‘Baba!’ My ten-year-old son pulled my hand, ‘Was it very difficult?’

‘Was what very difficult, my love?’ I asked, while smiling into his curious dark eyes.

‘Was it very difficult becoming your own father?’ He chose his words carefully.

Instead of answering his question, I looked afar. I looked towards the place where time and space ceased to have a meaning - the place where all was obscured under a slowly falling, golden dust. This is from where a few memories smiled back at me, while the others were wrapped in the grey shrouds of sadness. It was a magical place - a place where dead butterflies rested forever in the glass jar of nostalgia, but their colors remained immortal. I have always had this glass jar, tucked away safely within the folds of my heart. It is my most valuable asset and also a friend who keeps me company.

I gently shake the glass jar of nostalgia and choose a dead, blue butterfly. I look closely at its shimmering sea-blue wings, and the colors begin to shift and form shapes.

I see a five-year-old boy riding a small bicycle. He has a head full of dark, unruly hair and eyes full of dark sadness. Usually, his eyes shine with intelligence, curiosity, and mischief, and the sadness creeps in only when he is alone. And when sadness dances a waltz in his eyes, he appears old beyond his years - very old; a child with the soul of an old man. He will always have the soul of an old man, but he doesn’t know that yet.

I look at the child and find him keenly watching something. I follow his gaze. There is a girl of his age learning to ride a shiny, red bicycle, much like his own. Her father is firmly holding the bicycle, letting it go only once he is sure his daughter will be safe.

‘Come on, sweetheart! You gotta learn to maintain your balance.’ The father ruffles the girl’s hair.

‘I am trying, but I am afraid.’ The girl looks up pleadingly. ‘Just promise you won’t let go.’

‘I won’t let go, my dearest. ‘ The man promises, and the girl smiles back a bright smile of trust.

The boy watches all. The pools of sadness are growing bigger in his dark eyes, and a cold black hole is widening within his heart. He shakes his head, firmly holds onto the handlebars of his bicycle, and pumps the pedals. The bicycle goes straight, but then he loses balance and falls. The boy gets up with tears in his eyes. His knees are badly scratched.

‘I will never be able to ride.’ He shakes his head and kicks the fallen bicycle angrily.

‘Oh! But you will ride.’ I whisper to him silently, ‘One day, you will ride like the Devil himself, my dear.’

The boy suddenly looks up like he can hear my voice.

‘Are you sure?’ He silently questions my invisible presence.

‘Oh yes!’ I give him a kind smile, ‘One day, you will learn to tolerate the pain. You will learn to get up when you fall. And once you master your fear, you will ride with the best of them.’

‘But I don’t have my father to teach me how to ride.’ The boy has doubts. He will keep on having doubts for times to come, but he doesn’t know it yet.

‘No issues, you go on and be your own father and teach yourself.’ I encourage him wordlessly.

‘Can I?’ He asks excitedly, ‘Can I really become my own father and teach myself?’

‘Oh yes! You can and you will.’ I give him a reassuring smile. The boy gets up with a determined smile. He rides again and falls again. He gets up and rides again. And after a while, he is riding with the wind blowing tears out of his eyes. He is riding like he is the Diablo, flying through the hellfire of life.

I carefully place the blue butterfly back in the glass jar and take out another -  a black butterfly. I examine all the shades of black on its wings and see them shifting and transforming into something sinister. The boy is seven years old. It is a dark December night, and all is silent around him.

He has just woken up from a bad dream, but doesn’t know what woke him up. Suddenly, he feels something move under the bed. He stops breathing and looks at his sleeping mother. He sits up and watches, paralyzed by fear. Whatever is under the bed starts pulling at one corner of the quilt.

His heart forgets to beat. He watches on, paralyzed and rendered immovable by fear. Wet warmth is spreading under him, but he is unaware of it. His focus is on the corner of the quilt, slowly being pulled under the bed. He tries to scream, but no sound leaves his dry throat. He desperately tries to pull back the quilt, but the thing underneath the bed is more powerful.

‘God! What would I give to have my father by my side right now?’ The boy silently pleads.

I know God will never listen to his prayers. God doesn’t work that way. But I cannot tell him that. This understanding will come at its own time. No need to be cruel to a child.

‘Why don’t you wake up your mother?’ I know the answer, but still suggest.

‘She won’t be able to fight what’s under the bed.’ The boy insists with tears in his frightened eyes, ‘I need my father.’

‘But you don’t have your father with you right now.’ I plead logic. ‘He is far away and cannot come to your help.’

‘Then what should I do?’ He whispers back, ‘The monster under the bed is too powerful. I cannot fight it alone. I am just a child.’

‘Why don’t you become your own father?’ I suggest kindly.

‘Can I?’ His eyes start twinkling with hope, ‘Can I really become my own father?’

‘Oh yes!’ I assure him silently, ‘You can become anything you want.’ The boy smiles, he gets up from the bed and switches the light on. He takes a deep breath and then carefully peeks under the bed. There is nothing there. Whatever was there had receded in the face of his courage.

I gently caress the wings of the dead, black butterfly and place it back carefully. This time I choose a red butterfly. Her ruby wings are glistening like velvet. I look closely, and all the shades of red transform into rage.

The boy is ten years old. School has ended, and he is confronting a small group of classmates with a bloody nose. There has been a remarkable battle - one against four. His bullies are smiling but are hesitant to pounce on him again. They are aware of his warrior spirit and know that, though they may defeat him, he will inflict damage.

‘Hey! What’s happening here?’ The father of one of the bullies approaches angrily.

‘You!’ he points his finger accusingly at the boy, ‘What is your name? I will complain to the Principal about you. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

The boy doesn’t answer him. He just stands there silently. When he does not respond, the man angrily grabs the hand of his son and walks away. The other boys just laugh at him and run away. The boy silently watches them leave - the son’s small hand secure in the father’s grip. Two tears slip out of his eyes, tracing lines on his bloody cheeks.

‘I will never have a father to hold my hand,’ The boy whispers to himself.

I know he is right. He is never going to have a father to hold his hand. I cannot tell him that, but I also cannot be dishonest with him.

‘It is definitely a possibility, little one.’ I gently whisper in his ears, ‘You may never have a father to hold your tiny hand.’

‘How will I fight the world without my father by my side?’ His question resonates with logic.

‘You can either wait for a father who may never come or……….,’ I deliberately leave my advice hanging mid-air.

‘Or?’ The boy looks up with hope, ‘Or what?’

‘Or you can become your own father and fight the world.’ I can see his future, and his path is littered with fights, both big and small.

‘Can I?’ He asks, his voice ringing with confidence, ‘Can I really become my own father and fight the world?’

‘Oh yes! You can and you will.’ I give him a knowing smile. The boy smiles and gets up. He washes his face at the drinking fountain. Then he picks up his school bag and starts walking home. He doesn’t look defeated anymore and is walking the walk of the victorious gladiators - with a swagger.

I gently place the dead, red butterfly back into the glass jar of nostalgia and want to tighten the lid. But then my eyes rest on a dead, golden butterfly. I take it out delicately. There are rusty heart-shaped patterns carved into the fragile wings. I gently trace the lines of these patterns and feel the pain of lost love.

I see the boy again. He is all grown up - entering into adulthood. I look into his eyes, and the sweet pain of loss tells me he has been in love. He is looking forlornly at a house across the street, all decked in glittering lights. The girl he loves is getting married.

‘I wish my father were here.’ The boy thinks, ‘I could have confided in him.’

‘What good would it have done?’ I ask him gently.

‘He could have listened to me.’ He whispers back in a broken voice, ‘He could have arranged something.’

‘Has it broken your heart?’ I ask while fully knowing the answer.

‘I don’t know what is broken inside me. But it feels awful.’ His voice is clouding up with tears.

Yes, I know how it feels - the feeling of loss. I know how it hurts - the pain of knowing that what you want will never be so. But this is only one of his first steps on the long path of loss. The boy has to walk far. He has to suffer many more losses. His legacy is the legacy of loss. But I cannot tell him that. I cannot make him see the future.

‘What if your father were here but could do nothing to prevent this heartbreak?’ I ask again.

‘He could have picked up the pieces and mended my heart.’ The boy looks up.

‘Why don’t you become your own father and pick up the pieces yourself?’ I suggest.

‘Can I?’ A hint of hope glimmers faintly in his dark eyes, ‘Can I really do that?’

‘Oh yes! You can do that.’ I smile at him kindly, ‘You can pick up the pieces, examine them closely, and see what went wrong. You can learn and then move on. Moving on is mending.’ The boy looks up with a new resolve burning in his eyes. He turns his back on the house with glittering lights and never looks back.

‘Baba!’ my son pulled my hand again, ‘You haven’t answered me. Was it very difficult becoming your own father?’

I carefully placed the golden butterfly back in the jar. I looked at all the dead butterflies and I tightened the lid on the glass jar of nostalgia and put it back on the shelf of past. Then I opened my eyes and I looked at my son and smiled. ‘Yes son! It was very difficult. It was very difficult and very painful. But in the end it is the only thing that really matters.’