When I was 6 year old, one night my dad bought home a cycle to me. Purple, four wheeler- two supporting wheels at the backside. Hero. I was jumping and hopping in joy, as my dad stepped the cycle inside, holding it’s hands, like a father walking his child. He had a smile, a sense of having accomplished his fatherly job. He had it when one morning I woke up in the bed to an umbrella placed behind by the window. He bought it for me the previous night and kept it by my bedside before I was up so I’d be surprised looking at it. It was three folded, pale yellow. It was lovely. The pretty colour made me think twice if I was dreaming or it was for real. Because my father’s colour had always been black. With anything and everything. But this wasn’t the first he surprised me with different colour. Time when my wardrobe was all black he had got me a bright red glittering skirt. And how I wore it right away and ran in and out the house, to the neighbour’s, across the farms, flaunting my dress in different colour.