She had never met her father. But she had imagined him. They often spoke in her mind. He gave her advice — which was basically the little voice in her head losing its shrill tone to assume a deep note. And she made do with this make-believe dad that lived on. Her sister laughed at her silliness. She told her that life had to be lived, not imagined. But there was a different world behind the veil of her eyes. When shut, the darkness gave rise to new possibilities — which in turn gave rise to a new reality. You could call her crazy, But all she was being was hopeful.

On this particular Sunday, she stepped out to celebrate Father’s Day with her sister and mother. By now, they had both given up on her and her dream world. They didn’t even know what they were celebrating. Neither of the sisters had ever experienced the love of a father. Humouring her whims, they decided to go with the flow. She ordered the runway roast — a heart serving of slow roasted organic chicken, dipped in a mixture of intoxicating flavours. With every bite, all and sundry. Her sister asked her about her job — whether she needed any money, while her mother urged them to eat more, as if they were famished kids from the jungles of Africa.

And as the cheque presented itself, she picked it up in a jiffy and said, “This is on me.” Her sister looked at her from the corner of her eye, “Have you forgotten that you’re the youngest person at this table?”

She smiled coyly and said, “Happy Father’s Day! To both of you!”