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A hawk or a butterfly!

"A butterfly, I would want you to be" , these words keep reverberating in Nafiza's mind. Years! It's been years but the intensity of these words inflict her bruised heart.

"Abba", how much she had longed to hear this word escape her lips but how could she deceive her bruised heart. Well, when was it last that she was made to believe that she could have a family of her own, with both Ammi and Abba. How much she longed to take rides to the school with her Abba, and how dejected she felt each parent's day to see the vacant look at Ammi's face whenever anyone inquired about him. She could see it all, that something was so not right, for her Abba was a mystery to the world who appeared shielded by the moon and disappeared before the sun could reveal his whereabouts. She as her neighbour once told her was a child of "haram". She was fascinated by the word and raced her way to reach Ammi, she could see Ammi go pale while she asked for the meaning, that very day Nafiza knew it wasn't good to be called a child of "haram".

Years rolled by and with each passing year, Nafiza felt her longing to be with a picture perfect family replaced by hatred. Yes, she hated her Abba not because he had one sudden day decided to cut ties with her Ammi but because he had taught her to dream, to be a pretty butterfly proud of her hues.

She wanted answers to her questions and those questions took form of letters, some letters are never written to reach people, they rather address one's inflictions. Her's were born out of pain which cluttered her drawers.

Today, as she ran her fingers over those blots of dried ink colouring her pain in those yellowing letters, she stopped to read out some lines which ran as,

I am a butterfly
Pretty are my wings
Abba, says I can fly around
Be with flowers and catch sunlight in my smile
Smile at the sun and run with the moon.
…

Ah! What a fool she was to believe in the charms of  being a butterfly, Nafiza crushed the letter in disdain. The butterfly in her was long dead, it's flimsy wings no longer charmed her. She now was a bird, a hawk: alert, bold and never submissive. She knew to hunt down her insecurities surprising herself each time. She was beautiful because she was bold, she wore her own skin which though bruised by time knew to heal.

For the last time she wrote a letter to her Abba and refused to sign it as "your butterfly", for she no longer was his butterfly, she was a hawk, an unbeatable one.

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