, Parvati. You never learn anything properly!”

The harsh words hurt deeply, and Parvati cried quietly in the corner during breaks. The other children picked up on her vulnerability and began to bully her. They mocked her for stammering, laughed when she made mistakes, and called her names. “Tumhe kuch nahi aata!” they would say. ("You don’t know anything!")

At home, the taunts continued. Her grandmother and bua often compared her to her older brother. “Raj kitna samajhdar aur intelligent hai. Aur yeh ladki? Isse toh kuch aata hi nahi,” her grandmother would say, shaking her head. ("Raj is so smart and intelligent. And this girl? She doesn’t know anything.")

Even her chachis joined in. “Ladki hai toh bas pareshaani hai. Na padhai mein achhi, na kaam mein,” one of them remarked cruelly. ("She’s a girl, so she’s just a burden. Neither good at studies nor at work.")

Parvati’s brother, Raj, tried to help her with her studies, sitting with her patiently and explaining things in simple ways. “Dekh, Parvati, agar yeh samajh le toh agle sawaal ka jawab tum khud de sakogi,” he would say encouragingly. ("Look, Parvati, if you understand this, you’ll be able to answer the next question yourself.")

But the constant comparisons between them made Parvati feel distant from her brother. No matter how much Raj tried to help, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t good enough. “Main Raj bhaiya jaise kyun nahi ho sakti?” she wondered silently, her heart heavy with self-doubt. ("Why can’t I be like Raj bhaiya?")

At just eight years old, Parvati had already begun to feel the weight of everyone’s harsh words. Her confidence crumbled under the pressure, and she started to believe that she truly was “good for nothing.” The only solace she found was in her mother’s quiet love. Meena continued to encourage her daughter in small ways, hoping that one day Parvati would realize her own worth.