Amrita arrives

Vivekanand Colony

By late 1989, the geography of our lives shifted once again. We moved from the “Type 2” quarters near the school to a larger home in Vivekanand Colony. It was the kind of neighbourhood that quietly shapes your social life without asking permission. We were surrounded by Sevagram’s familiar stalwarts—Dr Ghosh with his dogs, Dr Ghuliani with his Scrabble board, and Dr Naik with his Cine Club. In time, their habits and hobbies became part of the colony’s soundtrack, as recognisable as the morning calls of vendors and the evening clatter of utensils.

The house felt like an upgrade in every sense—more space, more light, more air. It also felt like a small promotion in the unwritten hierarchy of campus living. Bhavana liked the order of it. I liked the convenience. Ashwini liked the novelty. And soon, we had another reason to feel that life was moving forward.

Waiting for the Second

Bhavana was expecting our second child. Ashwini was three-and-a-half by then—a busy, curious toddler who had mastered the art of asking questions at precisely the wrong time. He was thrilled at the idea of a new baby, though he hadn’t yet grasped the small detail that a baby comes with its own demands, and that parental attention is not an unlimited resource.

We were calmer this time. The first pregnancy had taught us how little control parents truly have and how much they must learn to trust the process. We also knew the terrain better—both the emotional one and the hospital corridors.

October 1989

On a quiet evening in October 1989, the waiting ended. Unlike Ashwini’s birth, which had felt like a long and anxious ordeal, this time there was a sense of calm readiness. The hospital was barely five minutes away from our new quarters. When labour pains began, we didn’t need a taxi or an ambulance. We simply walked.

Dr Shakuntala Chhabra was there again. Her presence had the reassuring effect of a familiar face in a place where everyone else is in uniform. The delivery was smooth. At 10 p.m., the silence of the night was broken by the cry of a baby girl.

We named her Amrita.

Holding her, I felt something settle into place. We were now a family of four—the classic Indian ideal that the census and the neighbours both approve of: Hum Do, Hamare Do. The house in Vivekanand Colony, which had felt a little large for just the three of us, suddenly felt full, as if it had been waiting for this fourth person all along.

Hanuman and the Tail

While the adults were celebrating Amrita’s arrival, Ashwini provided the comic relief that later became part of hospital folklore.

During those days, the staff doted on him. He wandered around the waiting areas with the confidence of a child who knows he is welcome everywhere. One evening, Dr Anuradha Gokarn—a lively house officer—spotted him playing and called out to him with mock seriousness.

“Ashwini! I heard you dressed up for the Staff Club party. What did you become?”

Ashwini puffed out his chest, pleased with the attention. “I became Lord Hanuman!”

Dr Anuradha’s eyes twinkled. She looked him up and down and said, “Hanuman? But Hanuman has a long tail. You don’t have a tail. How did you become the Monkey God without a tail?”

Ashwini didn’t miss a beat. With the supreme confidence of a three-year-old who believes facts are negotiable, he said, “Oh, that was easy. I used phali for the tail.”

Dr Anuradha burst into laughter right there in the corridor. Ashwini meant phali—the long green bean that had been pinned to his costume as a tail. But to Dr Anuradha, “Phali” meant something else entirely. It was the nickname of her fiancé and batchmate, Dr Fali Langdana. The image of her future husband being used as a tail for a toddler’s Hanuman costume was too delicious to resist.

The story travelled through the doctors’ mess at the speed of gossip, which is faster than any ambulance. For days, it resurfaced at tea breaks and ward rounds, bringing a little laughter to the serious business of medicine.

A Full House

With Amrita in the cradle and Ashwini supplying entertainment, the 1980s drew to a close. We were settled, we were happy, and we were blissfully unaware that the decade ahead would bring a revolution that would change how we worked, lived, and communicated. For the moment, though, our world was small and complete: a new home, a newborn daughter, a proud little boy, and the comforting feeling that life had arrived at a good place.

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