WHO STOLE sleep from baby's eyes? I must know. Clasping her pitcher to her waist mother went to fetch water from the village near by. It was noon. The children's playtime was over; the ducks in the pond were silent. The shepherd boy lay asleep under the shadow of the banyan tree. The crane stood grave and still in the swamp near the mango grove. In the meanwhile the Sleepstealer came and, snatching sleep from baby's eyes, flew away. When mother came back she found baby travelling the room over on all fours. Who stole sleep from our baby's eyes? I must know. I must find her and chain her up. I must look into that dark cave, where, through boulders and scowling stones, trickles a tiny stream. I must search in the drowsy shade of the bakula grove, where pigeons coo in their corner, and fairies' anklets tinkle in the stillness of starry nights. In the evening I will peep into the whispering silence of the bamboo forest, where fireflies squander their light, and will ask every creature I meet, 'Can anybody tell me where the Sleep-stealer lives?' Who stole sleep from baby's eyes? I must know. Shouldn't I give her a good lesson if I could only catch her! I would raid her nest and see where she hoards all her stolen sleep. I would plunder it all, and carry it home. I would bind her two wings securely, set her on the bank of the river, and then let her play at fishing with a reed among the rushes and water-lilies. When the marketing is over in the evening, and the village children sit in their mothers' laps, then the night birds will mockingly din her ears with: 'Whose sleep will you steal now?'
LAST NIGHT clouds were threatening and amlak branches struggled in the grips of the gusty wind. I hoped, if dreams came to me, they would come in the shape of my beloved, in the lonely night loud with rain. The winds still moan through the fields, and the tear-stained cheeks of dawn are pale. My dreams have been in vain, for truth is hard, and dreams, too, have their own ways. Last night when the darkness was drunken with storm, and the rain, like night's veil, was torn by the winds into shreds, would it make truth jealous, if untruth came to me in the shape of my beloved, in the starless night loud with rain?
