July 11th, 11:19 a.m. — Kolkata
He came into the world quietly.
No wail, no protest — just wide eyes, as if he already knew the weight of silence. The nurses looked at each other, surprised. "A calm one," they said, wrapping him in white. Outside, Kolkata slept under monsoon clouds, the streets glistening from an earlier rain, the air warm and hushed.
His mother smiled through tears, whispering, "He's different."
His father held him close and said nothing — but inside, he knew his son had arrived carrying more than just life. He carried stillness. A kind of yearning.
As the city breathed beneath old lampposts and the hum of distant trams, a boy was born without a cry. A boy who would grow up surrounded by people but often feel invisible. A boy whose heart would remain quiet for years, waiting — unknowingly — for something powerful enough to wake it.
Love.
Not ordinary love, but the kind that rewrites everything it touches.
That night, the sky didn't roar. No stars fell. No signs came.
Just the monsoon rain — and a beginning so quiet, the world almost missed it.
But love didn't.
When I was six and at night when I had no sleepiness in my eyes my mother used to tell me fairy tales and at some night she told me about my birth otherwise I don't have any memory of it.