The Night the Kitchen Went to Sleep

All day long the kitchen had been the busiest room in the house. Now dinner was over. The last roti had been eaten. Amma wiped the counter, switched off the light and went away.

For a moment nothing moved. Then the kitchen began to go to sleep.

The pressure cooker went first. It had whistled five times that day, and it was worn out. It gave one tiny last hiss, psst, and was still.

The rolling pin rolled over once on the shelf and lay flat. It had rolled out twenty rotis. That is a lot of rolling.

The spoons in the drawer settled against each other, clink, clink, like children squeezing into one bed. The smallest spoon ended up in the middle, where it was warmest.

The steel glasses stood upside down in a row to dry. A drop of water ran down the last one and fell, plip. That was its goodnight.

The fridge hummed its low song, mmmm, as it did every night. The fridge never fully sleeps. It keeps the milk cold and it sings for the others.

The tap held on to one last drop. It hung there, shining, and did not fall.

On the window sill, the pot of tulsi folded its leaves a little. Through the window bars came a square of moonlight. It lay on the floor like a white mat.

Then, very softly, the kitchen door opened. A small boy in pyjamas tiptoed in. He drank a glass of water. He looked around at the sleeping kitchen.

"Goodnight, everybody," he whispered.

Nobody answered. They were all asleep. And soon, so was he.