September 27, 2003

She loved making up stories. Salina had always been an extremely active child. Bright eyed, dimple-cheeked with dark brown hair and hazel eyes, apart from being extremely active physically, she also had an amazingly active imagination. It came to her aid whenever she needed an excuse for doing what she wanted. No one believed her stories. Like the one about the baby doll in her room who had a stomach ache the night before.

However, sometimes she weaved a tale so intricate that it was hard to believe that the incidence did not actually take place. This got her into a lot of trouble when later everyone found out that this, once again, was a figment of Salina’s overactive mind.

Like once when she was playing ‘mommy’ to her doll and was not careful enough while closing the cap on her mother’s favourite lipstick.

“Salina, how many times have I told you not to play with my lipstick. Look what you’ve done now?”

Salina was sorry about the lipstick but could not give up the opportunity for making up yet another story: “You see just as I was putting the cap back on, the baby started to cry. Her diaper needed to be changed and she needed her bottle”.

Her mother gave up with a simple, “not again”.

Many times her father had explained to her that if she continued to do this, no one would believe her even when she told the truth. He repeated the story of “The boy who cried wolf” for the sixteenth time. But Salina was unaffected by all the warnings.

Her mother consulted her friends.

“What am I to do with her?” she had asked.

“Don’t worry, Hamida, she will outgrow this silly habit,” her mother’s friend Aunty Farha would say.

Her brothers thought that she should be punished every time she made up something and so many a time she was sent to the ‘naughty corner’ under the living room stairs. But even as she sat on the little stool under the stairs, she thought of an imaginary fairy that came to chat with her while she sat and waited for the ‘naughty deed’ hour to be over. Her creative imagination also annoyed her friends a great deal. A few days back when she went to Sara’s birthday party, most of her friends were angry with her again. Salina loved birthday parties, especially the ones where there was chocolate cake to eat. When Sara had called her to invite her to the party, she had asked Salina what she was going to wear.

“Oh, I think I’ll wear my yellow dress. I know Mommy would want me to wear the purple one that aunt Zara bought from the States but you see, purple clothes always give me a pimple. The last time I wore it, I got one on my nose. And it was for my cousin’s wedding. Just imagine. I think purple is not a nice colour for girls at all”.

The morning of the birthday party, Salina’s mother received a frantic call from Sara’s mother.

“Hamida, I have no idea what is wrong with Sara. She refuses to wear the dress her father bought for her. When I got really angry, she said that purple dresses give girls pimples and it was Salina who had told her this”.

Sara’s mother had paused only for a breath. “She says that she is convinced that it will give her a spot on her nose just like Salina’s.”

Salina’s mother was really embarrassed this time. “I am so sorry, I will speak to her right away and tell her to call Sara,” was all that Salina’s poor mother could manage.

Without any delay, Salina was told to call Sara and apologize for the silly story. “But mommy, it really did give me a pimple on my nose, don’t you remember”?

Her mother had given her a stern look and that was it. So she called Sara and told her that she was sorry. But there was one problem. Sara would only wear her purple dress if Salina wore hers too. “Oh dear, no,” she had begged her mother. What if she got this huge red spot on her nose again or worse, maybe on her chin or on one of her cheeks?

“Nonsense,” said mommy, “you look really pretty in purple”. So poor Salina had no choice but to wear the dreaded purple dress to the party. But this was not the only misery that she would have to face. By the time she got there, the story had reached all her friends at the party. She was so embarrassed. They now called her a liar, a silly and stupid girl. Salina was in tears. She ran to the bathroom and stayed there for a long time. When she finally managed to stop her tears and come out, she found out that the cake had already been cut and she had missed the games as well.

That entire day she was unusually quiet and went to bed without a single protest. Her parents were really upset about this.

After dinner, when papa was watching the news, Salina’s mother came to him and told him her plan. Papa thought it was a good idea and worth a try. The day after was Salina’s ninth birthday. She got lovely gifts from all her family members. But she wanted to open the one from her parents, last. She knew they were angry because of the problems they had due to her story telling habit.

She went up to her room after the guests had left and opened the present. To her surprise her parents had given her a beautiful leather-bound writing pad with an inscription in golden ink, “To our dear Salina for all her wonderful stories”. Salina loved the beautiful journal. It smelled delightful. She loved the lovely blue leather with the golden trim.

The next day was a Saturday, so she immediately sat on her bed, opened the first page and wrote “The story of the purple dress”. She would do the fairy one after that. The next morning Salina showed the story to her mother. Her mother corrected the mistakes and asked Salina if she could keep it.

School had really been hectic these last two weeks. Finally it was Friday and Salina could wake up late the next day. As she woke up and lazily threw off the blanket, she saw the newspaper on the bedside table. She wondered what it was doing there. As she picked it up, she noticed something familiar. “The story of the purple dress” was written in bold across the page. Under it was written “By Salina Ahmar”. She could not believe her eyes and rushed out of her room.

“Mommy, papa, Akeel, Danish, where are you?”

“Quiet, Papa is still sleeping,” mommy told her. And then she knew. “Mommy did you send my story to the newspaper?” She asked, her pulse racing.

“Well, only to let you know that I have a fiction writer in the family and that the interesting stories will be limited to the writing journal,” Mommy said.

“Of course! Thanks Mommy,” said Salina as she rushed down. Her mother smiled. It had indeed been a perfect gift.

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