It was a drizzly Monday afternoon. I was on my way to pick up the kids from school. We stopped at the red light just beneath the flyover and predictably a young girl runs up and bangs the car window begging for money. It is an everyday incident. I wait till she leaves and look out the window again. Thick dark clouds line the sky and the afternoon is gloomy.

It was then that I saw the three men. They were walking fast and purposefully dodging cars, rickshaws, two-wheelers and the city buses. The man in the middle carried a white bundle. The bundle had a single marigold garland wrapped around it. That’s when I figured out it was the body of a child. A four year old I guessed. The head was not fully wrapped. The father was carrying him in his arms. He was expressionless and walked fast cradling the child close to his chest.

I felt my throat choking up. My eyes blurred with tears – not more than a few feet away a father was carrying his son for the last time. He was taking him to the electric crematorium nearby to be incinerated in minutes. How many times had this same father carried that little one in his arms? How many times would he have hoisted him on his shoulders while they both watched the spectacle of a festival? How many times would he have come home in the nights to have his son hurtling into his arms saying “Appa, carry me!!”? How could he carry him on that last journey and again how could he not?

A solemn moment in the chaos of everyday life. A moment to remember the sacred nature of parenthood and the joys a child alone can bring. A moment to curse the Gods above for taking away a small life so meaninglessly. A moment to also selfishly thank God for sparing your own family the misery you just witnessed. A moment to be afraid of all the dangers in this world that could cause such a happening. A moment to hold close your own little ones and not let go…