It was hot in the Indian sunlight, even though it was early December. The students were completing exams in stuffy classrooms where the ceiling fans whirred like dying insects. The rooms had the teacher’s desk raised above the pupils. Girls bent over their papers, writing frantically. Every so often, a hand would shoot up for another sheet. 

Sitting at the high desk, I noticed that every time I climbed down to hand out paper, I doubled over with a sharp pain that was increasingly hard to hide. At eight and a half months through my second pregnancy, these spasms worried me. I certainly did not want to be the first member of staff to give birth in a classroom! I believed in practical work and class involvement, but a demonstration of childbirth seemed to be stretching things too far.

Moreover, I was teaching in a convent school run by an order of nuns dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, so I probably couldn’t rely on much assistance. To my relief, the bell rang for  the end of the school day. Most teachers welcome the bell, especially at the end of a long, humid day. In this case I had been praying for it!

The students in their starched white blouses and red skirts, streamed out through the gates. With difficulty, I threaded my way through the crowd and luckily flagged down a taxi. By this time the spasms were more intense, making me bend over. The driver’s puzzled,  anxious expression reflected in his mirror. I counted off familiar landmarks like Lower Circular Road, Kolkata (Calcutta) Rugby Club, Kwality Restaurant - finally, at last the turn into Ballygunge Place!

The taxi came to a rattling halt as I fumbled in my bag for the key. As it happened, the door was opened by our Nepalese ayah. Taking one anxious look at me, her usually unflappable demeanour quickly changed. Despite her efforts, she couldn’t disguise the panic on her face. My Bengali was kindergarten level and my Hindi, non-existent. However, no words, whatever the language, were needed to explain my doubling up with pain every ten minutes.

I too was near panic as I weighed my options. It didn’t take long; my choices were limited. My husband, a journalist, was away on an assignment. My own family were thousands of miles away in leafy Surrey! I understood from the ayah’s limited Bengali that she was not up for the role of midwife. She wanted me inside the hospital as soon as possible, but it was far away in Alipore, another part of the city. I had no transport!

I went out into the street. Total darkness hit me like a brick wall. The street lights were unlit, curtains tightly pulled. The usually busy city was silent. Rather belatedly, I remembered that India was at war with Pakistan over the future of East Pakistan, soon to become Bangladesh. Not the best night to look for a taxi!

Anti-aircraft guns lit up parts of the city with brilliant arcs of light. The silence was unnerving. Kolkata is rarely silent: the roar of traffic, the impatient hooting of horns, and the rattling of trams must make it one of the noisiest cities on earth! I thought the chances of finding a taxi in the circumstances was nil.

Just at that moment, a battle scarred black and yellow vehicle, lights dimmed, came crawling  down the street. Even from several yards away, I could hear a strange tapping noise from the engine and a rattling, as if all the bodywork were loose. As I raised my arm, the taxi came to a noisy halt. The driver was a Sikh, his turban just visible in the darkness. 

Pointing at my obviously pregnant figure, I whispered, “Forest Nursing Home, Alipore,” before the next spasm gripped me.

I collapsed in the back seat. The stuffing was sticking out from the plastic covered seats as well as a few rusty springs. A few moments later, I considered jumping out. The taxi was swooping backwards and forwards across the road like a drunken seagull.

Somehow, we eventually crawled through the hospital gates. I was quickly ushered into a lift by a nervous receptionist. The nurse took one look at me doubled up in pain before hurrying me into a delivery room. After a quick check-up, she commented with barely concealed annoyance, “You’ve come far too early. You might as well go home.”

The night sister suddenly appeared. She had hardly begun her check-up, before she shouted, “Get this patient ready now. She’s about to give birth any minute!” 

I had hardly got into bed, before I was holding a tiny, pucker-faced daughter in my arms. My own doctor rushed in, red-faced and flustered.

“Don’t think I’m paying you. I delivered her myself!”