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A story has quietly lived within me since my earliest days. When my mother was 24, doctors advised her to remain on strict bed rest as I was ready to enter the world too early, at just seven months. I had turned the wrong way in the womb, making the pregnancy risky. Days became weeks, and weeks became months. Through fear, discomfort and pain, she stayed patient and did everything possible to keep me safe.

In the extreme 52-degree heat of Suryapet, labour began when she was eight-and-a-half months pregnant. It was long and exhausting, lasting nearly one-and-a-half days. During this time, doctors warned that only one of us might survive. Still, she held on.

When I was born, there was silence. I did not cry. I had inhaled waste inside the womb, my body had turned blue and I was not breathing.

The doctor, who was also my mother’s aunt, acted quickly and used a simple suction pump to clear my airway. Earlier attempts to revive me had failed. Once the airway was cleared, they tried again and my cry finally broke the silence. That cry became my first breath and my mother’s greatest relief.

Soon after the intense heat, rain arrived. I was named Megha, meaning cloud that brings rain, as though nature itself had softened after her struggle.