In the narrow corridor of a fading rural night,
he waits where silence and suffering collide.
A single bulb swings like a tired thought,
and every knock on the door is another life brought.
No marble hall, no polished name,
just broken bodies and unspoken shame.
He reads pain not in words, but in breath—
in the pause between living and near-death.
A fevered child on a woven cot,
a farmer who lost the only crop he got,
a mother counting coins instead of hope,
a man trying to learn how wounds can cope.
He does not ask who deserves to live,
he only asks what more he can give.
Sleep is a rumor he never keeps,
for the night itself also comes to him weeping.
And when the dawn forgets to arrive on time,
he is still there, crossing every line
between exhaustion and duty’s call—
holding together what refuses to fall.
By :Mayanglambam Meerina Leimarenbi
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