Today is April 31

Today is April 31

A Day That Lives Beyond the Calendar

April 31 does not exist on any calendar.

Yet for me, it has lived for fifty-five years.

It is the day my youngest son was born—at midnight of April 30, 1971, when the world insisted it was already May. But in my heart, that moment belonged to the last day of April, to a Friday filled with courage, laughter, and love. Since then, every year, this day returns to me, carrying memories so vivid they feel as though they happened just yesterday.

April 30 was not an ordinary day. It felt stretched, almost like two days in one—two days and one night held within a single date. Midnight came, the calendar turned to May, but in my heart, April continued. That is why I call it April 31.

I remember those days so clearly, even though fifty-five years have passed. My husband, Shashi, was posted as an engineer in a small town in India, and I was living there with him and our older son, Rajan, just three and a half years old. Life was simple then, with few facilities and no luxuries, but it was warm, together, and ours. When I think back now, it feels like yesterday. I see the narrow streets, the quiet evenings, and the way neighbors looked out for each other. It was a small town, but it held the whole world for us.

That evening, around five o’clock, I quietly knew the baby was ready. There was no panic, only a deep calm within me. I finished the laundry and even washed my long hair, thinking that later I would not have the time or energy. Looking back, I smile at that younger version of myself—so practical, so composed, even at such a moment.

After finishing everything, I told my husband that he could call the doctor. He was nervous, worried that I might deliver the baby before anyone arrived. Not knowing what to do, he quickly called a friend, who reached our home within minutes. Together, they contacted the doctor and her husband, who were not just medical professionals but also close family friends. The doctor’s husband was also a friend of my brother, and he always treated me like his own sister.

When they arrived, I said that I wanted to go to the hospital. But they gently refused. The hospital in that town was not good, and they did not want to take any risk. Instead, they said, “Kailash, if you don’t feel comfortable here, you can come to our home. We will take care of everything.” Their confidence gave me strength, and I stayed.

As labor grew, they laughed and talked, as if it were an ordinary afternoon. I cried out, “I am in pain, and you are laughing!” They replied, “You are the one delivering, not us. We are happy a healthy child is coming—why not enjoy the moment?” At that time, I was too overwhelmed to appreciate their humor, but today I understand that their calmness kept the entire atmosphere light and positive.

Later, the doctor jokingly asked Shashi, “Do you want a boy or a girl?” He said, “My parents want a boy, but Kailash wants a girl.” The doctor laughed, “We will make your parents happy. Kailash will understand.” And just like that, my son was born—crying loudly, strong, filling the room with joy. I only wish I could have captured that moment.

We were fortunate to have a cook at home who had already prepared a delicious meal for everyone. They all enjoyed the food, celebrating the arrival of the baby. Only I could not eat at that time, but even that felt like a small thing in such a big moment. After a few hours, the doctor and our friends left, and suddenly we were on our own—a young couple with two very young children.

Our older son had now become a big brother, though he did not fully understand what that meant. What he did understand was love. He kept trying to pick up the baby, wanting to hold him in his lap and shower him with kisses. Every few minutes, he would come to me and say, “Mom, the baby is hungry.” When I told him that the baby was fine, he would put his ear near his little brother’s mouth, as if he alone could understand what the baby was saying, and insist, “See, Mom, baby is saying he is hungry!” His innocence and affection added another layer of joy to that already special day.

That night, my husband and I wondered how we would manage—two small children, no elders around, and very little experience. It could have been overwhelming. But, as if nature itself was kind to us, the baby slept peacefully throughout the night without crying even once. It felt like a quiet blessing.

The next morning, the doctor came early and gave the baby his first bath. In fact, she came every day for five days to bathe him and check on us. Even today, I feel very grateful for that care.

Our cook turned out to be another blessing. He had learned from me how to prepare healthy food for a new mother, and he took his responsibility very seriously. He made sure I ate well and regained my strength. A couple of days later, my mother-in-law arrived and wanted to cook for me, as any caring mother would. Soon after, my sister-in-law also came to see the baby. However, our cook was so protective of my care that he did not trust anyone else to prepare my meals. He insisted on cooking everything himself. This created some tension in the kitchen, and my mother-in-law was not happy about it. At that time, I was completely unaware of these small conflicts. Later, the cook told me everything. Even today, when I think about it, I feel deeply touched. It is a rare and beautiful feeling when someone not related by blood cares for you with such sincerity.

In the meantime, our older son gave a special name to the baby—“Gunchu.” The name stayed with us, and forever, that is what we lovingly call him.

When the baby—whom we called Gunchu at that time—was just twenty days old, we received news that my father was going to undergo major back surgery. Without hesitation, my husband decided that we should go and see him. For him, family responsibility came before everything else. My mother-in-law did not agree with this decision and chose to return to her home, but my husband stood firm. Looking back, I respect him even more for that decision—it showed his sense of duty and compassion.

That day—my April 31—was not just the day my son was born. It revealed the strength within me, the love within my family, and the kindness of the people around me. Every year, when this day comes, I do not look at the calendar. I look at my memories—and there it is, alive and shining, just as it was fifty-five years ago.

Now our son, Gunchu (Munish), Dr. Munish Gupta, a neonatologist, is making so many parents happy by saving their premature babies.

Funny how life works…

The baby born on my impossible April 31 is now helping other babies through their own impossible days.

April 31 may not exist on any calendar, but it lives forever in my heart—alive and shining every time I close my eyes.