The closed room was hot, humid, and heavy with agonizing shrieks. None of the women in the room batted an eyelid. She’d been screaming from the early hours of 14th August 1947. 

“It’s a good sign,” they said. “Remember how easy her previous childbirths were. A mere couple of hours, and all turned out to be girls. Luckily only two survived. A long difficult labour is a sure sign of a boy.” 

The women’s gossip continued unabated while sipping tea and shh-shushing her every time her pain peaked and she let out ear-piercing screams. 

“How many childbirths you’ve experienced? Haven’t you gotten used to it yet?” The midwife who was peering into her vagina scolded her. “ You’re disturbing the men. They’re on the radio, listening to something important.”

A final piercing bellow came! 

“The head is out. A few more seconds and you’ll be fine!”

The most important part of the baby came into view!

They tutted, pity filled in their voices. “Another daughter!”  

“Khalmuhi! How many more before you give us a son!”  Her mother-in-law cursed through clenched teeth.

Suddenly a deathly silence filled the room. No cries from the newborn or the lifeless body of the mother. 

The tut-tutting continued. “Poor man! The burden of his young surviving daughters is on him now!”

 The radio crackled.

At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom!

Cheers from outside the room rent the air drowning out the sound of death. 

Photo by Sam Rana: https://www.pexels.com/photo/toddler-lying-on-pink-fleece-pad-1442005/