4.12 pm: I hear a rubber-like sound. Newborns are like that, like rubber. The fear, all of it, vanished.

The doctors get to work, shoving pipes into my cute little baby's mouth and nose to clear out "unwanted" fluids.

I stare at her, watch her move her tiny hands and feet, blinking her pitch black eyes at the unknown world before her. The doctor looks at me, asks me if I want to hold her now. Tears are streaming down my face. It's not usual.

Two nurses walk into the room with a stretcher. It's not for me. It's the intern, lying flat on the couch, unconscious who needs attention. Normalcy and my life just don't go together.

A month has gone by, Shaayari has already shattered some myths - babies give you sleepless nights, they cry for no reason, takeoffs and landings give them earaches.

She seems more curious than cranky, and stares at me endlessly when she can't sleep.

As she lay on a cot in Ikea, I saw her smile back for the first time at the Chinese strangers. The cot's her bed now. We bought it.

I don't know who she is, or what she'll turn out to be. I don't even know if she'll like me.

I just know I became a man when I saw her face, 39 weeks after my wife became a woman.