The Child Who Held the Night
The Child Who Held the Night
My sahib is Rajendra Singh, IPS.
In this colony his name is spoken softly, like a warning.
To me, he is the man whose house I serve and whose sleep I guard.
“Power slept deeply. I was not allowed to.”
His wife, Sunita Singh, taught me fear in small lessons.
Not every day with blows, but with words that stayed longer than bruises.
“Stand straight.”
“Don’t touch that.”
“You people only learn pain.”
I was twelve when I came here.
I am thirteen now.
At night, I sit on the floor and rock their child, without closing my eyelid, for a second.
The baby cries as if night itself is trapped inside his throat.
I hum, barely breathing the song.
“Sleep, kanna…”
A green lamp burns near a picture of Krishna.
Baby clothes hang on a rope.
Beside them, my sahib’s black trousers – heavy, important.
Their shadows fall on me.
“In this house, even breath had to ask permission.”
When the light flickers, the shadows move.
They stretch and bend, as if reminding me where I stand.
The room smells of cooked food and old shoes.
The house sleeps deeply.
I must not.
If I sleep, Madam will know.
My eyes close. My head falls.
I see rain clouds screaming like the baby,
A muddy road where tired people lie down just to sleep.
“I wanted to sleep. What I found was myself.”
Instead, my mind carries me home -to Kuttanad.
My father Kunhikkannan, thin as a broken stick,
Lying on the floor, twisting in pain.
My mother, Vasanthy, is running barefoot into the night.
Morning comes without him.
All of a sudden, Pain snaps me awake.
Madam’s sharp hand, behind my head.
Her voice.
“This is not your village.”
I lower my eyes and rock the cradle harder.
Days repeated with orders.
“Heat water.
Wash floor.
Stand.
Make Tea for Guests.
Wait. Rock the cradle”
“Some children do not dream; they guard dreams for others.”
Evening comes. Guests drink tea.
At last, the house sleeps again.
“Rock the baby.”
The cricket sings.
The green shadows return.
The baby screams.
And something breaks open in me.
“The thing that keeps me awake.
The thing that took my school, my books, my sleep.
It is the baby.”
The only way to escape the torture is …..
I decide.
The thought frightens me.
I stand.
My hands shake.
I bend over the cradle. I wait.
Something stops me.
Suddenly, the baby opens his eyes and smiles.
A small, soft smile.
As if I belong to the world again.
“The smallest smile was enough to keep me human.”
I lift him instead.
Hold him close.
Kiss his forehead.
For one brief moment, happiness touches my face –
Not mine, but kind.
I rock him.
“Sleep, kanna…
I am here.”
The shadows soften.
The night grows quiet.
I do not sleep.
“Some nights break people. Some nights leave a scar instead.”
But I do not break.
Afterword
I am thirteen.
A child who keeps watch over other people’s comfort.
Power still wears uniforms.
Caste still hides in everyday words.
And sleep is still a privilege, not a right.
“What saved me was not courage, but a moment that refused to let me become cruel.”
That night, I stayed awake.
And in staying awake,
I stayed human