the phoenix rises

the day I born

It was a winter evening, the kind that feels like a soft blanket over the world, bringing a quiet calm. Winter is a season that heals people, wrapping them in gentle breezes and the promise of new beginnings. And maybe, in some way, it was the perfect season for me to enter the world—a quiet, hopeful evening where everything seemed to pause, if only for a moment. On December 9, 1999, a Thursday evening, at around 4:30, I came into the world—not in a hospital room filled with machines, but right at home, in the middle of our small house in Mumbai. The place was bustling with the sounds of my family, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, and the hum of life going on outside.

I was born into the warmth and noise of a crowded home. My mother had no nurses to hold her hand, no doctor standing by. Just her strength and determination, and maybe a little faith, to bring me safely into her arms.

In those first few moments, the world might have seemed small and simple. But as I grew, I would come to understand the weight my mother carried, the strength of the woman who held me that day, and the unspoken struggles surrounding us.

My mother, barely 20 years old herself, named me Zaira. She held me close, her eyes tired but filled with love, as she spoke my name for the first time. My father, who was working abroad, could only imagine this moment from far away, picturing his second daughter’s face and hoping we were safe and well.

I was the second child of the family, born into a world that was small but filled with my mother’s strength. My elder sister, only two and a half years old, watched me with curious eyes, too young to understand that I was a piece of her own story now, too. In our one-room house, we were bound together, a little family making room for me in their lives.

My mother had already gone through so much by this age—raising my sister, managing the household alone while my father was away, facing the demands of family. But she stayed steady, grounded by her love for us.

And on that winter evening, as she cradled me, I felt her strength, even as a newborn. It was a strength that would guide me as I grew, in ways I wouldn’t fully understand until years later.
The place I was born—a chawl of 28 small, single-room kitchen houses—was called Garib Mohalla. The name itself spoke of simplicity, of survival, of making do with what little you had. Here, every family lived close enough to feel like one big, extended household. The walls were thin, and life spilled from one room to the next, stories interwoven with the daily hum of people, the clatter of utensils, and children’s laughter mixed with tears.

Garib Mohalla was my first home. It was more than just a building—it was a world of shared struggles and joys, where the neighbours were more than just faces passing by. They were part of the rhythm of everyday life, helping each other in times of need, lending a hand when one family couldn’t manage on their own.