Dhani Bhojraj (Fatehabad), Feb. 9 -- The crisp air and bright February morning sun filter into a smoke-filled, dingy courtyard where sisters-ranging from toddlers to teenagers-flit in and out of a doorless room. A single curtain serves as the only shield for their privacy. It is 9am, and the home of 38-year-old Sanjay Kumar is buzzing. Most of his daughters are dressed in maroon and white uniforms, hurrying to get ready for school. The eldest, 17-year-old Sarina, is preparing for her Class 12 political science pre-board exam at the village government school. Her sister, 16-year-old Amrita, is hunched over a chulha, blowing life into the embers of an earthen furnace. "The younger ones get mid-day meals at school; this is for the elder ones," Amrita says, stirring a thin gravy of green peas and onions. "We've run out of gas," Sanjay explains, gesturing toward an empty cylinder. His gaze quickly shifts to the colorful balloons clinging to the bare, grey walls. On January 4, at a private hospital in Fatehabad, Sunita Devi gave birth to the couple's 11th child, a son named Dilkhush. He follows 10 daughters. "We had a grand welcome for him, complete with a DJ, when he came home," Sanjay says, his face beaming as he shows videos of the celebrations. "You can see, all my daughters are happy too that they've finally got a brother." He calls out to his wife, 37-year-old Sunita Devi, for a family photo. Sunita emerges, cradling the infant. "The village women who used to taunt me for only giving birth to daughters also danced and celebrated with us," she says. The family's matriarch, Maya, 60, echoes the sentiment of relief. She looks after the younger granddaughters, including the youngest girl, Vaishali, who is barely a year old. "The family is now complete," she says. "Pota toh chahiye, ji toh karre hi hai. Merre man ki icha ab poori hui. (A grandson was needed; my wish has finally been fulfilled.)" Meanwhile, Sarina hopes her family will support her dream of joining the police, which would require moving outside the village for college. "Everyone wants a brother. We missed having one during festivals like Rakshabandhan. Bhai toh hona chahiye. Gaon mein toh aisi hi soch hai (A brother is a must; that's just how people think in the village)," she says. While her parents claim they will support her education because she is "good at studies", the conversation is abruptly cut short. When asked if she, too, would prefer a son over a daughter, her mother interjects, reminding her she is running late for school. The financial reality of the household stands in stark contrast to the festive atmosphere. Sanjay, a labourer at a nearby plywood factory, also owns two buffaloes and lives in a house inherited from his father. However, the pursuit of a male heir has come with a heavy price tag. "I have a loan of Rs.3 lakh to pay off," Sanjay admits. He previously worked as a contractual field worker, but after the pandemic, both he and Sunita turned to manual labour under the Centre's rural guarantee scheme to keep the kitchen running. "I've worked in cotton fields until I was six months pregnant," says Sunita, looking at her son. She recalls the moment of his birth: "I cried in relief and joy." On a shelf above her, her daughters' trophies won in kho-kho and folk-dance competitions are now crowded by the newborn's toys. The power dynamics within the household remain strictly traditional. When asked if she has a say in family decisions, Sunita offers a practiced response. "It was my own wish. There was no pressure. Daughters go away to another house after marriage. A son is our hope in old age," she says. Her limitations are revealed when she admits that neither she nor her daughters are permitted to go to the village market, even for basic necessities. "He gets us everything we need," she says, referring to Sanjay. Regarding the future of her 10 daughters, her outlook is one of resignation: "Kismat ka inhe milega ji (They will get whatever is in their destiny)." Finding Surender Valmiki's home, tucked away in a dusty lane near the local mandi, is surprisingly simple. "Just ask for the house where a son was born after 10 daughters. Everyone knows us," Surender, a contractual sanitation worker with the local municipal committee, says over the phone. While Surender sounded evasive, citing last-minute shopping for an upcoming ceremony to skip the interview, his claim held true. A quick query at a sweet shop a kilometre away led directly to his doorstep. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning cow dung cakes, a traditional ritual to ward off the evil eye, as neighbourhood women gathered to celebrate the infant born on January 19. Ritu Devi, Surender's 42-year-old wife, sits amid the bustle sipping tea from steel bowls as the newborn sleeps, oblivious to his "star status". Her life has been defined by a relentless quest for a male heir. Her eldest daughter is 22; and the youngest of the 10 is yet to start school. A daughter was lost a month after birth. While the third daughter dropped out after Class 9 to help at home, others are still in school, with one even training as a boxer. When asked why she continued to conceive for 23 years, Ritu says: "Koi pressure nahi tha, par apna toh apna hi hota hai (There was no pressure, but one's own is one's own)." For her, a son is not just a child; he is a social necessity. "Sisters don't get good marriage proposals if there is no brother to back the family," she says. Her primary concern remains the ritual of 'bhaat'-the ceremonial gifts a brother brings to his sisters' weddings. Without him, she asks, "Bhaat kaun deta? (Who would provide the bhaat?)" The family's reality is stark. Despite the Haryana government raising the monthly salary for sanitation workers to Rs.26,000 last year, the sum is a pittance for the family their size. Debt is a constant companion, and the newborn their perceived support in old age. In a society where tradition outweighs economic logic, the birth of a son is seen as the ultimate security, regardless of the uncertain future. Silence hangs heavy at the home of 47-year-old autorickshaw driver Shri Bhagwan. On January 23, his twelfth child-a daughter-arrived. For Bhagwan, the birth isn't a celebration, but the end of a long, futile pursuit. "What is there to say?" he mutters. "We hoped for a son to continue the legacy. Now, I will finally get her (his wife) operated." Sitting in the sun, Bhagwan struggles to name his daughters in order, aided only by his second-born, Manisha, 24. Manisha, already a mother of two, has returned home to assist her mother, Sudesh, with the chores. Inside a windowless, dark room, 42-year-old Sudesh looks far beyond her years. Clutching the newborn, her exhaustion is tinged with a newfound sense of social awkwardness. "No more," she says quietly. "It is embarrassing now. My own daughter has two children." The family's history is marked by quiet tragedies: Four daughters died shortly after birth, and one son was stillborn. Today, seven daughters remain. Among them is the eldest, Nisha, 26, who sits in silence; Bhagwan explains simply that she suffers from "mental problems" and remains unmarried. The sombre mood is briefly lifted by the arrival of younger daughters Prerna and Priya from school. Priya, boisterous and energetic, coaxes a rare smile from her father as she demonstrates her physical strength. However, the weight of the family's future has now shifted to 16-year-old Kajal. Currently a Class 12 student in Rohtak, she is her father's biggest hope. "I will educate her further," Bhagwan says, his voice finding a momentary firmness. "She will do us proud."...