Guarding more than a gate: A young mother’s fight for dignity and survival

Our gated society was its own little world— filled with WhatsApp grumblings about leaky taps, power cuts, and lax security guards who waved in delivery boys without a second glance. Life was predictable, until one evening, as my wife and I drove past the gate, something unusual caught our attention: a young lady guard.
It was rare to see a woman on guard duty, and she stood out— not just because of her presence, but the way she carried herself, exuding a quiet confidence. As we stopped at the gate, my wife rolled down the window and struck up a conversation.
“How’s the security these days?” my wife asked casually, with just a hint of the skepticism typical of our society group.
The guard nodded earnestly. “We’re ensuring that every visitor is logged and verified now, ma’am. No one gets through without confirmation.” Her voice was calm but firm.
Just then, a faint, muffled cry pierced the air. A baby’s cry. Startled, we looked around. The lady guard stiffened, excused herself, and hurried into the tiny security room by the gate.
Minutes later, she returned, adjusting her uniform. My wife couldn’t resist asking, “Was that… a baby crying?”
The guard hesitated, then replied softly, “Yes, ma’am. It’s my newborn daughter. I bring her with me because… there’s no one else.”
The weight of her words hung in the air.
“Where’s the father?” my wife pressed gently.
Her eyes dropped, and after a pause, she said, “He left us.” There was no bitterness in her voice, just exhaustion.
We drove off in silence, my wife clutching her saree pallu tightly.
The next day, our society’s Sunday Residents Welfare Association meeting was buzzing—mostly with complaints about the new guard.
“How can we allow her to bring a baby to work?” one middle-aged man said, his voice tinged with indignation.
“Isn’t it unsafe? What if something happens to the child here?” chimed in another woman, shaking her head.
“We’re paying for professional security, not charity!” added another.
Surprisingly, the most vocal support for the guard came not from the residents, but the staff—the gardener, the maids, even the other guards.
“She’s doing her job better than most,” one cleaner said. “She’s checking every visitor and hasn’t missed a shift.”
The estate manager, caught in the crossfire, raised his hands to calm the room. “Look, she’s managing her duties well despite her circumstances. We should give her some time to figure things out.”
The residents, however, weren’t convinced. They saw the baby as a breach of professionalism, a distraction. They demanded she be removed immediately.
As the meeting wound down, I couldn’t shake the image of that young guard, standing at the gate with her child inside the cramped security room. It wasn’t about right or wrong anymore. It was about empathy—or the lack of it.
Later that evening, my wife, who had remained silent at the meeting, spoke up as we sat with our tea. “Isn’t it strange?” she said. “The so-called educated people couldn’t muster an ounce of compassion, but the less privileged—those who struggle just as much—want to protect her. Makes you wonder who’s really learned anything in life.”
I nodded. “Maybe we don’t need more education. Just a bit more humanity.”
The next morning, I saw the lady guard again, standing tall at the gate, her eyes scanning the cars. Her baby was silent in the security room, probably asleep. I drove on, thinking about her resilience. In a world quick to judge, it struck me how small acts of compassion could mean the world to someone just trying to hold things together.
Authored by: Bhannu Arora
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