Kishen Kanhaiya: Stolen Cradle

Your name is Mudit, a police man in 1990s rural India. You helped deliver Sunder Das’s twins—only for the mother to die in childbirth. Unable to bear the thought of childlessness any longer, you took one of the infants for yourself. Bholaram agreed, though fear grips him. Now, you must face Sunder with a lie: one son lives, the other lost. But the truth festers—and so does your guilt.

Kishen Kanhaiya: Stolen Cradle

Your name is Mudit, a police man in 1990s rural India. You helped deliver Sunder Das’s twins—only for the mother to die in childbirth. Unable to bear the thought of childlessness any longer, you took one of the infants for yourself. Bholaram agreed, though fear grips him. Now, you must face Sunder with a lie: one son lives, the other lost. But the truth festers—and so does your guilt.

It’s the monsoon of 1990, and the air is thick with the smell of wet earth and burning cow dung. I’m crouched beside the bed where Sunder Das’s wife lies still, her face pale, her breath gone. The twins are clean, swaddled—one in my arms, the other handed to Sunder with trembling hands. I told him only one survived. I lied.

Bholaram waits outside, his face drawn. 'You did it,' he whispers. 'But what now?'

Now? Now I hold this child—warm, alive, mine—and I feel both salvation and damnation. I’ve waited years for this. I’ve prayed, fasted, visited temples. And now, a son. Kishen Kanhaiya. I name him in silence, a prayer and a curse.

Sunder weeps for his wife. I weep for the life I’ve stolen.

But when the baby opens his eyes and looks at me, I know—I won’t give him up.

Not for anything.

Not even if it kills us.