It's only 3:12 in the morning—more night than morning—when his son announces that he needs attention with insistent crying.

Karan is wide awake at the first cry and grimaces to himself. When Gaurav jiju, already a veteran in the art of parenting, said that the first year wasn't easy, he wasn't kidding.

Tejasswi shifts to his side with a moan, still wrapped in the wisps of sleep, and he gets out of bed with a tired sigh. There is no point in waking her when she spends all day with their son—and it's high time that he has a man-to-man talk with Kiaan- his son.

It doesn't take long to reach the nursery—and he's surprised to see Kiaan sitting up by himself in the crib, tiny hands clutching the wooden rails and straining his tiny lungs in a series of hiccupping sobs.

Could all five-month-olds sit up like this already? his mind whispers to him as he picks up his crying son with awkward hands. Unsure of what to do, he holds the bawling baby at arm's length, quietly panicking when his son, not comforted by his father's presence, continues to cry.

Not for the first time, Karan wondered how people do it—how fathers do it. There must be some manual, some secret handbook to fatherhood that he didn't bother reading (never mind the pile of books on father he'd read in the secrecy of night). Or maybe his son loved his wife more than he himself (his overthinking mind got the better of him)?

He suddenly shakes his head, despising the direction his thoughts seemed determined to head towards. And, suddenly, the baby stops crying.

He blinks, surprised at the sudden lack of wailing, and the baby blinks owlishly back at him. Slowly, hesitantly, he shakes his head again, and his son watches, fascinated, and then a sound like laughter bubbles in his tiny throat.

Encouraged, Karan does it again, and it's not long before his son is cooing with happiness, already reaching to grab at anything to put into his mouth. He manages to seat himself in the rocking chair with the baby seated in his lap, facing him.

"Now," he says in a conversational tone. "You and I are going to have a little man-to-man talk."

The baby only blows a spit bubble in response. Karan sighs. "I didn't think that you'd really understand, but still, just listen, because I'll tell you this only once." He pauses and takes a deep breath.

"I love your mother, more than life," he states with the utmost seriousness. As if sensing the gravity of the conversation, Kiaan paused and looked up at his father with wide eyes. "More than you ever will, so don't ever think you could win against me.

"That being said, don't hurt your mother. Ever. Because the day you do, if you ever make your mother cry, you'll have to answer me. I've hurt your mother so many times already; she's had enough for one lifetime."

He gurgled and blew a raspberry. Karan smiles.

"Glad that we're on the same page," he says, satisfied, bouncing his legs. The baby screeches in delight, waving chubby arms and kicking tiny feet. A smile tugs on Karan's lips as he plays with his son, the bouncing rhythm slowly gentling to a slow rocking that tugs on the eyelids of father and son.

The first rays of the day's sun found them sound asleep in the rocking chair, their son sleeping against his father's chest, identical features relaxed in slumber. The morning light is all too eager to cast its gentleness on the pair, warming them as the clock's hands approach another busy day.

And a mother, refreshed with a rare full night's worth of sleep, takes a picture of father and son sleeping together, which she will never mention to him at the breakfast table. Where her husband hides a smile behind the newspaper with a cup of chai when Kiaan recounts the conversation between him and his father with nonsensical gurgles to his smiling mother.