For the nth time, she crumpled the piece of paper and aimed to throw it in to the bin at the far end of the room. It wasn’t just a dream, she knew it. It was real. As real as her whole existence.

When it happened for the first time, she had to pinch herself thrice in order to wake herself up. And then the same dream again. And again. It kept happening for a week until she realized the figure she saw wasn’t a dream and pinching herself or shouting for help wasn’t going to work. She would snap back to reality only when this figure disappeared just as suddenly as it showed up.

Every time in the dream, or what felt like a dream, she would see a small girl who looked a lot like her. Every time she would say the same thing, ‘tell me, Maisah. Tell me what to do’.

Maisah didn’t know what she was supposed to tell her or what the little girl wanted to know so badly that she reached out to her every night. All she knew was that she had to tell her something only she knew.

So, she took out a piece of paper and started writing down everything that was known to her, only. Several weeks had passed in attempts to figure out what this little girl wanted to know from her. Every night she would give her a letter and the little girl would read it thoroughly, look up at her and shake her head.

Sometimes, Maisah thought that maybe she’s hallucinating or maybe she was going crazy. How could any of it be possible? But it had been several years now that she had been safely off her pills and her psychiatrist had told her she no longer needed to see him as her mental health had progressed over the years of therapy and medications. So why was this happening now?

She opened a fresh paper of the notebook, picked up a pen and started writing everything she was trying to avoid going through for all these weeks. Maybe or most certainly, this was it. This was all the little girl in her dreams wanted to know. And once she gave it her, it would set both of them free.

***

Dear young Maisah,

    I had almost forgotten what it was like to be you. The young version of myself. After all, it has been many years since I was in the same shoes as you. I don’t know if this is real, if you are actually real. But I haven’t felt anything as real as I have these past couple of weeks since I started seeing you. You always say the exact same words to me. Nothing more, nothing less. And this whole time I’ve been reluctant to find out the right thing to say to you, to help you figure out whatever it is you are desperate to know. But each time you shake your head with a despondent look, letting me know that I am failing at my attempts.

 Over the past couple of years, I have been to therapy. I have visited many places around the country, worked triple shifts, and I have tried everything I could to keep myself busy. Some days I would be successful in distracting myself and other days I would find myself having a mental breakdown at three in the morning. Life has been very tough on me but more than that I have been very tough on myself. And I don’t want you to make the same mistakes that I have. I want you to live the life I had only dreamed of living when I was in your place.

 I know that it has already happened to you which is why you are here. And even though your future self has healed from it, she still doesn’t have the courage to talk about it with anyone. So even when a part of me knew why you were here in the first place, I didn’t want to accept it and I tried giving you other things hoping you will be satisfied and leave.

 I know in your story, father is already dead. I can never forget that day. How I stood there beside his body, feeling like the culprit, feeling like a murderer. I was only thirteen years old, with a dead mother, a brother who had long run away leaving me alone with a drunk father who used to abuse my mother, not just mentally but physically as well. And when she had committed suicide after all the years of torture and suffering, I was left alone with the same man who made her do that. And so, he started torturing me in the same ways.

 I remember standing there by his body, for what felt like hours, not knowing what to do or where to go. I know the guilt you are feeling right now, for I have felt it for years and somewhere deep inside, still do. But I need you to know that whatever happened is not your fault. He made his choices and he ought to have a death like that, but you didn’t deserve to be the one who had to do it. Even if it was unintended. Unintentional.

 You want to know what I would’ve done if I was in your place again? I would’ve turn around and run. As fast as I could without turning back even once. I would’ve run and I’m telling you that you need to get away from that scene as fast and as far away as you can. No one is to be trusted around you. I know you feel like turning yourself in, just as I had done. Because for the first time, you retaliated and pushed him. Pushed him so hard he fell on the broken piece of the bottle of wine and bled to death.

 I need you to suppress those thoughts, pick up your important belongings and run. Far away.

 And when you reach a safe place, just look at yourself in the mirror or anything you could use to see your reflection and tell yourself that you are not a murderer. You are not the culprit of this story. None of it is your fault and you don’t deserve to suffer everything that I have.

From there onward, you choose your own path, your own direction. I know you are alone and scared and you have never seen so much blood in your life before. But you weren’t the one who pushed him. He did this to himself. You were just defending yourself just like you should have a long time ago.

And if you are having any second thoughts, remember that I have lived the life you are only thinking about right now and I know the better choice. You will lose everything you still have if you choose to stay there and turn yourself in for a crime you didn’t commit, for a place that was never your home and a man who couldn’t be a father to you for a single day of your life.

 I hope this letter changes things not just for you, but for me as well. I’ll be right here, on the other side of it all, waiting for you to, someday, show up and tell me about the life that I could never have.

                                                                              With love                                                                                Maisah ***

It had been several months now since she had seen the little Maisah. The night she wrote the letter and gave it to her was the last she had ever seen her. But something happened that night, something extraordinary.

As soon as young Maisah finished reading the letter she looked up to her older self. There was an exchange in glances between the two for a moment and in each other's eyes, they saw the same agony, the same aching for a lifelong of love they could never receive even though, they had decades of time zone between them. And it connected them and built a strong intuition within them that they were going to see each other, yet again. Young Maisah nodded with teary eyes and disappeared, leaving her old self crying herself to sleep the whole night, but this time not out of pain or sorrow. But because she could feel that she had set herself free, twice.


Simon and Peter were the only kids in their neighborhood. They found each other out of necessity more than actual affection for one another. But what started out as a playdate forced by their moms, did eventually grow into a bond with some measure of fondness. By the time they were 8 years old, they were inseparable. In school, they sat next to each other, until the teacher moved them for talking too much. They walked home from school together, ate after school snack together, did school work together, and played together. When they could manage it, they ate dinner together and stayed at each others’ houses too. Their parents were just glad to have them out of their hair most of the time.

It was on one such afternoon, that the boys started an adventure club. It was very exclusive, as they were the only two members. In this club, they would explore the unexplored; see what they had not seen; go where they had not gone. It is entirely possible that they were reading too many adventure stories, but as long as they were out of the house and home by dinner, they were free to do as they please. Simon found an old leather helmet in his garage and donned it for their adventures. Their first adventure was to Peter’s garage, to see what kind of gear they could find him.

They tried on a ski mask, a bicycle helmet, and a snorkel but nothing quite had the adventurous zeal they were going for. Then, out of a dusty old box, Simon pulled a dusty on black derby hat. He wiped the dust off of it and shook it to try and clean it more thoroughly before placing it on Peter’s head. It was perfect. Simon and Peter donned their explorer’s gear and ventured out into the neighborhood, in search of unexplored frontiers. On the edge of town, they found an old house. Its windows were boarded up and missing their glass. There was once a deadbolt on the door but it had long been forced open by some enterprising hobo. Carefully looking out for any snitches, they snuck into the dilapidated building easily. Inside, they found less treasure and more animal droppings. The carefully scoured the main floor, looking for anything left that was worth finding. They contemplated going upstairs but after inspecting them, they decided it was probably best to stay on the ground level. They left with nothing to show for their efforts. They were soon called home to dinner and their adventuring for the day came to an end. They parted ways and returned to their homes, shelving their adventure chapeaus for the evening. Simon fidgeted through dinner. His mother tried to ask him how his day was but he was not forthcoming. His dad asked if something was wrong, but he insisted he was fine. As soon as he was done eating, he bolted to his room, where he spent the evening planning their next adventure route and daydreaming about the treasures they would find.

School dragged on that day for both of the boys. Lessons were even less interesting than usual. Lunch was less tasty, even the desserts their moms packed. Even recess had lost some of its usual charms. There was just nothing to replace the pure joy of exploring the unexplored. No one understood like Simon and Peter understood. Finally, it was time to return home. They skipped their snack, they fibbed and said they had no school work to finish. They grabbed their hats and hurried on their way. Simon had told Peter that he had a route all worked out. Peter was satisfied with the plan and went along with it without arguing. First, they would go to the old bridge over the river. No one ever went there anymore and there were sure to be some coins on the banks of the small river. Then, they would go to the field where all the big kids played their sports and explore under the bleachers. Finally, they would go to the woods behind the grocery store, surely there was treasure to be found.   They eagerly headed out to the old bridge. It was a simple footbridge, made of wood with some iron pieces holding it together. The river there was never more than three feet or so wide. There was nothing in this part of town anymore. Their parents had told them that across the river there was once houses, a playground, and even a store or two, but everything closed down and was demolished. They say someone was going to build apartment buildings or something, but they never did, so the land sat, now overgrown by local flora.

Though unused, the bridge seemed safe enough, it was only a few feet above the water anyway. The boys crossed it several times, their eyes on the surrounding ground for anything shiny or noteworthy. Simon found a coin. Neither of the boys knew where it was from, though that did not stop them from speculating. He pocketed it and they pressed onward. Once they had decided that they had found all there was to find at the bridge, they went across it and over to the abandoned field. You could still find remnants of foundations to buildings and other rubble. They sifted through it and kicked rocks for a while. They were still conducted their grid pattern search when an old man came walking down the path. He was already across the bridge by the time the boys spotted him. Peter saw him first.

When Peter pointed him out, Simon just shrugged his shoulders. Unless he tried to stop them, they had no interest in what an adult was doing. Peter, ever the follower, shrugged as well and continued his hunt through the grass and gravel. But the man walked up to the boys without hesitation. “What are you boys doing here?” his tone was inquisitive rather than accusatory. “Exploring,” said Simon. “Oh is that what you are doing?” he said, a smile on his gray whiskered face. “Yeah, it is,” confirmed Peter. “Well have you found anything yet?” he asked. “Ye-” Peter started to answer but Simon cut him off. “Not really, we’re still looking,” he shot Peter a meaningful look. If they told this man what they found, they may have to give it up to him. Simon was not in the business of sharing his treasure with anyone but Peter. “Oh well that’s too bad,” he said, consolingly. “Maybe you would have better luck somewhere else?” “Oh, well, we think the woods behind the grocery store,” said Peter proudly. Simon shook his head, disappointed in his colleague. He had no idea when to keep his trap shut. “I really don’t think you boys should go there,” he said, furrowing his brow. He checked his watch and seemed alarmed at what he saw, he began to walk away. “Good adventuring boys, but do stay away from the woods!” He waved as he walked away, not waiting for an answer.

They weren’t going to give him one anyway, Simon just shook his head and turned his attention back to the ground.

“Don’t you think we maybe ought to listen to him?” Peter asked. “Don’t be silly,” Simon responded, “He’s just a grumpy old adult, trying to ruin our fun.” “Ok..” replied Peter, unconvinced. All of their searching in the field that was once buildings turned up a silver dollar and a pendant with no chain. Disappointed in their haul so far, Simon insisted that they skip the bleachers and go straight to the woods, where they would surely find something worth finding. Though uneasy, Peter agreed and off they went. The woods behind the grocery store were proper woods, not just some trees and grass in the middle of town. Behind it, was forest as far as was visible. There was a hiking path through that woods, but it did not come near the grocery store; that would sort of ruin the hiking experience. At the end of the tree line was the expected garbage collected by the wind from the store parking lot. The boys stepped over that, keeping an eye on it just in case it held something worth finding. Seeing nothing, they ventured into the thick underbrush.

They spotted several squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks. They even glimpsed a deer before it ran off. This was more of the adventure they were looking for. They found funny looking mushrooms which they knew better than to touch. They found a tree that had been struck by lightning and fell, its charred body resting on the forest floor. They found some caterpillars and let them walk all over their hands and arms. This really was a proper adventure. But they knew it was getting late, and they were further from their neighborhood than they should be so they soldiered home. Luckily, they made it back before dinner time, so they had not worried anyone. But they had vowed to keep their adventure in the woods a secret. If that old man did not want them in the woods, their parents probably didn’t either and they were not about to give up a prime adventure spot just because some adults wanted to be poopy pants. Simon knew Peter had a hard time keeping secrets so he had Peter ask his parents if he could have dinner at Simon’s house, they agreed.

They just sat down to dinner when Peter started to itch. He tried to scratch quietly under the table, but it was no use. It was getting worse. Soon, Simon was scratching as well. They soon drew puzzled looks from Simon’s parents. “What is wrong, boys?” his dad asked. “You’re awfully fidgety.” “Looks like you have something itchy…” his mom said. “Come over here,” Simon climbed off his stool and obeyed. His mother had to inspect him for only a few seconds before she started laughing.

“Where did you boys get to today?” she asked. “Just around town,” Simon said. “What is it dear?” Simon’s dad asked. “Well, it appears that the boys picked up a nice case of poison ivy,” she said a smile on her face. “Where did you pick up that?” he wanted to know. “The woods behind the grocery store,” answered Peter’s small and guilty voice. “Well,” she said, “that place is absolutely crawling with the stuff so that makes sense. Let’s get you boys cleaned up.” She had them wash and put on clean clothes. She smothered their now red and rashy skin with some sort of soothing lotion and put the poor, uncomfortable boys to bed. They were laying there, awake, when Peter spoke up. “Next time, let’s listen to the adults, ok Simon?” “Yeah, ok Peter.”


Lindy jumped for joy as she saw Grace extricate her lanky frame from her little car. Grace was attempting to carry multiple bags, which she promptly scattered as she swept Lindy into a bear hug.       “Still living up to your name, I see,” said Lindy, laughing. “Graceful as ever! Welcome, sister. So glad you could keep me company while Dave's away.”  A stocky man with a buzz cut and ear protectors suddenly appeared in the garden next door. With military bearing, he began marching up and down the lawn, wielding a leaf blower, blowing the leaves towards them.        “What?” said Grace, trying to lip read over the noise of the blower.        “I said you’re as graceful as ever…never mind,” Lindy yelled, scooping up dropped items. “Let’s go inside where we can hear ourselves think.” Grace scurried after her, covering her ears.         “Well, little sister, it’s very cute,” said Grace, shedding her coat and scarf and gazing around the cozy interior of the little house. “I must say I never imagined you two rebellious counterculture beings in a subdivision in the suburbs. How do you like it so far? And what’s up with Captain Courageous next door?” Lindy deposited the bags and poured wine. The noise of the leaf blower receded.         “Needs must,” she said. “I’d much rather be out in the country, but it’s what we can afford for now. I haven’t turned into a Stepford wife yet. Most of the neighbors are okay, other than Mr. Simpson, that old curmudgeon next door. We are currently engaged in the great leaf standoff. Cheers."        “Cheers,” said Grace, sipping her wine. “You’re engaged in what?”          “You heard the leaf blower. He’s fanatical about keeping the leaves off his lawn. It drives him nuts that we don’t worry about ours. If we keep the grass regulation length, there’s nothing he can do about it, so that makes him even crankier. He revs up that blower whenever he sees someone arrive here and blows all his leaves onto our side.”           “That’s petty,” said Grace. “Have you tried talking to him about it?”          “When he first complained about us not clearing the leaves off our lawn, we tried to explain that we believe it’s better to let the leaves decay naturally and that the leaf blower is not environmentally friendly. We probably did come across as a bit more preachy than we meant, but he exploded. He accused us of having no standards, no morals and no community spirit or words to that effect. It’s our generation’s fault that the country is going to hell in a hand-basket. You get the idea. Hence the leaf blower which greets our visitors and wakes us up early on weekends.”              “So, you’re just going to wait him out till leaf season is over?” said Grace.              “He cranks the blower up whenever he sees us coming now. It's impossible to talk over that racket even if we tried,” said Lindy. “It’s a stalemate for the time being.”          “Is there a Mrs. Courageous?” Lindy shrugged.          “No one seems to know. Neighbors say she’s been an invalid for a while, and no one has seen her recently. We’re not the only ones he’s argued with, so everyone’s been avoiding him.”           “So sad,” said Grace, shaking her head. “Never mind. Let’s do the grand tour.” After Lindy had shown her the house, they went out into the garden. There was no sign of Mr. Simpson. The yellows, reds, and oranges of the fallen leaves on Lindy’s lawn were bright spots in the slightly foggy dusk. Mr. Simpson’s immaculate green lawn looked almost garish in the soft fall light. Grace picked up a perfect sycamore leaf and was admiring its delicate tracery of veins when something caught her eye where the leaf had lain. It was a ring with a large, clear sparkling stone. She picked it up and proffered it to Lindy.                 “Is this yours?” she said.                  “Never seen it before,” said Lindy, examining it. “It looks like a diamond. It’s beautiful. If it's real, it's not something I could ever afford.” The ring glittered as she held it up to the light. She slipped it into her pocket.            “I’ll put it away safely. If no one comes looking for it, I’ll put an ad on the neighborhood list serve.”         Next morning, they were sitting in the kitchen sipping their coffee when Grace noticed Mr. Simpson. He was walking slowly up and down his lawn, minus the leaf blower and ear protectors, with his eyes glued to the ground. She pointed him out to Lindy.        “He must be looking for something,” said Lindy. “I almost didn’t recognize him. He looks so stooped and old compared to usual.”          “I wonder,” said Grace. “Do you think the ring might belong to him? We should ask him.”          “Do I have to?” said Lindy. Grace looked at her with mock severity. “Okay, okay, big sister, I’ll be the better person. As least he doesn’t seem to have the leaf blower to hand.”        They approached him cautiously. He nodded apathetically when he saw them. Usually immaculately groomed, he was unshaven. It worried Lindy more than if he had yelled at her as usual.          “Have you lost something, Mr. Simpson?” she asked. “Can we help you look?”          “My wife’s engagement ring,” he said gruffly.   Lindy held the ring out to him. Mr. Simpson gasped, his eyes widening.           “I don’t believe it. Where did you find it? Thank you so much.” To Lindy’s astonishment, he began to cry, tears trickling down his bristly cheeks. Grace gently gave him a brief hug. He sobbed for a moment, then regained his composure, roughly swiping his face. He cleared his throat.         “My wife hasn’t been well lately. She’s lost a lot of weight and the ring kept sliding off her finger. I was going to surprise her by having resized. I must have dropped it on the lawn. When I blew the leaves into your garden, it ended up over there. " "I'm glad we found it," said Lindy. "I hope your wife recovers soon," Mr. Simpson looked at Lindy, tears welling again.

       “The doctors say we shouldn't expect...we shouldn't hope, ah, damn it." He wiped his face with his sleeve, looking exhausted. He straightened up with an effort. "I am sorry, young lady. I haven’t been very neighborly to you and your husband. Since my wife’s been so ill, little things get on my nerves and I lose my temper for no reason. I'm not proud of it. My wife would be the first to say I’m being a jerk. Can we start over?”  He extended his hand. Lindy smiled as she grasped it.           “Of course. Please tell us if we can do anything to help. Grocery shopping, cooking, house cleaning, you name it. Just no leaf blowing!” He gave a brief chuckle and saluted as he headed back to his house, clutching the ring.


Tea with Tara Z               The limousine crossed the bridge into the city and the once distant twinkling engulfed her, as if the air itself had combusted into the white-hot light of a sparkler. She at once felt connected to something so much bigger than herself, and yet, she also felt tiny and unseen. She was a spec upon the brightest star. She rolled the window down so she could remember what the night she met Tara Z smelt like.               She was nervous and seriously considered not even going. She wished the contest had at least let her take a friend. That was the only thing she'd change if she could. Selfies alone in the backseat of a limo look sad, even if you playfully tucked a champagne flute under your chin. She waited until the sun began to rise, right as they turned onto 5th Avenue, before taking the shot she posted to her Insta. "Breakfast at Tiffany's, bitches!" She had 10,000 likes and comments by the time the driver opened the door. One follower wrote: "You are the luckiest girl in the world."               The math certainly reflected her good fortune. More than 300,000 people had entered the national contest to have "Tea with Tara Z" over breakfast at the iconic NYC restaurant. But last week she awoke to a headline in her feed that made her scream, as her father would describe it to relatives on the phone later, as if she was being stabbed to death. "New Jersey YouTuber Wins Pop Star Meetup." Luckily her brother was home, so they were able to reshoot the moment she found out—for TikTok and Facebook Live. By the end of the day, she had 100,000 new subscribers to her channel. When she awoke the next morning, that number had tripled.               A tall woman with high cheekbones and blond hair pulled back into a bun, stood waiting for her just outside the limo. Dakota marveled at how perfect her makeup was, and how her outfit— a leather pencil skirt paired with a purple satin blouse and thick belt— seemed worthy of a red carpet, or the runway. She held a tablet like a clipboard, and, in the other hand, a walkie talkie. "She's here, main entrance. ETA to you: 5," she said into the device before motioning for Dakota to follow her.               "Sorry, we just have to walk and talk. You're late."               "Oh, I," Dakota stammered. "I— "              "No worries. Not your fault. Fucking limo driver was told to take the tunnel. That's on me. Our usual guy's got COVID. Oh, which reminds me, you're going to need to show her security guys your vaccination card and they’ll also do an instant PCR on you so you can meet her without a mask."              Dakota was having a hard time keeping up with the woman, who glided in her red-soled high heels with the athleticism of a speed skater. The grandeur of the lobby was a blur of crystal and marble. As the elevator doors closed a woman struggling to carry a stack of teetering pizza boxes pleaded. "Can you hold it?"              The woman in the purple satin blouse pushed “Door Closed” and looked at her watch, then at her tablet, then at her watch again.               "I'm sorry, I don't even know your name," Dakota said.              The woman smiled at her. The doors opened at their floor. "I'm just a production assistant." The lobby of the restaurant was filled with baskets of flowers. A group of men were setting up lights and two women were discussing how many feet apart two armchairs needed to be for the interview.               The production assistant walked her over to a tanned man in his 30s, wearing a pressed oxford shirt, designer jeans and expensive looking leather loafers, without socks. "Dakota, this is Max Schoenfeld. He is the director of the shoot today." She looked at Max, her eyes practically squinting with annoyance, and, without breaking her stare with the director, said to Dakota. "Good luck."              He rolled his eyes. "Don't mind Miss Thing, she just found out she won't be in the second season of Love Cabin Alaska, and she is taking it out on all of us."               Dakota went to say something, but Max kept going.              "Ok, so...." It took her a few seconds to realize he was pointing at her because he wanted to be reminded of her name.               "Dakota," she said, looking reflexively down at her shoes, a defense mechanism from middle school she was surprised was still just under the surface.              "Right. Like Dakota Johnson. I like it. Good choice for TikTok."               "It's actually my real name," she said.               Max stared at her as if he didn't understand. "You're hilarious. I was dreading this shoot today. You know, contests, right? How sad."               It was her turn to look confused.              "Oh, no, darling. Not you. You're not sad. You're fantastic. I checked out your Insta and you are going places. And with a little vocal training, you may even get that singing down. That's how Tara started. Just a few YouTube videos. And now look at her. Did you know she has nearly 100 million followers on her YouTube channel now and CelebrityValueGuess.com estimates her net worth to be 30 million?              "Is that right?"               He laughed. "I don't think the number matters after the first 10. Anyway, follow me, I need to take you to makeup."               Max walked ahead of her down a long hallway with gleaming glazed concrete floors, and modern looking frosted glass sconces set into the walls every few feet. His pace, unbelievably, exceeded that of her previous chaperone. As she struggled to keep up with him in her new, knock-off heels, which she hoped nobody would recognize were from Payless, she spotted a sign for the ladies’ room jutting out of the wall down another hallway. "Max, I am sorry, but do you mind if I use the rest room?"              The look on his face emphatically said that he did, but he replaced it with what felt like a rehearsed-to-perfection smile. "Of course! Take your time. Makeup is the last door on the right at the end of this hall. I am going back to the set. Meet you there?"                "Yes, sorry, thank you," she said as she ducked down the side corridor, hearing him say into his walkie talkie, "Guest is headed to makeup after a quick tinkle, over."              When she entered the bathroom, she for a second thought she had walked through the wrong door. A small foyer, wallpapered in cranberry and gold, offered two upholstered leather chairs on either side of a small table. On it, there were several bottles of very expensive perfumes she had only ever smelt when the girls at Nordstrom’s sprayed her with samples. Against the wall was a glass refrigerator stocked with Gatorades and six kinds of water: sparkling, flat, caffeinated, vitamin-infused, electrolyte-fortified and—who could live without it?— coconut. The same soft-lit sconces were on the walls, upon which hung original oil paintings. She heard a toilet flush and the creaking of a door.               As she rounded the wall separating the foyer from the sinks and stalls, their eyes met in the mirror and she stopped dead in her tracks, as if she had been hit with a tranquilizer dart. It was her! Tara Z! In the bathroom. With her. Just the two of them.               "Tell Max to go fuck himself! I'll be ready when I am fucking ready! Jesus Christ, like I want to meet this sad little sycophantic TikTwat!" Tara screamed, making Dakota take a few steps backwards. Tara splashed her face with water and, grabbing a cloth hand towel from a pile between the sinks, turned now to face Dakota.               Tara studied the stunned teenager for a moment. "Oh shit. I thought you were...but you're...fuck, I am so sorry. I'm just stressed out today. I—"              "Oh, no worries," said Dakota, still starstruck enough to insulate her from the comments' sting. "I don't think I'm a sycophant, although I am not sure I 100 percent know what that word means."

                The pop star laughed at this, an exaggerated hearty giggle that then dissolved into sobbing. Tara waived the air in front of her as if shooing away a fly and, with her other hand, used the washcloth to dab at the running mascara pooling in the corners of her eyes.

              "You are being so sweet after what I just said, and I, man, it was just a shit thing to say, and I am so, you know, stressed out? I told them I didn’t want to do this today. Not because I didn't want to meet you, like, you the person , but because I have 30 of these bullshit appearances this week. I was hoping to get out and visit my aunt while I was here, but by tomorrow, I'll be too tired and I know I'll just go back to my hotel room and, and..."              Tara suddenly shook her head “no,” as if she thought of how to finish her sentence but couldn’t bear the thought. She blew her nose loudly into the washcloth, pulled on the hem of her sequined skirt, tucked her long blonde hair above her ears with a quick swipe of both her middle fingers, stood up straight, inhaled deeply and said, "Let's sit for a bit, before we go out there." She walked past Dakota, who turned and followed her back to the fancy foyer. Tara sat down in one of the chairs and motioned for her guest to take the other.               For a second, the only sound Dakota could hear was the sconces, bulbs quietly humming like an electric fence. Tara was sitting, facing the door, her eyes closed, as if she was about to meditate, or nap. "It would be funny if we just had the interview here, in the bathroom," Dakota offered tentatively. "You could call it Toilet Talk with Tara, or some shit."              "Don't give them any ideas," Tara said, her eyes still closed. "They'd greenlight that in a second if they thought I'd get 1000 more followers."               Dakota offered a nervous chuckle. Then silence set in again. Thirty seconds passed, in which Tara said nothing and Dakota pretended to check her email on her phone.               "Can I ask you something?" the celebrity inquired, breaking from her trance, and resting her face in the palm of her hand, one elbow on the arm of the chair.                "Of course. Anything." As she said it, she still couldn’t believe she was talking to Tara Z. The same person she had just watched in that awesome surfing movie on Netflix the night before.                "Are you sure you know what you want?"                  That answer came easy for Dakota, who articulated her vision to her fans all the time. "Yes, I want to build my brand and develop a following of people who share my goals, positivity and healthy lifestyle."                "And then what?" Tara asked, eyes wide open, scooting to the edge of her chair. She reached out and took Dakota’s hands in hers.               They stared at one another for a moment, before Dakota confessed, "I guess I don't understand the question?”               "Who will you be when you're famous?”               Tara Z stood up. Dakota stood too but Tara shook her head and motioned for her to sit back down. "I'm going to head into makeup now for a touch up. It's a small room. Just wait here and I'll have Kathy come get you when she's done with me.”                Tara grabbed the door and opened it and Dakota blurted out.               "I'll be me."               Tara Z stopped and turned and smiled kindly, her eyes filling with fresh tears.                "I really hope so."


‘I swear, Scallop stood by me’, said the blonde haired girl. ‘Admitting your mistake won’t help you this time Abigail Smith!’ her mother said scornfully. ‘I didn’t say I admitted it, I’m saying that I didn’t do it!’ her blue eyes almost filled up with tears as she said this. ‘What am I supposed to say? The whole school lied?’ her mother started shouting. ‘Oh! For once can you be in my shoes? You are supposed to support me’ she grabbed her guitar and sat by a corner and the rest she heard was her mother’s furious voice shouting, ‘BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!’ as she played it. The next thing she can hear was the breaking of the corner wooden piece of her precious instrument, her mother screaming, ‘ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?’ and her own heart breaking into a million pieces. She sobbed and her face went red with anger as she left the house with her diary and pen to the place she can call “Peaceful ” for a heart with raging emotions like hers. She sat down below a tree, she could hear her father screaming at her mom and she cried with agony. About an hour later she sobbed down and took her dairy and pen and made her heart speak as she wrote, “That morning,     I was standing in the crowd when our principal announced, ‘Our school mascot Scallop ,The Lamb has been stolen.’ Being a girl with not so much courage I was terrified. Then I felt something soft rubbing my feet, I looked down, my eyes nearly jumped off and I think they would have fell down. Because it was scallop itself all white with his pink bow around his neck. Lifting him up I was about to say,     ‘I fo…’ but suddenly a nice clear voice interrupted, ‘She stole Scallop’. It appeared to me as if the whole school was telling the same. The rest of the things were a blur and it was nearly a night mare coming true…” she fell fast asleep. She opened her eyes as Scallop licked her freckled cheeks. She got up on her feet to see a place that was in grief. She had a feeling that the place had been defeated by war. She looked upon a sand brown sky which was filled with dark red clouds, the trees stood bare, a chill down her spine told her that the place was haunted. The next thing she saw made her confirm the fact. It was a weird, dark shadow, coming towards her but it suddenly came to a halt but seemed to be moving sideways but fixed at the bottom. She made her mind to run away. As she was running a series of thoughts flashed on and off her mind. ‘Where should I go? What kind of creature was that? Why is Scallop with me? What place is this? Why are the clouds red?’ But the sight of something else made her stop running and go back. As she turned back she still saw the elephant like figure standing at same place. ‘ NO! I’m not courageous enough to take one more look at that horrible thing.’ But something told her to. She couldn’t win over her curiosity. She made small steps smaller than Scallop would! ‘ No I won’t go there!’ her heart screamed with fright. She could neither go right nor left. She stood there fighting with her intuition and curiosity. She then mustered courage to take one more daring look at it and then her heart jumped of her ribs . She screamed with fright as she saw two alien like creatures, both grey in colour , absolutely the same face , just like an upside down pear , and of the same height. They said, ‘Hi!’ but the sound was louder than she thought and seemed to be coming from her back. As she turned there were millions of creatures like that as if they were all copies of the other. She would’ve fainted if one of the two creatures she first met hadn’t said, ‘ Don’t be scared! We’re not going to hurt you.’ The other one said, ‘I know our appearance may make you terrified but we were once beautiful pixies, you know…’ ‘Shhh!!! She’s a stranger Friday!!’ interrupted the other one. ‘No she’s not Saturday’ said a pixie who looked like he was the oldest and wisest of all. He continued, ‘Don’t you all recognize? She .. is the Lost Princess!’ ‘Lost princess? Pixies? What are you talking about?’ asked Abigail. ‘Let me tell you my dear.’ the wise old pixie hastened to explain, ‘As Friday said we were all once pixies. But one day an enemy of ours killed our King and our Queen. We tried to save you, so we sent you to Earth. Goldpix as the name says was once golden, teemed with beautiful creatures but everything turned upside down after the war. You were our only faith. We’ve been waiting for you all these days. I hope you would set things right, won’t you?’ ‘I would if I knew what has to be done and had the courage to do it.’ said Abigail solemnly. ‘You have to use your powers’ said the wise old pixie. ‘Powers? I have powers?’ ‘Yes. You do’ , said Saturday. ‘Maybe she doesn’t know how to use them Saturday just like we did!’ said Friday to the other pixie. Abigail didn’t know if this was something she must be happy or sad for. After a long silence she said, ‘I don’t think I can help you, I don’t have any powers, I have to go home, please send me home.’ ‘We don’t know how to send you back ho..’ as the wise old pixie was saying, ‘ I do, you just have to fa…’ Friday interrupted him. He closed his mouth as Saturday kicked his feet. ‘Tell me.. please.. how do I go home?’ pleaded Abigail. But the old pixie said sternly, ‘Look dear, we lost you once. We don’t want to lose you again.’ Abigail turned back and started to run. The wise pixie ordered, ‘ Take her to the dungeons so she may not escape.’ Abigail cried with misery as she was sitting in a cell of the dungeon. It was dark but she was given nice meals as she was their ‘Princess Back Home’. ‘I just want to go back home, I don’t have any powers , please let me go..’ she cried bitterly as she said. She looked at Scallop who was lying solemnly on her lap. She heard a sweet voice say, ‘Who are you?’. She was mystified. ‘Scallop? Did you talk? How could you possibly talk? Well I think with were once pixies roaming around you talking wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.’ ‘No. It’s me. Hi, I’m Brent.’, said a boy nearly the same age of her. ‘Who are you?’ asked Abigail. ‘Nah! Asked the question first.’ ,said Brent. Abigail didn’t hesitate to answer, ‘I’m Abigail. Last night I fell asleep and opened my eyes to see this weird old lame place. They say they were pixies.. and that I’m their lost princess’. ‘YES!!!! I guessed it just right! I knew it! My King Richard and my Queen Leslie keeps talking about you all the time. Well not all times, only when they’re awake.’, said Brent in a slow soft voice. ‘What do you mean when they are awake? ,’ asked Abigail. ‘Well. There was a witch called The Red Witch. She captured me, King Richard and The Queen and left us in a lonely forest. The King and the Queen barely wakes up but they keep chanting your name as if they know you. They always describe how you look , you know , your blonde hair, blue eyes, freckled cheeks and most importantly that lamb, what is it’s name again? Scallop , yes. I followed the witch one day to Goldpix to seek for medicine to cure the King and The Queen. But they captured me here for some reason which they kept to themselves!’ said Brent. Abigail offered him a deal, ‘ Ok. If I help you escape this dungeon would you help me use my powers?’. This was a weird deal for Brent, ‘You never know to “use” your powers you “feel” it.’ ‘Well can you teach me how to “feel” it?’ asked Abigail. ‘I don’t know. But I’ll certainly try if you help me cure the King and Queen.’, said Brent. ‘Ok so tonight we escape this dungeon.’, said Abigail with a grin. That night after their meals Abigail sent Scallop running in a weird way. ‘Man, that lamb literally understands every word you say.’ Said Brent. Abigail smiled and took his hand and opened the cell gate with the most common hairpin trick and started to run like cats. Not a single soul noticed them. In about an hour of running at half past twelve they were in the heart of the forest. Abigail was in the depths of her fear. She kept close to Brent. Brent said, ‘ Be careful. I’ve never been in this part of the forest.’ They suddenly felt something soft rubbing against both of their legs. Their eyeballs widened as if they were going to pop out. The two jumped with fright and started running. When Brent was going to look behind, Abigail said, ‘ NO!! Don’t look back. Just don’t. You won’t know what horrible things you would see.’ But Brent wasn’t afraid. He looked back and stopped running for once and said, ‘Hey look!! It’s Scallop’. Abigail caught her breath back and went closer to see that Scallop was injured. ‘Scallop. Oh! Dear. How did you get this awful bruise. Oh it was my fault. She started crying and placed her hand on the wound. Taking her hand off she asked Brent to look for medicine. She saw the surprised look on Brent’s face and asked, ‘What are you looking at in yonder?’ Brent said, ‘ I think there is no need to look for medicine.’ ‘No need to look for medicine? Are you kidding? Scallop is bl..’ as she turned to look at the bruise in Scallop’s knee her jaw dropped open. Brent said, ‘ I think you have discovered your power and it is healing people!’ Abigail would have almost fainted. Brent asked her, ‘ What’s the matter?’. Abigail said, ‘ I don’t think I’m ready for this. I mean.. I don’t deserve it. You see.. I am no one special.’ ‘You may not have been special but now is your chance to be. You can’t get rid of it. You have to live with it. I know it’s heaven and hell.’ Said Brent. ‘Are you an expert at this or what?’ asked Abigail. ‘I am no expert. But experience speaks. I have the power to make people happy. C’mon let’s go. ’, said Brent. They went forward into the forest. ‘I think I know this part of the forest. Yes the path behind this ivy leads us to the place where the King and the Queen are.’ said Brent in excitement pushing the ivy apart and discovering the way. They could see a haunted cottage a few miles away. ‘This place is beautiful.’ said Abigail in awe. ‘This place may be beautiful but as much as it is beautiful it is dangerous.’ said Brent. ‘Oooh!’, said Abigail noticing that the place was already creepy enough. Suddenly they heard something behind the bushes. They turned to see nothing. The next thing they knew someone grabbed them by the feet. They were dragged by someone. The two of them started screaming, they were pulled ruthlessly , by something. Abigail shouted, ‘ Is it magical ivy?’ Brent assured her, ‘ No! It’s the Red Witch!’ The dragging stopped and they finally opened their eyes to see the King and the Queen. The witch said, ‘ Finally, it’s the Lost Princess’ in her fine English accent, ‘ Your powers will give me the title of The Greatest Witch in the Universe.’ Then she vanished into dark red ashes. As soon as she went Brent said, ‘ Soon heal them with your powers. ‘ I can’t do it on command. I don’t have the slightest idea how the hell did I heal Scallop’, said the alarmed girl. ‘You have to feel the same feel you felt while healing Scallop. Please you’re the only hope. The medicine I gave them didn’t work!,’ pleaded Brent. Abigail went and knelt near the King and touched him , he woke up immediately and opened his eyes to see the beautiful girl. He said, ‘ My daughter. You are back!!’ Abigail looked at Brent, he nodded as he knew that she was their daughter. All this was incredibly weird for Abigail as she already had parents ! Then she said nothing and did the same to the Queen , her mother. She hugged her lost girl as if the hug would last for a thousand years. The King broke the long emotional silence by saying , ‘ The witch. We have to stop her. She is the cause for all these crises. She caused a war between Goldpix and Prospix by subjecting the pixies of both lands to misunderstandings. She first kidnapped Brent from Prospix and blamed us for it. During war she defeated us , took us here and deprived us of all our powers. She did the same to all the pixies of Goldpix and Prospix. We managed to save only you by sending you to earth. You have the power to fight her. You are our only hope.’ ‘Fight her! NO!! Not me. I’m not as courageous as any of you here are. I won’t stand a minute in front of her. Please send me back home.’ said Abigail her eyes filling up in tears. ‘You have all the powers to fight her. You have to believe in yourself. You have to muster up courage. It is heaven or hell. You gotta fight her or you are gonna end up like us.’ said Brent. She sat for a few minutes and said, ‘ I dunno if this is all a dream or is it really happening? But I always give up on things before I even try. I must not do that to you too. It is your life and your powers and you must get it back. So I will try all possible ways to restore them to you’. ‘ Common we better be heading soon and if we are gonna stop that Red Monster we are gonna need back up.’ said Brent with a grin as if it said, ‘ I have a plan’. As they went past the ivy Brent bid goodbye to the three of them and started running towards Prospix. Meanwhile as they went to Goldpix they were stunned at what they saw. They saw the king of Prospix and the wise old pixie fighting. The king of Prospix threw his sword at the old pixie and he fell on the ground with a loud thud. The king of Goldpix at once took the sword in the pixie’s hand and went on to fight the King of Prospix. Abigail hurried to the old pixie’s help and in no time she healed him. Meanwhile she saw something that surprised her. It was the King of Prospix coming along with Brent. Then it occurred to her that the one fighting with the King of Goldpix was the Red Witch ! She at once shouted, ‘ She is The Red Witch. She is the cause for everything that is happening here. The Queen proved it as she was holding her magical glass towards the witch. The Red witch said, ‘ Don’t you dare take one more step towards me or I will blow your king to hell. Abigail said, ‘ I’m all you want why do you hurt these poor pixies?’ The witch smiled sarcastically and said, ‘ Why I hurt them? They once humiliated me. I don’t think you all might remember Alexa McCartney who once was a pixie like you? Now it’s payback time and you must accept it whether you like it or not.’ Abigail didn’t know what needs to be done. She can’t put the King’s life to bait. She had to do something and at once the idea flashed her heart. It was the same idea that was coming from Brent’s mouth, ‘ Abigail! Heal her heart!’ After she cast the magic the whole of Goldpix and Prospix was reborn and revived again. Friday and Saturday said in unison, ‘ The Revival of Goldpix and Prospix’. The Red Witch was no longer called that and everyone respected Alexa McCartney as a beautiful pixie. The coronation of Abigail as princess ended up in a celebration that lasted for a month! The king said , ‘ Don’t worry my child. You have the best of both worlds. He said a spell and she woke up to find sunshine blinding her eyes. ' All of this happened in a night? ' , she headed home wondering if it was a dream but Scallop assured it wasn’t. He also gave away the secret of who actually stole him! It was the girl who blamed Abigail. Scallop was indeed the magical lamb who took Abigail to Goldpix.


He sits in his usual place in the tavern, downing his usual amount of ale. The empty tankards collect on his table as the people collect around him. His face is covered in ancient scars. He can tell the most marvellous stories. Whether they are true or not, no one can tell. He laughs. If it is free of misery or full of regret, no one can tell.

You know, I used to be much younger. Good looking too. What, will no wench give me a kiss now? ’Tis alright. The glass tells me the same thing ye see. But it did not always show such a face, such limbs. I used to be the epitome of strength. Ye laugh. Well, listen to a story, will you? Of course ye will. But ye will not believe me. Imagine for a moment, if you will, the king’s court. King Gustav the Third. He sat on his lonely throne, haggard and old. The musicians and jesters and dancers did not come any more. They had given up. When his daughter burned, so did his smiles. She had taken his laughter with him into the land where none can follow.

There was talk of a dragon afoot. That was why I had been summoned. We were to kill it. Other groups had gone and failed. It seems this dragon was like any had ever faced before. But every dragon must have a chink in its armour, and if enough archers were sent at once, one was sure to find it.

It was a long march. We trode between fields, through thick forests, over green plains that extended to the horizon. We travelled a complete fortnight. I, being an impulsive youngster, asked why it was a threat, so far outside our borders. Of course, as a youngster, my question was ridiculous. No dragon stayed in one place for very long. Once it had burned everything within sight, it would travel to decimate greener regions. We were going to meet it before it could kill our people.

When we reached the area it had been spotted in, there was nothing to greet us but barren earth. Occasionally the charred stump of a tree was visible. I made the mistake of touching one once. It crumbled to ash underneath my fingers, letting out a cloud of black dust that coated me for days.

The only advantage we had over the dragon was our numbers, and those could be extinguished if we stood in a group, so the whole fortnight I was within sight of my companions, but not a whit closer. None can blame me when I began to speak to the lone birds that flew overhead, the lizards that scurried under blackened rocks, and occasionally the rocks themselves. So when the dragon came, I spoke to it.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

We were approaching a green forest. In a day we would have to turn and walk along it, looking for some break where the trees were still hot and smoking. Then I seen the smoke. I nocked an arrow to my string, but did not draw. I could not see the dragon. Then the fire came. It exploded around Melvin. His bow was empty, his hand drawing an arrow from his quiver, but he never got the opportunity to nock it. Even from where I was standing, I seen the flames consume him. The burnt shaft of an arrow fell beside his corpse. But I also seen the dragon. It swooped low, its scales glistening gold in the light of the flames. At first I thought it was coming at me, but it passed overhead and disappeared over the forest. I chased it.

Now, don’t look at me so incredulously. As I said, I was young and impetuous. And good-looking. So I chased the dragon.

I ran as fast as I could underneath its shadow. The shadow grew larger, and for a moment I did not understand. Then the ground gave way beneath my feet, and I tumbled down a ravine. It landed just in front of me. It was facing away from me, so I slung my bow from my back, but my arrow clacked against the quiver. The dragon spun around, its tail lashing my feet. I flung out my hands in landing and lost my weapons. The dragon reared, the firelight flooding in its belly and rushing up its neck. I instinctively shielded my arms with my face.

The fire did not melt the flesh off my bones. In fact, it did not singe one hair on my head. It did not come. I brought my hands down, realizing how little they would help me. The dragon’s fire had bated, though it still glowed a warm bronze colour. It stared at me, blinking once, twice. It looked at my bow, which I made no move to touch. Fear had frozen my limbs. The dragon watched me.

I opened my mouth, and the dragon tensed.

“I’m sorry.” After having spoken to the creatures around me for weeks on end, the words came smoothly, as did the realization.

“You won’t burn me unless I shoot at you. Like Melvin did.” The glow faded from the dragon’s scales. A hiss sounded, and a shot of steam went up from one glossy eye.

“Melvin,” it said.

Aye, the dragon spoke. Now, just ye wait. Ye might as well hear the tale to the end! Where was I? Ah, yes. The dragon spoke in clear tones. Its sweet voice was laden with sorrow. I spoke back to it.

“Aye, that was his name.”

The dragon’s scales faded further, reflecting the dusk. “I am sorry I burned him.” “Then why did you?”

“He shot at me.” “He thought you were a threat.” “Because I am a dragon.”

“Aye.” I crossed my legs then, positioning myself more comfortably. If this dragon was going to kill me, it would do so whether or not I had a weapon. But if it did not, I told myself I would get a good story out of it. And here I am! The dragon lay down in front of me. “What is your name?” “Willem. What is yours?” “Do you not know, Willem?” I felt that I had heard that voice before, but my thoughts were distracted by a flicker of light rising up the dragon’s thought. She— for it was a she— let out a gentle breath and set just one tree, a few away from me, ablaze. The warmth was calming after so many nights sleeping out in the open. I turned towards it. The dragon did too, resting her great head on her clawed forefeet.

She had chosen the tree well. None of its neighbours caught. We watched as the flames licked along the branches, dropping them to the ground. Eventually only the stump was left, a pile of coals, glowing first orange and red, then grey, and finally white, drifting with the breeze. Then it came to me. I knew why her voice was so familiar. I had watched her, many times, lying in front of a dying fireplace, watching the flames the way she was now.

I jumped to my feet and bowed. “My Princess!” She turned to me, and if ever a dragon has attempted a smile, she did. Only it was a sad smile. “What is my name, Willem?” I was confused, but I answered. “Joanne.”

She arched her back, fire shooting through her body and out of her mouth, then fell to the ground. I heard her scream as she writhed. I called her name again, and she turned to face me, but the flames she belched out caught my body.

I ran for the pool I had passed before and dove in. The water was bliss itself, but I could not remain. I climbed out.

A cloud of ashes floated toward me. I stood still as it approached. They took on the form of a lovely young woman with a delicate crown on her hair.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Then she kissed my cheek just as a gust of wind came along and scattered her ashes.

When the other men found me, I was in the same place. They asked if I had seen the dragon, but I could not speak for days. The search was given up, and I resigned my place among the king’s archers. Why, you ask? The answer is this. Once your heart has been burned, nothing can ever heal it again.

He sits in his usual place in the tavern, downing his usual amount of ale. The empty tankards collect on his table as the people collect around him. His face is covered in ancient burns. He can tell the most marvellous stories. Whether they are true or not, no one can tell.


This was a challenge many, many years in the making. I first thought of doing it, when I read A Sari for a Month for Newsweek by Shoba Narayan. I loved the idea, and since then, it remained in my mind as something I would do one day. What’s the big deal for an Indian born and raised, 50-year-old woman to wear a saree for a month ? It’s not a big deal for most women of my age, especially if they were raised in India, just as I was. Even today, I have cousins, both older and younger, who wear a saree and feel no constraint and are completely at ease with it. But for me, it was a challenge. And what better way to embrace the new year than take on a challenge? I have always loved sarees. Loved their vibrant colors, their stylish drapes, the way the cloth felt. Talk to me of elegant women, and I immediately think of a saree clad woman. My mother, aunts, and cousins all drape it well and look so refined and put-together in a saree. However, my love for sarees lasted only till I left the shop with it; wearing one was never my choice. I didn’t know how to drape a saree well, and I was never comfortable in one — and it showed. While I love the Pottu (dot on the forehead), I dislike the other jewelry accessories that go with a saree. I wore sarees as infrequently as I could, and eventually, I got worse at draping, worse at walking in it. Even with pins, the sarees unspooled. And driving — “Why did I get married if I have to drive even while wearing a saree?” Part of the problem was that I did not have the kind of sarees I could be comfortable in for many hours. Mine were either super heavy Kanjeevarams, or super soft ones that spooled all over if I moved just so. I got so used to comfort wear — my faithful sweats or a pair of jeans — and left my sarees hanging in my closet like prized pieces of art. There was always the guilt, though, and then the inevitable

what are my girls learning from me about the saree and, by extension, about India and Indian clothing ? Well, I did find out what the girls thought of it. We were talking about clothes, colors etc. and my daughter said (I paraphrase) “Sarees are not comfortable and are for old people — young people would never be able to wear it.” When I reminded her that her grandmothers lived in a saree day and night and did everything, far more than we did, she said, “Exactly. Old people can be comfortable in it. You wouldn’t be able to wear it all day and be comfortable,” Challenge accepted. I would spend 31 days (1 month) in a saree. All-day, every day. I did give myself some outs: It was winter in California, I would wear the saree with sweaters. No Jewelry. I would wear the saree from my morning shower till my night shower — typically after my cup of tea in the morning, until I was ready to go to bed. I gave myself three sick days, days when I could not wear the saree for health reasons. If used, I would make them up at the end and keep the challenge. I used one. If I could do it in sweats, I would do it in a saree, but if I could not do it anyway, then it’s not on the ‘saree’. So how was my journey? In two words, very comfortable. Once I decided to do it, a switch went off. This is what I had to do, so I was going to do it and be comfortable. I give huge merit points to the sweaters. Without the uncomfortable blouses or the constraining jewels, it was me in a saree and not a foreign being. It was night and day in comfort compared to all my previous experiences. What did I do or could not do? I did everything I would normally do, and then some. I increased my physical activities dramatically. Things that needed me to move more. I upped my dance aerobics by three times what I used to do. I did more hikes, more walks. The household chores, the work — all of it. One thing I wish I had done more of — I did not go on video calls as much. I did go on some, but not too many. There was the professional side of me that did not want to use up meeting time to explain my challenge and attire to non-Indian colleagues. In all fairness, even before, I never did video calls. So no one thought any different when I didn’t switch the video on. I do not think what I wear has any bearing on what I do or how I work or how I think…but that is a different challenge I guess :) Did I see many questioning glances? But of course — you can’t go hiking, shoe shopping or walk in the rain in a vibrant saree and expect no one to notice. There were many eyes on me, but they didn’t make me or the folks with me uncomfortable. Would I do this again? In a heartbeat. But I would not call it a challenge! So, the changes that came in because of this: I can now drape a saree well. I still do not look as great in a saree as I have seen others look, but I do not look sloppy or uncomfortable either. My biggest win is that I do not use pins at all. Not a single one. Not even when I do aerobics or hiking. That is a huge win, as I have never seen my mom use pins either and it always bothered me that I needed them. Well, not any more. The other big win: thanks to my large-hearted friend S, who loaned (and now says she gifted) me 10+ sarees for the challenge, I now know the sarees that I am comfortable in. Things I like, can drape, and can live in. I also have a closet full of them. WIN Today is day 31. Am I going to miss wearing a saree…well, no, not really, but I liked it while it lasted. Loved dressing up every morning, the whole process from what will I wear to finding sweaters that match, the daily photos, etc. I have happy thoughts associated with a saree. But I can’t wait for sunrise tomorrow and to don my well-worn sweats and t-shirt as I get ready for another workday. What is the one thing I hope you get out of it? Exactly the lesson that my kids got and acknowledged on day 10 of my challenge — sarees are the perfect combination of elegance and comfort. You can do anything in them and do it more elegantly than you would in any other attire. If I can do it, anyone can. Wear it with grace….. for 31 days.


“Violets is Sometimes the Answer” When I was younger, Baba always told me, “even when someone is unkind to you, show them kindness.” I would ask him why, and he’d say, “because that is how I want to raise you and Ayaan. I don’t want my kids to arbor ill feelings and hold grudges. I’ve seen it tear my own family apart and I refuse to see it ruin your generation. Be better.”            At the time, I knew he was talking about how his whole perception of marriage was messed up in his youth because he didn’t have healthy examples of the concept in his early life. He barely spent time seeing his own parents’ marriage due to his dad passing away when he was ten. The only marriages he saw were that of his siblings, and none of them were based on love. They were all arranged and somehow, they all got the short end of the stick. The women were whiny and bitter, and the men were controlling and manipulative. I had to wonder how Baba turned out the way he did, considering his family. He was a bubbly person with a heart of gold that my mother respected him dearly for. Baba was the embodiment of a human teddy bear; soft, kindhearted, and gave excellent hugs that could cure any bad day. He’s the reason I never give up on relationships. Friendships in particular. Anytime I have a problem with one of my friends, he repeats his spiel about showing kindness. It’s because of him that I’ve never said something I regret to another human being. Instead, I took to sending flowers. You’re probably wondering what flowers have to do with displaying bitterness. Bear with me. Flowers have meanings. I know this because jasmines are big in my culture and my grandmother back in Pakistan grows them in her backyard. She used weave them together to form crowns as she’d explain to me that they symbolize a sweet sort of love. Since that moment, I begged her to teach me how to make flower crowns and she obliged. I hold that knowledge close to my heart, and every year for my parents’ anniversary, I give them flower crowns made of jasmines because they symbolize what a healthy relationship should look like. When I learned that flowers held meanings, I studied about all the different kinds of flora and fauna, and what they mean. Most flowers have sweet symbolism, but the reason I became so invested in the concept is because I wanted to convey my negative emotions in a way that didn’t defy Baba’s only demand of me. So, I learned all about the flowers that represented annoyance and anger. From that point, any time someone invoked those emotions in me, I’d gift them with the corresponding flower. I was free to convey my emotions and the instigator was none the wiser. They would forgive me because they’d see the flower as a peace offering. It was a win-win situation. It also helped that Baba supported this outlet for me and bought me all the flowers I desired. However, despite how kind one tries to be, everyone has a limit. Zaara was my limit. The people you show the most love to, can hurt you the worst. Zaara may have hurt me, but she taught me a valuable life lesson that I would not trade for all the gladioluses in the world. The beginning of the end started on a random Thursday morning. Zaara and I had been having problems in our friendship for months. Our arguments were mainly over trivial teenage girl things; misplaced borrowed items, negligence, and boys. We never seemed to be on the same page and my closest and most trusted friend, Farha noticed. Farha was a girl I met before I even knew what friendship was. She was the one who knew how something made me feel before I even had to tell her. Our mothers were very close friends, which is how we met. She was the ideal mediator because she never took sides, even if they were warranted. Zaara absolutely hated Farha for reasons I couldn’t explain. Every time I’d ask why, she’d avoid the topic and talk about something else. Farha knew, but never held it against Zaara, claiming she probably has her reasons. And despite Zaara’s hatred for Farha, Farha always gave impartial advice to me when I’d come to her with my friendship woes. The latest issue we had was that Zaara was spending all her time with a new girl, Raania. I liked Raania. She seemed cool and like nothing bothered her. It was a quality I envied a little if I’m being honest. As someone with extreme social anxiety and hypersensitive tendencies, I always wanted to be someone like Raania. I wanted the three of us to hang out and be friends, but it seemed like Raania and Zaara wanted to only be friends with each other.  I’d confronted Zaara about it twice, kindly of course as Baba’s words echoed in my head. But Zaara claimed it was all in my head. I thought maybe she was right. And that was when I made the decision to make Zaara a flower crown. I told Farha as much and to say she was shocked was an understatement. “You want to make Zaara a flower crown?” She asked, pushing her glasses up in a fashion that was on the precipice of judging. Farha would never directly tell me an idea I had was terrible, but her actions said it anyway. “Why not?” I asked, twirling a soft pink geranium across my fingers. It was one of the flowers I was planning on weaving into the flower crown for Zaara. “I know how special flowers are to you. Flower crowns are something you’ve only ever given your parents. Are you sure that’s something you want to share with Zaara?” Farha asked instead of answering my question. She was smart like that and it was easy to see why she was accepted into law school. “I think it will show Zaara that I’m serious about our friendship. And how I want to fix it. Like you said, flowers are very important to me,” I explain, slowly convincing myself of the same thing. Farha made a thin line with her lips and crossed her arms.            “But does Zaara know that? I support whatever you decide Afrah. I just don’t like seeing you hurt,” Farha says wistfully, seeming to find her shoes more interesting than this conversation. Did my best friend have a point? Would I be wasting a flower crown on Zaara? I was torn between doing what would please Baba and what would give my own heart ease. I never gave up on a friendship and I didn’t want to start. “I have to go take Maahia to Missed Steak for her birthday dinner. Do you still want to come with me? It could take your mind off of this for a while,” Farha offers. I had completely forgotten that it was her little sister’s birthday and I had promised Maahia I would come. What difference would it make if I showed up a little late? “I’ll just meet you there later. I want to figure this whole thing out first,” I tell Farha and wave her off as she leaves. I see that Zaara posted on her story that she was going to the park near downtown because a famous singer was rumored to be there tonight. That was the perfect avenue for me to bump into her and give her the flower crown. That is, if I was still going to give it to her. I plopped onto my bed face first with a heaving sigh and groaned at the impact of my stomach making contact with the firm mattress. The rich purple and blue tones of the hydrangeas and violets on my desk were glaring at me to give them attention. I had made the crown with the flowers I told Farha I was going to, but I’d bought these two in case I wanted some darker color. I also wasn’t sure the meaning of those flowers applied here for certain. I still had a few minutes before I needed to head to the park. That gave me time to think about if Farha had a point. Did Zaara deserve the crown? I wanted it to symbolize that our friendship was real, and nothing could come between it. My door opened in the middle of my thoughts and in came Ayaan with his usual confused look. “Can I help you?” I ask, quirking a brow. Ayaan shrugs and walks in uninvited. He makes his way over to the flower crown and places it on his unruly curly hair.            “It’s not Mama and Baba’s anniversary. What’s this one for?” He asks. I try not to laugh at how funny a flower crown looks on my six-foot brother and instead smile at how he pretends to be interested in my flowers.            “It’s not for them. It’s for Zaara,” I explain, hopping out of bed and taking the crown off of his mess of a head. “Why?” He asks, watching as I place it back on my desk. He moves to grab it again, but I smack his hand away. “Because I want her to know I’m serious about our friendship,” I answer him, reaching for my wallet and keys. I decided I was going to give it to her and see how it goes. “You going somewhere?” Ayaan asks, watching me grab my things haphazardly. “Yeah, tell Baba I’ll be home late. Bye!” I call, rushing out of my room before he can ask any more questions. I spot Zaara within seconds of walking into the park. She was dressed nicely as usual, but she’d play it off in a way that I always admired. Her coral pink top had these bell-shaped sleeves that gave a cute look, but it confused me. Just last month Zaara had gotten onto me about how ridiculous bell sleeves looked. Perhaps the fashion world took on a new trend? I reminded myself to ask her about it later as I approached where she and Raania stood. That was when I saw it. Raania had on the same top as Zaara. I had asked Zaara if the two of us could wear matching outfits countless times, but she claimed it was tacky. My heart gave a painful tug, and I felt the familiar rush of anxiety flow through me. Thoughts like ‘no one likes you. Zaara isn’t really your friend. Who would want to be friends with you?’ My social anxiety began to flare up and I willed it to stop. This was meant to be an attempt to fix things, not start more problems. Baba’s words echoed in my head. “Show kindness.” Maybe Zaara just changed her mind about matching clothes or maybe they were a gift from Raania and it would have been rude to refuse it. Breathing in and out deeply, I felt my heart rate decelerate and decided to walk over to them. “Hi Zaara, Hi Raania!” I greet cheerfully with one of my most friendly smiles. The two of them turn to look at me, and Raania nods to me in acknowledgement. “Afrah? What are you doing here?” Zaara asks in bewilderment. I laugh at how shocked she sounded and held up the flower crown. “I wanted to give you this. It even kind of goes with your outfit,” I say blissfully, thinking I made the right choice not to go with violets and blues. Zaara eyes the crown in confusion, but takes it, nonetheless. “Is it a necklace?” She asks with a small smile as she admires the colors. I laugh once more and try to ignore the look Raania gives me. Maybe I should have waited to give it to Zaara in private. It might not have looked nice to give her a present in front of Raania. “No, it’s a flower crown. I made it myself,” I boast slightly. It was a skill I took pride in because my grandmother had taught me and not many people knew how to make one. “Oh. Cool. Thanks. Well, we’re going to go see if Shawn Mendes is actually going to show up. I’ll catch up with you later. And thanks again for the flower crown,” she beams, walking off with Raania toward the pavilion. I felt another odd tug at my heart. Why didn’t she ask me to join them if I was already here? Why didn’t she wear it just to make me happy? Was I overreacting? Probably. Still, something didn’t sit right with me about this. I walked over to a bench and sat down, feeling my anxiety flare up again. The last time it got this bad, I had rushed into the girl’s room and called Farha from my phone and she calmed me down. My heart rate was rapidly increasing, and I felt more negative irrational thoughts flood my mind about how pathetic of a person I was. I snatched my phone out of my pocket and dialed her number quicker than my fingers could process, praying she’d pick up. “Hello?”            “Farha. Help.” “Afrah? Are you in trouble?”            “Can’t. Breathe.” “Okay hey hey, listen to me. We’re going to count backwards from five. Do you think you can do that?” Farha’s soothing voice asked in my ear. It was already starting to calm me a bit, but I didn’t think I could speak more than two words at a time. “No.” “Hey, sure you can. Repeat after me. Five.” “Five.” “Four.” “Four.” “Three.”            “Three.” “Two.”            “Two.” “One.” “One.” “Okay, what’s going on?” She asked in a teacher voice.            “I just had an anxiety thing. No big deal. Thanks for picking up,” I tell her, about to switch the phone off. “Wait. Where are you?” Farha asked before I could. “I’m on my way home from the store,” I lie. “I’m sorry but I’m not feeling great. Tell Maahia I’m sorry I missed her birthday dinner,” I say and click off the phone before she can try to convince me to still come. I sigh and drop my head into my hands. This night went a completely different way in my head. I decided I didn’t want to wallow all night, so I stood up and got ready to head back home and maybe do something with Ayaan, when I saw it. My flower crown, on the grass, unattended. I look around and see Zaara and Raania a few yards away taking pictures together. My blood boils and my fists involuntarily clench. I feel my anger rising, taking place of my sadness. Zaara didn’t deserve my flower crown or my friendship. She did not value me the way I did her. And she most certainly did not understand how important flowers were to me. Farha was right. Farha. My closest friend. I’d blown off her sister’s birthday to try and fix a friendship that wasn’t even worth saving. I shot one last look at my former friend and scooped up the flower crown she mistreated. Brushing it off, I raced toward my car, not looking back. I ran into my room with a speed I didn’t know I had. I looked at the flowers on my desk and instantly, almost mindlessly, began weaving together a crown of violets and blue hydrangeas and held it up. Four minutes. A new personal record. As I was admiring my handiwork, Ayaan came barging into my room questioning why I was home early. “Can’t talk, I’ll explain later, bye!” I call to him as I rush out, hoping I’m not too late. I sighed in relief when I saw that Farha’s car was still at Missed Steak and rushed into the restaurant. Maahia was opening her last birthday present and Farha was making a video of it. I quietly walked over when she was done and tapped Maahia on her shoulder. The little girl looked up and positively beamed when seeing me. “Afrah! But, Farha said you weren’t coming?!” She questioned excitedly. “I couldn’t miss your thirteenth birthday. I even made you something. Here,” I offer, handing her the peach and pink flower crown that I thought Zaara deserved. Maahia gaped at the sight of it and her eyes lit up.            “I’ve always wanted one of these but never asked! Thanks Afrah, you’re the best!” she says, placing it on her head immediately. I smile as pink seemed to be the color of the day as Maahia’s outfit matched the crown perfectly too. “So, someone decided to make it after all?” Farha’s voice sang as she moved the camera to me and ended the video when I waved sheepishly. “What changed your mind?” She asked, placing a hand on her hip. “Change of heart?” I try and Farha shakes her head with a knowing grin. “I made you something,” I start, and Farha holds a hand up. “I bet you I can guess what it is,” she interrupts with a mirthful smile. I nudge her playfully and hand her the purple and blue toned crown. Her outfit is red, making it look silly in her hands. “It’s lovely,” she says, setting the crown on her head. I want to tell her it doesn’t go with her outfit, but something tells me she already knew. It’s funny how life plays out. This morning I woke up and thought of Zaara, associating her with coral roses, and now all I thought of when it came to her were lavenders and blue tansies. Not all friendships are meant to work out and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. As long as the right friends are in your life, they’ll always outweigh the wrong ones.


“What do I do now, Tommo?” “Breathe in, Granddad. Then, slowly breathe out – as you release your grip.” “Why’s it shaking?” “Coz, you’re pulling too hard. Just relax a bit. There! Now, breathe in… Good. Now, slowly breathe out; then, let it go.” “Nothing’s ‘appened.” “You’re still gripping it tightly, Granddad.” “It’s me fuckin’ arthritis in me index finger, innit? I can’t straighten it quick enough.” “Look down, Granddad. Can you see what you’re doing wrong?” “I’m extending it too much?” “Correct. And you’re holding on to it with your middle finger. Your thumb should be tucked in, and you should be using both index and middle finger in the shape of the letter V .” “Like Winston Churchill used to do in the war to signify victory?” “Yes, Granddad. An ancient symbolic and iconic gesture of defiance. Subsequently adopted by the British population to animatedly demonstrate a way to express themselves when telling people to F-Off .” “One of the few good things that came out of the war. Churchill was good at stickin’ his fingers up at everyone.” “I know you’re old and melancholic, Granddad, but wasn’t the war over before you were born?” “Less of the old, you cheeky bugger, and yes, I was born after it ended. I grew up in a different world from yours. Didn’t have everything given to us. Didn’t have a television in our home, gas and electricity had to be paid for by putting coins in a meter in your hallway, and telephones were a luxury item with expensive bills. We had to work hard for what we earned.” “So you keep telling me.” “I mean, after the war, Britain was practically bankrupt. A third world country in a new world order. We ‘ad returning servicemen who couldn’t find work after fighting for their country, refugees creating food shortages, septics that stole our women – whisking them away to the land of Uncle Sam, chewing gum, and Coca Cola. Then, there was the Jewish problem.” “You’re not going to say anything bigoted, are you?” “Wot you take me for, Tommo? Everyone has a right to live free of tyranny, slavery, and persecution. Wot I’m talkin’ about is ‘ow the lost children of Zion were relocated to Palestine, cuckooing the natives out of their nests. I mean, it wasn’t their fault. It was the bloody British that created that mess, and they couldn’t just say, There you go . Your new home. Enjoy it . We’ll be keeping an eye on things from afar . No, the idiots in government decided to oversee the displaced Jews, rule them like subjects of an empire long lost, and treat them nearly as bad as the bloody Nazis did.” “What, our British government?” “No, you pillock. My British government. Your British government is too busy impinging on the rights of its people with CCTV, parking fines, tv licenses in the age of the Internet, VAT, low wages, and high taxes. George Orwell saw it all coming.” “Wasn’t he anti-Semitic, Granddad?” “Yeah, but not a lot of people know that. He once wrote that Jehovah was a tribal deity of the worst type .” “Wow! That must have been controversial to his fans.” “Confusing, more like it. He later wrote about being sympathetic to Holocaust Jews trying to get to the land of Israel – which doesn’t make sense. Poor buggers. No-one wanted the Jews. The Arabs hated ‘em. Then, after the Arab revolt – where they attacked the Jewish population, we went and fuckin’ partitioned the place and named one half, the state of Israel. No getting rid of them, then.” “But wasn’t Israel already a country?” “You know, I sometimes forget that for a history teacher, you know absolutely nothing, Tommo.” “Thanks, Granddad. My degree says otherwise.” “I know. I’ve read it. One of the easiest degrees to get.” “Who says?” “The tossers that fail English studies.” “I didn’t fail English. I switched majors.” “Pardonnez-moi, gentlemen. Shall we continue with your archery lesson, Monsieur. ‘ Arrees ?” “It’s Harris with an H.” “Then, excusez-moi, si’l-vous-plait, Monsieur. ‘ Arris . Ma English is not always H friendly.” “French, are we, Claude?” “Pierre, Monsieur. My name is Pierre. It is written on my name tag stuck to my chest – as you can clearly see.” “Not without me binsies on.” “You’re what, Monsieur?” “His glasses, Pierre.” “Oh, I ‘ave not ‘eard zat one before.” “Traditionally, there’s two English languages here, mate. One for the toffs and one for those born within the sound of the bow bells.” “Ah, I see, Monsieur ‘Arris. I know something of this Cockney rhyme and slang. Apples and pears - stairs , oui?” “Yeah, mate. Apples .” “The shortened version, oui! The nuances of your quaint language are a such a challenge to learn. It seems I am not the only one giving lessons, today.” “Perfect job for a Frenchie to have at an archery school, innit?” “Sorry, I don’t get it.” “You never ‘eard of Agincourt?” “Granddad.” “Perfectly innocent question, Tommo.” “If you are referring to zeh famous battle of the year Fourteen ‘undred and fifteen, then oui, it is as historical to us as it is to you, non?” “That’s where Churchill’s two-fingered salute originated, Tommo.” “He wasn’t at Agincourt, Granddad.” “I know that - you underqualified historian. You see, young Henry the Fifth had his longbows made from the yew tree. Lightweight, bendy, and powerful bows that helped blot out the sun when a couple of thousand arrows filled the sky. You know, the Frenchies used to cut the middle finger off of the captured English archers, so they couldn’t pluck the strings of their longbows properly.” “What did they do?” “Well, typical English behaving like the stereotypical English abroad, they’d pick up their chopped middle fingers and point it at their captors shouting, Pluck Yew, Pluck yew ! Heh heh heh.” “Is that a joke, Granddad, or did that really happen?” “If I may, Messieurs. I ‘ave it on the greatest of authority, zat zat is a complete myth.” “Henry the fifth, mate! Taught you frogs how to fight and win. None of that run away shit you do in every war.” “Granddad. You can’t say that.” “Wot, run away?” “You know what I mean.” “Yeah. Sorry, Pierre. My grandson constantly reminds us he’s awake.” “It’s Woke , Granddad.” “That’s wot we used to say about you when you was a baby – after you was done sleeping. It’s awoke, it’s awoke! On account of you looking a bit like Frankenstein with that oddly shaped head of yours and that mole on your neck that looks like the nut of a bolt.” “Woke, Granddad, is a state of awareness. A sensitivity to the bigotry and xenophobia your generation and the ones preceding it, carry like a badge of honour.” “Wot’s xenophobia – when it’s at home?” “It is like being a nationalist, Monsieur ‘Arris. One zat borders on being a racist.” “I’m not a racist! Tell him, Tommo. I’ve got nothin’ against anyone.” “No, you are not a racist, Granddad. But some of the things you say sometimes, come from an era when that was acceptable speech, and now is thought of as bigotry.” “Oui, Monsieur Tommo. My very own parents are close to your grandfather’s age, and they too speak like him.” “Wot, fuckin’ Cockney?” “Non, Monsieur. ‘Ow you say it… Ah, oui. I think it is referred to as, Jingoistic ! Born from extreme patriotism.” “Fuck me, Tommo. He knows bigger words than you, and you’re from ‘ere wif a failed English degree.” “History, Granddad. And I passed!” “Listen, mate.” “Pierre.” “Pierre. I don’t give a flying fig about nationalism or flag waving. This country went to shit long ago, the minute it opened its borders to people like you.” “What are people like me ?” “…Foreign!” “But you are also foreign, n’est-ce pas? Was this land not the realm of the Anglo-Saxons?” “Yeah, English, mate.” “But the Anglo-Saxons were a collection of people from places like Germany, the Netherlands, and Scandinavia. You know, the Vikings? So, Monsieur, you are just as foreign to zis land as this Frog that stands before you.” “He’s got a point, Granddad.” “…We finishin’ this archery lesson or wot?” “Oui, Monsieur. We can finish this demonstration just like the way in which your King Henry murdered French prisoners at Agincourt… Immediately!” “ O, ‘tis a gallant king .” “What is that, Monsieur ‘Arris? More witticism from the child of a failed empire?” “Shakespeare, Pierre. Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha’ done this slaughter: besides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the king’s tent; wherefore king, most worthily, hath caused every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat. O, ‘tis a gallant king! ” “Bravo, Monsieur ‘Arris. I would not have taken you for a fan of the Bard.” “Yeah, Granddad. Surprised me, too.” “Retirement, Tommo. Lots of time for learning something new. The Internet has provided many a snippet of information to be used when needed. I’m getting culturefied , Tommo.” “Is culturefied a word, Granddad?” “It will be when the Urban Dictionary accepts my entry to it.” “You’re full of surprises.” “Learning is not just for kids, Tommo. Remember that when you return to that school for the not-so-gifted you teach at.” “It’s a remedial school.” “Call it what you will, Tommo. In my day, it was called being held back. But these days you can’t do that for fear of stunting the child’s growth.” “Kids are sensitive.” “Kids are kids, Tommo. What’s wrong with a kick up the backside every now and then?” “It’s not an acceptable practice in today’s society.” “ Nambi-Pambi is what today’s society is. Everyone’s too afraid of hurting someone’s feelings. In my day..” “..I know. In your day kids were seen but not heard.” “Precisely. Oh, what’s that Junior? You got a C in English? Toughen up ya little..” “It was only a few years ago zat my country also banned corporal punishment in schools. So, England is not the only place accommodating modern societal growth.” “Growth? More like a step to the left, Pierre. Blame them and that wanker, Karl Marx, mate. Bunch of bloody spineless hypocrites, the lot of ‘em.” “How did we get onto this subject, Granddad?” “Dunno. I just felt like griping about something. It comes with age.” “Why don’t you raise your bow and point the arrow at that annoying bullseye down range. Pretend it’s the eye of Karl Marx.” “Don’t get me started on him, Tommo.” “Zat is good, Monsieur ‘Arris. Now breathe. Then, like your grandson instructed, breathe out slightly and let go of the string. Voila! You are a natural! Dead centre of the target.” “Nice one, Granddad.” “Like most things in life, Tommo. I just needed a little motivation. You know, this ain’t a bad pastime. I’ve never shot arrows before.” “Not even in the war, Granddad?” “Less cheek from you, please. In my day, it was catapults and pea shooters and tin cans as targets.” “You ‘ave one arrow remaining, Monsieur ‘Arris.” “Call me, Reggie, Pierre. It sounds younger.” “Okay, Monsieur Reggie. Load your arrow, pull back on the string with your index and middle finger.” “Yes yes. I’ve got it.” “Breathe, relax, and fire. Excellent! Bull’s eye again!” “It’s in the lineage, Pierre. That’s how we won Agincourt.” “Oui, you may ‘ave won the battle, but we ended up winning the war.” “It took you a hundred years.” “It was worth the wait.” “Yeah, but who came back to help you fight the Germans - twice?” “Touché, Reggie. Old combatants became new allies forever.” “Bloody hell, Granddad! There’s not many people that match you for world history and social commentary, but you’ve got to admit that Pierre is pretty good.” “For a Frenchie, oui?” “Yeah, well… You’re not all bad. Got some good footballers.” “Oui, zat is a fact. Who is your favourite player?” “Zidane.” “Ah, Zizou! A legend, oui. But why him?” “For the way he headbutted that Italian prick, Materazzi in the 2006 World Cup. He only headbutted him in the chest, but Materazzi went down like he’d been shot. You see, the real violence wasn’t the headbutt. It was the unheard words Materazzi said about Zidane’s sister.” “What’d he say, Granddad?” “Well, Materazzi was marking Zidane so tightly and holding on to him, that Zidane sarcastically offered him his shirt. Materazzi – being the prick he is – answered by telling Zidane that he would prefer his sister, so Zidane turned to face him and launched his version of a Glasgow kiss toward the Italian. Problem was that Zidane started too far away and ended up hitting Materazzi in the chest. You’d think he’d been hit by a train – the way he fell, clasping his face instead of his chest, like he’d been slapped by a wet fish. He succeeded in fooling the ref, and got Zidane red-carded and sent off.” “Oui. That was a sad moment for French football. It ended his career.” “I’ve had harder kisses on the lips from my missus.” “Thanks for that indelible image you just planted in my brain, Granddad.” “You’re not always young in this life, Tommo. But that don’t mean youth leaves you when you get older.” “Alors, Messieurs Reggie and Tommo! I’m afraid we are past our closing time. Please accept this voucher for a free future visit. I look forward to more stimulating conversations with you.” “Very kind of you, Pierre. Listen, do you fancy a pint with me and Tommo on your way home?” “I don’t see why not. Merci, Reggie.” “There’s a pub nearby that still has a dartboard. I’ll teach you how to play the Agincourt darts game.” “What’s that, Granddad?” “It’s a bit like 301, but you launch all three darts together and subtract your total score. First one to zero wins.” “What happens if any of your darts end up on the floor?” “Then, you play on with whatever darts that don’t – until, you get to zero or you run out of arrows. That’s called surrender . A French invention.” “That is fascinating, Monsieur Reggie. I didn’t realise that arrogance was an English invention. But tell me. What ‘appens if you go past zero?” “That’s called a Henry Five .” “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” “It’s considered a slaughter of all the points you have captured and game over.” “Ah, I see. But you forget that war is not won on one battle alone.” “Don’t worry, Pierre. I’ll give you another chance to lose. Just like the Germans did.” “Granddad…!”