It was a fateful day — March 7, 2022 — a day I will never forget, even if I live to be a hundred years old.

It was my little sister Sara’s 10th birthday bash. Our garden had been beautifully decorated with strands of colourful and white crepe paper draped over the hedges. Fairy lights were entwined around the trees, and dozens of balloons floated about lazily. My mother had slaved for two days in the kitchen, and the tables were groaning under the fruits of her labour. Sara skipped around, looking as pretty as a picture in her silver tiara and frock with its swathes of pink frill.

By six in the evening, the party was in full swing. My young cousins were racing around the garden, turning a deaf ear to their mothers’ remonstrations. My mum buzzed around the guests, insisting that they had eaten nothing at all.

“Samia, no wonder you’re all skin and bones! Here, have some salad. Grandpa, your plate is practically empty! Have a little biryani; I made it myself,” and she tipped half a potful of rice into his plate.

Grandpa Rashid opened his mouth to protest, but mum shushed him. He was in his eighties, a majestic figure with his mane of snow-white hair. There was nothing he liked better than sitting in a cosy armchair with his gnarled fingers curled around a mug of bitter coffee and a group of children clustered around his chair, enraptured by his tales of a time when there were no phones or TV, and people wrote letters and waited days for a reply.

Pretty soon, it was time to cut the cake. So, taking the responsibility, I went inside to bring the cake out. I took out the pineapple and cream sponge cake from the fridge, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride, for this cake, the star of the show, had been mixed, baked and decorated entirely by me.

As I stood there lost in my pleasant reverie, a hoarse howl suddenly echoed through the house. I jumped, and the star of the show leapt into the air and fell to the ground with a noisy splat!

I was shocked and dumb. Feeling like this party couldn’t get any worse, I sidestepped the mess of cream and crumbs, and hurried into the garden where everyone was gathered around grandpa.

Apparently, he had been trying to cut an apple, but instead had sliced his hand. This situation was made all the more urgent by the fact that grandpa was a heart patient and took blood-thinning medications. An entire can of turmeric powder had to be dumped over the cut before the bleeding ceased and his hand could be bound up. There was a collective sigh of relief. My aunt spoke tentatively.

“It’s getting late. We’d better be going.”

“Yeah. So should we,” others also said, thinking that the cake was already dumped in the dustbin, so there was no point of waiting for the cake to be cut. Within ten minutes, everyone had left. Mother sank onto the sofa with her head buried in her hands. Father stood at the window, listlessly gazing at the looming darkness. From somewhere outside, a crow uttered a harsh cry.

Sara spoke timidly, “Well, this party certainly will be....” She groped for the right word.

“Memorable,” father added as he came over and patted her head.

Published in Dawn, Young World, November 11th, 2023