| Smita Pany | October 2026 | Short Story |
Milli adjusts the shiny blue bow on her head. Papa always gets the best presents. She looks at the clock: five minutes to five. She runs to the door—no one yet. The sun bathes the living room in a golden hue. Milli stands close enough to the tall French windows so the slanting rays fall directly on her sequined dress. Diamonds everywhere! She marvels at the magical pattern she’s made on the wall and the ceiling of the living room. She twirls! Whee! Milli is a strobe light—just like the one she saw in a movie once. She hops around the room. Each step electric with the bounce of her shimmering, new, blue shoes. She does not need wings; she is already flying. Mother enters the living room with a sandwich tray. Milli takes a pause to catch her breath. She wraps her hand around her mother’s waist for a moment, face stuffed into her familiar abode. Her safe place. But, pulling away, she doesn’t need her safe place today. She’s exalted, and she’s flying. She darts towards the corner of the room to tug at the helium-filled unicorn-shaped balloon that Mother brought home that afternoon. Milli jumps; it’s too high.
Three minutes to five. The door will open any minute now. Mother fixes her dishevelled hair and hopes it’s Papa and not the kids. One job he had, just the one: get the cake before five. Oh God, she hopes he doesn’t disappoint today. She is no stranger to anticipation. A long time ago, every evening, for four years, she waited for him outside the college gate. The blue T-shirt she loved, anytime now, would emerge from around the tea shack right ahead of her, and then her moment would be complete. His smile, his scent mingling with the aroma of ginger tea wafting through the air, hues of the setting sun. She would be still, riveted, cradled in this moment of perfection, complete.
The kids have started walking in; no cake yet.
Ten past five. Anita walks in through the balloon façade at the entrance to the front yard of Milli’s house. A melange of bows, ponytails, laced dresses, tulle skirts and the occasional Marvel jumper. She watches her son, Vivaan, dive straight into the ball pit on the lawn. She recalls attending Milli’s last birthday together with Arjun and Vivaan. Oh, how Arjun loved to play the goofball at the kiddie parties, loved to strum Happy Birthday on the guitar. Arjun won’t be coming today. She feels a bit out of breath as she walks into the living room and sits down at the table with the sandwiches and cupcakes. Phew! Her feet complain. Anita is used to the sharp pain that always accompanies her: the pain of knowing Arjun will never hold her in his arms again. Arjun, in his camouflage fatigues and buzz cut, always looked so dashing. With only ten days to go before his peace posting was to begin, she had been counting the days till he would return and attend all the birthday parties with Vivaan. Arjun’s face never leaves her mind—shrapnel dug deep into his skin, bloody, eyes wide open, screaming fear, hollowed. It was a routine evening drill in the marketplace, they said. IED in the dumpster near the bakery where the soldiers liked to have their evening Kahwa. Arjun never came home. The pain in Anita’s feet seems to have travelled all through her body and reached her head. She can’t hear the music or the children’s laughter and squeals. She can’t hear anything but the pain in her head. It has developed a rhythm now—throbbing between her temples. She waits for it to quiet down. She breathes deeply. Ah, here it comes: silence. Arjun won’t be walking in through that door today—he won’t be coming to pick up their son. She needs to pick up all the pieces and run—she runs as fast as she can, but the IED catches up with her every night. The IED always wins the race. She sips on the glass of fruit punch Layla had brought her and looks up at the helium-filled unicorn-shaped balloon, trapped, waiting to run away.
Twenty past five. Layla ties up her hair in a top knot, and it stays there, no pins, scrunchies or fixtures—just long, lustrous, obedient hair. She is Mother’s and Anita’s best friend from college. She helps Mother with snack-serving and organizing the games. The children love their favourite aunty Layla and follow her like a human train as she walks out of the living room and out of the house and onto the lawn with the ball pit. Layla has a perfect laugh. She is delicate and gentle and sings like a bird. She is leading the human train back into the house and into the living room. The kids are tired and want a fruit punch break. Layla parks herself in the corner of the room, oblivious to the three-finger bruise now visible on her long, delicate neck. Both sides. It’s faint, a bit of red and a bit of blue. The morning’s badge of honour, courtesy of her husband. The concealer has run off in the sun, revealing a truth she’s learnt to hide well—well, as well as she can—from the world. This isn’t the first or the last of it. It’s as dull as a chore now. She can’t walk away, her family won’t let her. But it doesn’t matter—her heart belongs to someone else; she gave it away long before she married her now husband. Her heart is hers to give to the one who deserves it, in fact, she’s already given it—again and again and again—even if he doesn’t know he has it. What does it matter if he knows it or not? She doesn’t want, doesn’t need, his in return. His heart belongs with Milli and her Mother. A white sedan pulls up in the driveway; she knows the sound of the engine. A hint of blush, she feels it. He is not the man she’s ‘supposed’ to love, but her love doesn’t need anyone’s permission. Her body might be captive to the whims of a brute, but her love runs free like her spirit—it exalts as Milli’s Papa walks in, cake in hand.
Five thirty. Papa places the cake on a table near the door and rushes to kiss Milli and greet the guests. Sheila sits at the table with the cake. She adjusts her wig. She is uneasy at the sight of the cake just sitting there, defrosting. Little droplets of water start running down the sides. The meltdown is no different from what’s happening within her. The cocktail of hormone shots: oestrogen, testosterone blockers and more. And the wig, oh Jesus! The wig and the heat—beads of sweat streaking. She is burning up inside out and outside in. She doesn’t know if she is going to ex-plode or im-plode. The ‘plodes’ always amuse her—does the rejection, anger, disappointment, jeering, leering from the world outside create enough negative pressure to make you explode? Or does the emptiness of your heart, the darkness of the pit in your stomach, make you implode instead? For now, she is focused on only one force, that of the ground beneath her feet. Rihaan is her gravity—not letting her ‘plode’. Sheila was legally still a man when she adopted Rihaan. Her strangeness made everything harder—buying clothes, visiting a doctor, finding a date, or adopting a child. The last two years have been harder. Adoption as a transitioning single man was much easier than telling Rihaan that he would have to lose a dad to gain a mom. Rihaan has witnessed her transition. He does not like her dresses or her lipstick. He rejects her new form. What do you do when your heart rejects your body? Her gender dysphoria had sublimated into his cognitive dissonance. She cannot run away from who she is anymore. One day, Rihaan will understand.
Fifteen to six. Tanya tries to hide her bald patch by flicking her hair over it. She’s the one who doesn’t have an official ticket to the party. She got in on the childless-neighbourly-occasional-babysitter unofficial ticket. She loves children, and she hates them just as much. When you want something badly and it refuses to manifest, you start to hate it, mainly to tell yourself you don’t want it anymore. You’re back in control of your own fate. But wait a minute, she’s not childless. Who is this in her arms, with the fuzzy little head and tiny toes? He is wailing loudly. Tanya is rocking him from side to side. She is engorged—Why won’t he drink the milk? It was the same last night. Wait, what did you say? It looks like a pillow to you? No, no, no, that’s his little head, sure, as smooth and soft as a pillow, but not a pillow. Can you see the curves of his delicate belly? And the little dots for toes. I made him. I birthed him. Can’t you see him? Well, that’s good because then you can’t take him away. I made him, I birthed him, so he’s mine. I will keep him safe, hidden. Away from all your evil eyes. That’s why you can’t see him. That’s alright. It’s by design. You wouldn’t understand anyway. If only he would drink the milk, the knot in my chest would smooth out, and everything would be alright. I will get him a unicorn balloon just like Milli’s for his first birthday.
Six. Milli is flying. Her best friend Kiara came after all. Her family moved their vacation plans by a day to accommodate the party. And Kiara brought Milli the unicorn painting set Milli had wanted so much. Milli has a plan—once her unicorn is fitted and coloured, she will ride it to the faraway land. Her unicorn is made of wood, so it will be sturdier than the balloon Mother got her, and it will be real because she will work hard to make it perfect. The faraway land is very far, you see. That land of magic, where there is a fountain of chocolate and houses made of candy, unicorns and pink ponies flying around, ready to take you from one corner to the other. Candy-floss clouds and a giant Ferris wheel made of a giant chocolate chip cookie. Her bags are packed. Papa got her exactly the present she wanted. She found it that morning next to her pillow. It was a blue backpack with giant rabbit ears sticking out. Her blue bow, shiny blue shoes and glitter smiley stickers were all inside the backpack. Oh, and glitter glue sticks with unicorn tails. She can’t wait for the party to end. She can’t wait to open her gifts that night. She will start painting the unicorn set right after school the next day. The sooner, the better. She doesn’t want to wait for the summer break. Too far away. She has a year left before her seventh birthday, and she must get to faraway land as quickly as possible. She must eat every candy in faraway land and drink from the chocolate fountains and ride the pink ponies and sit in the giant chocolate chip Ferris wheel and sleep in the candy-floss clouds. It is going to be perfect! But obviously, she doesn’t want to be late for her seventh birthday. Kiara’s told her all about Disneyland and everything she plans to do there during her vacation. Papa has promised Milli that he will take her to Disneyland for her seventh birthday. Ooh! She cannot stop flying.
Whoa! What’s this now? Marvel jumper charges towards the corner of the room with a pointy sceptre and … POP!
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Smita is a corporate cog trying to dabble in words. She is also a mother, wife, daughter, and friend, wading through life, trying to crystallize the essence of it. Smita is based out of Bangalore, India. She has work upcoming in the Litbreak Magazine, New York.
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Photo by Rafael Garcin on Unsplash
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