From Waiting Rooms to Adulthood: A Letter to My Son

My Dear Son, on Your 18th Birthday

Eighteen years ago, on what seemed like an ordinary day, I was on my way home from work. I usually took the train, but for some reason—maybe I was too tired or just lazy—I decided to take a rickshaw straight home. Somewhere along the way, I dozed off. I was jolted awake by the sound of a phone ringing.

It was your Achamma’s voice, coming through Muma’s phone. Calm and composed, she told me it was time. She didn’t want me to panic, but her words carried the weight of something big—she said we had to take Leena to the hospital.

This was one of those rare moments in life when going to the hospital felt like a celebration. We were expecting a new guest. A little soul who hadn’t stayed anywhere in this world before—coming straight to our home, to us. The due date had arrived. We hadn’t asked whether we’d be blessed with a boy or a girl. We left that to the Almighty. All we prayed for was a healthy baby.

I rushed home and drove us to the hospital. Just like I had driven cautiously for months, this drive was even more careful—each bump, each turn, taken with hope and nervous energy. Leena was sharing what she was going through, and Achamma was gently consoling her, giving her strength. I just kept praying we’d reach the hospital in time—that you wouldn’t surprise us on the way!

We made it. I was relieved to see Muma in safe hands. You see, we had experienced four incomplete pregnancies before you. That journey had left us scarred and cautious. Even during this pregnancy, Muma had been hospitalized in the first trimester, and we were filled with fear. But our doctor gave us hope. She said, "This time, everything will be fine." And we clung to her words. Still, we were so anxious that we sometimes got ultrasounds done without even waiting for medical advice—just to be sure you were okay.

At the hospital, Priya Mavsi and I stayed close to Muma. The nurses kept checking in, hour after hour. Night turned to morning. And then came the decision: a C-section might be necessary. We waited for the anesthetist and the pediatrician to arrive. I thought they would walk in any minute—but time dragged. Muma was already in the operation theatre, and my anxiety hit the roof.

Negative thoughts crept in. What if something went wrong now? No doctors in sight, no news of a normal delivery. I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked out of the hospital. I don’t know where I was going, but I kept walking faster and faster. Then came a phone call—Ajay, your Cheriachan, yelled, “Where the hell are you? Come back, now!”

I ran back, praying that I’d be told I had become a father. But no, the wait was still on. The team was just about to begin the C-section.

Your Ajee stood at the entrance of the operation theatre. At one point, she heard a baby’s cry from a nearby ward and raised her hands in excitement—only to realize it wasn’t ours. A few minutes later, another cry echoed. This time, she knew—it was you.

While the rest of the family was still trying to confirm, the nurse came out holding you in her arms. A healthy baby boy! Muma had said that the baby should first go to Achachan, —but my Achamma couldn’t wait. She scooped you up first. Your Ajee wrapped you in a pink cloth, and just like that, our lives changed.

Moments later, Muma was wheeled out, tired but glowing. They placed you, our little Shourya, beside her. I looked at you both—and in that moment, I knew we had received the most precious gift of our lives. Nothing could ever come close.

You were a miracle after years of struggle and prayers. From the early days of uncertainty and anxiety to that unforgettable day of your birth—it all passed so quickly. And now, here you are. Eighteen. An adult. Ready to make your own decisions.

From being a tiny bundle wrapped in cloth to becoming a strong, thoughtful young man—your

journey has been nothing short of divine. And as you take your steps into adulthood, always remember: you were born out of love, hope, and unwavering faith.

Happy 18th, Shourya. We are so proud of the person you have become.

With all my love,
Dada