Unable to suspend the feeling of being led to something ominous, I placed my hand over my uneasy heart, wishing this conjecture of mine not to materialise. Even though I did not hold any particular fondness for birthdays, I didn’t wish for it to end with a catastrophe of any sort.
Reading the perturbation which escaped my resoluteness to suppress my disturbed spirits, my father grew concerned and asked me, “Why must you appear so queasy? The gala has been set up in your honour. If anything, you should be ecstatic.”
Before I’d opened my mouth to make an answer to the question directed at me, my impertinent aunt interjected, “She’s just a spoilt child. She can only derive happiness from employing us to perform her duties.”
Truly contradictory and unjust in the charge that she’d laid on
