14 April 1992.

A date that may mean nothing to the world.

But for my family, it was the day everything changed.

I don’t remember that day.

I was just a newborn.

But I have heard the story so many times from my mother that, over the years, it has almost become one of my own memories.

I was born in Modinagar, where my family was living at the time because of my father’s job. Our hometown was Mirapur, and our grandparents weren’t living there with us.

But on that day, my grandfather—my Baba Ji—was at the hospital.

And according to my mother, his happiness was something she has never forgotten.

He was so excited that he distributed sweets throughout the hospital.

There were family members around. My parents were happy. Everyone was excited.

But my mother says that nobody was as excited as my grandfather.

And when I think about that today, I understand why.

He wasn’t just seeing a newborn child.

He was seeing a new generation of his family.

A Different Kind of Happiness

My grandfather had already experienced the joy of becoming a father when my father was born.

But becoming a grandfather is different.

You see your own child holding their child.

You realise that the family you once started is now growing into another generation.

Maybe that’s why his happiness that day was so difficult to contain.

And the beautiful thing is—

it wasn’t about whether I was a boy or a girl.

It was simply about a child being born.

About a new life entering the family.

About someone who had never existed in their world before, suddenly becoming the centre of everyone’s attention.

And Sometimes I Wonder About My Mother

What must my mother have felt on 13 April 1992?

Did she somehow feel that I was about to arrive?

Could she sense that something was about to change?

Maybe she noticed little things that nobody else could.

After all, she had carried me for months.

She had felt every movement, every little change, every moment when I moved inside her.

Perhaps a mother develops a connection with her child long before the child ever sees her face.

I don’t know what she felt that day.

I wasn’t there to remember it.

But sometimes I like to imagine that somewhere inside her heart, she already knew—

“My child is coming.”

And then, just one day later, on 14 April 1992, I was finally there.

The child she had carried for months was suddenly in her arms.

For me, it was the beginning of everything.

But for my mother, perhaps it was the moment she finally met someone she had already known for months.

My Birth Changed Something Else Too

Soon after I was born, my grandfather told my father that now that he had a child, he should consider leaving his job and continuing the family business.

Maybe it was a decision that would have eventually happened anyway.

Maybe it wouldn’t have.

I don’t know.

But what I do know is that my arrival suddenly became a reason to think differently about the future.

A child had entered the family.

And with that child came new responsibilities, new dreams and a new direction.

Sometimes we think our parents shape our lives.

But we forget that our arrival also changes theirs.

And Then I Think About the Strangest Part

Everyone around me already knew something.

My mother knew me.

My father knew me.

My grandfather knew that I was his grandson.

The relatives knew whose child I was.

The doctors knew what was happening.

People were coming to see me.

People were smiling at me.

People were celebrating me.

But I knew absolutely nothing.

I didn’t know who my mother was.

I didn’t know who my father was.

I didn’t know my grandfather.

I didn’t know Modinagar.

I didn’t know Mirapur.

I didn’t know what a family was.

I didn’t know what life was.

For everyone else, a new person had arrived.

But for me…

the entire world had just arrived.

Every face was new.

Every sound was new.

Every touch was new.

Every person standing around me was a stranger who would slowly become part of my story.

And maybe that’s what makes birth so beautiful.

We enter this world knowing nothing.

And then, little by little, people give us everything—

a name,

a family,

a language,

memories,

lessons,

mistakes,

and most importantly,

love.

I Don’t Remember 14 April 1992

But my family does.

My mother remembers the happiness.

My father remembers becoming a father.

My grandfather remembers the excitement.

The family remembers coming to the hospital.

The neighbours remember the celebration.

And somewhere inside all those memories is the beginning of my life.

So today, when I think about my birthday, I don’t just think about getting another year older.

I think about that hospital in Modinagar.

I think about my grandfather distributing sweets.

I think about my parents seeing their child for the first time.

I think about a family welcoming someone they had never met before.

And I think about that little baby who had absolutely no idea what kind of life was waiting for him.

That baby was me.

14 April 1992.

I don’t remember the day I was born.

But I know one thing—

I was welcomed into this world with love.

And perhaps, before we remember anything ourselves, that’s the first gift life gives us.