The doorbell rang just as I placed my cake in the oven.

“Amna!” I called out to my younger sister, “Someone’s at the door!”

That someone turned out to be our Khala Jamila, who had come for a visit to Pakistan after spending nearly a decade in England. Even though I had only been a toddler when khala had left, I remembered her all too clearly. And as I stepped into the living room 10 minutes later, it was as though I had stepped back in time, the sight before my eyes brought back memories from my childhood.

Khala Jamila was seated in the middle of the loveseat, while my mother and sister sat on either side of her. She looked almost the same as she had 10 years ago, although she had aged quite visibly.

Upon noticing me, Khala Jamila stopped talking and quickly stood up. She held out her arms and I slowly walked into her embrace. I heard snickers behind us and glared at my sister who seemed to explode from laughter any second now.

On the other hand, my mother appeared close to tears at our hearty embrace.

“Look at you, all grown up!” Khala Jamila exclaimed after a moment, releasing me, “Funny how time flies, huh?”

Lost at words, I nodded awkwardly and sat down on one of the spare chairs. After some time, I caught my sister’s eye and together we greedily eyed the neatly packed presents lying innocently beside the sofa.

Khala Jamila saw us looking and chuckled softly, “Oh yes… we’ll have time for that later.”

And that was how I found myself killing time and trying to (subtly) block out my mother and Khala Jamila’s boring conversations while my sister (ever the charmer) continued to bite her nails.

Just as I was about to doze off, I happened to catch a whiff of something burning. Amna and I realised what it was at the same time and we both rushed to the kitchen.

Sure enough, there was black smoke seeping out of the oven. Heart in my stomach, I turned it off. Needless to say, my cake was ruined.

I sat down on a chair nearby and placed my head in my hands. Not even a minute later, my mother too had rushed into the kitchen due to the same reason as us. I listened to my sister dutifully narrate the whole story to her, and then waited for her reply.

A few minutes later, she spoke. “Oh dear, I guess we’ll just have to do with some tea and biscuits. But I don’t think Khala Jamila will be happy after all the boasting I did about your baking skills,” she whispered mournfully.

“I’m sorry, Ammi,” I said.

My mother turned to me, and her expression softened. But before she could say anything, the doorbell rang and this time I ran to open the door.

On the other side of the door was my father, who was carrying a medium-sized square box. I quickly ushered him inside, then asked about the box even though I had a feeling I knew what it was.

“Well,” my father smiled, “Since your Khala Jamila has come to visit us after so long, I thought it would be a good idea to buy a cake to serve her. What do you think?”

I almost screamed from relief and happiness.

“Thank you! Thank you. Thank you!” I cried while hugging my father, who was smiling, yet looked a bit confused as to why I was so happy all of a sudden.

“Well,” he said, after I had released him, “I’ll just go and meet your khala then. Take this,” he said as he handed me the cake.

I wasted no time in rushing to the kitchen and breaking the good news to my mother and sister. They exclaimed with joy just like I had, then helped me take the cake out.

The cake was beautiful, with red and white icing done in spirals around the edges. I heaved a sigh of relief at my luck and good fortune.

A quarter of an hour later, I entered the living room with my mother and sister tailing behind me. I placed the cake on the table right in front of Khala Jamila. Amna imitated me by placing the plates and utensils while my mother took a seat beside my father.

When Khala Jamila noticed the cake, she took no time in slicing and swallowing a huge mouthful. Once she had, though, she looked at me with her large eyes.

“My, my, Sara! Your mother told me how talented you are, but this … it’s amazing!” she exclaimed as her hand reached out towards the knife again. “Tell me, how did you manage to bake something so good?”

I decided it was best not to reveal the truth right now.

“Well,” I said as I grinned at my sister who was smirking, my father who seemed as if he had

no idea what was going on and finally my mother who looked proud yet guilty, “It was a piece of cake, really.”

Published in Dawn, Young World, September 21st, 2019