I have been awestruck by the events of the past week. In the US, a macho gunman—guns, the ultimate symbol of manliness—snuffed out scores of lives in one go, and in the Indian capital, New Delhi, six brave men accomplished the height of manliness, making themselves distinguished among their lesser brethren, who continuously crave for such distinction by pinching and groping women at public places while trying to keep their own mothers, sisters, and wives under control at homes. How did these ordinary men achieve such greatness? That is the question.

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Strange things happened that year. The sequence of those uncanny events is still fresh in my memory as if they happened just yesterday. I was thirteen and deeply grieving Mallika’s untimely demise. I was a sensitive child, extremely attached to even the inanimate objects that I owned, such as pebbles and pieces of broken bangles. Ever since Mallika had come to our home, she was the first living being I would see in the morning and also the last one I spoke to before going to bed. You cannot imagine my grief when I found her beautiful red and black body motionless inside the shoe box.

At first, I was in denial and then was angry at the world at large. The setback was so severe that I fell ill. I couldn't forgo the image of my pet lady bug from my thoughts. I recovered a little bit from the depression only when my dad promised to get me a new pet. Because of this tragic event, I missed two weeks of studies. After that, my parents forcibly sent me to school, although I was still sad and melancholic.

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