The Weight Beneath the Pillow
Most children grow up with the soft comfort of a stuffed animal or the dim, humming glow of a nightlight to keep the shadows at bay. Their sense of safety is often tied to something plush, something external, or something that can be switched off. My comfort was of a different sort. It was cold, it was heavy, and it was forged in steel. Growing up, there was almost always a Kirpan tucked beneath my pillow, a sharp inheritance that guarded my sleep long before I understood the weight of what it was meant to protect.
What is a Kirpan? The Kirpan is one of the five articles of faith (the 5 Ks) that a Sikh carries at all times. The word itself comes from two Punjabi words: Kirpa (mercy/grace) and Aan (honor/dignity). It is a symbol of spiritual sovereignty and the duty to protect the weak. For a Sikh, it is not a weapon of aggression, but a testament to the “Saint-Soldier” ideal.
Growing up, we called it my “Princess Sword.” To any outsider, the idea of a blade in a child’s bed might have sparked fear, but to me, it was the most beautiful thing I owned. It wasn’t a dark, utilitarian weapon; it was a work of art. The sheath and hilt were covered in intricate, floral designs, vines of silver that seemed to bloom across the metal. I remember the tactile reality of it: the way the fabric of the pillowcase felt pulled tight over that ornate hilt, and the subtle, hard lump it created under my head.
It was a strange geometry for a child’s bed, the intersection of soft cotton and uncompromising iron. I would reach my hand under the casing just to feel the coldness of the floral-etched steel, a ritual that grounded me before I drifted off. At that age, I didn’t know the deep theology of the shastar. I didn’t know the centuries of history or the complex legal sovereignty the blade represented. To me, it was simply my Princess Sword, a part of the bed as necessary as the sheets, and a reminder that being a “princess” meant carrying your own power.
In our house, this wasn’t discussed with an air of mystery or danger. It was a natural extension of a life lived at the center of the faith. My parents weren’t teaching me to be aggressive; they were teaching me that I was never truly defenseless. By giving me something so beautiful to guard my sleep, they were planting the subconscious seed that my safety was a sacred right. They taught me that even in my most vulnerable state, asleep and dreaming, I carried the symbol of my own honor.
This nightly ritual built a foundation of grit beneath my childhood innocence. It changed the way I viewed the “dark.” If you are raised with a Princess Sword under your head, you don’t learn to hide from the shadows; you learn that you have the tools to meet them. It fostered a quiet, internal sovereignty. It taught me that being a Sikh woman wasn’t about being passive or waiting to be saved. It was about carrying the means of your own liberation, even in the quietest, most private moments of your life.
Now that I am older, the Kirpan is no longer just a physical object on my head. The “protection” has moved inward. That cold, floral-etched steel has transformed into a mental sharpness, a refusal to let my spirit be colonized, or my boundaries be thinned out by the world’s expectations. I realize now that the weight beneath the pillow was training for the soul. It was a lesson in staying sharp, staying grounded, and staying sovereign.
I think back to that girl, sleeping soundly on top of her Princess Sword, and I realize how much of my current strength is rooted in that iron. Faith isn’t always a soft place to land. Sometimes, it’s the sharp edge that reminds you who you are. It’s the realization that we don’t just inherit stories; we inherit the steel required to write our own. The pillow may be softer now, but the grit remains.
