“Mama, did that horse just wink at me?!”
Shia sat comfortably in her mother’s arms, still small enough to be carried, just about. Her mother, in a desperate attempt to get her daughter to eat, had brought her out into the barn. There were three horses there, and Shia pointed to the one at the end. Mr Carrotface.
“Of course it did, honey,” her mother said tiredly. “It’s because you’re being such a good girl and eating your food.”
“Mama,” piped up another voice. “Why did it not wink at me then? I ate too!”
Ameya, at five, was one year older than Shia and remarkably easier to feed.
“It can wink only once every six hours,” their mother made up wildly. “So maybe it’ll wink at you tomorrow!” She knew this would come back to bite her tomorrow but there was only so much she could do at once. And that bandwidth was currently occupied by the little monster in her arms who just refused to open her mouth. She wished the damn horse would actually wink and wink often enough to make the kid eat.
“Have this and it’ll wink at you again!” she said, with enthusiasm she hadn’t truly felt in a long long time, trying to push a spoon of good into Shia’s mouth.
“Why won’t it wink at me?” Ameya’s eyes were dangerously teary. “You said it can only wink once and now you’re saying it will wink again, but for Shia only.”
Their mother was done. “Okay, we are retiring for the night. Let’s get back inside and get into bed. Enough horses for today.”
(Six hours later)
“Psssst Mr Carrotface.”
“Wake up”
“Pssst pssst”
Ameya picked up a large plank from the corner of the barn and smacked the horse gently to wake it up. It startled awake and neighed.
“Mr Carrotface,” said Ameya seriously. “It’s been six hours since your last wink, so now you can wink at me. See I’m eating like a good girl too.”
She proceeded to take an apple out of her pocket and started eating it.
The horse wouldn’t wink.
Ameya ate more of her apple. “How about now?”
“Please wink at me Mr Carrotface”
By now only the apple core remained.
“Why won’t you wink at me!”
Ameya leant over the stall door and tried to reach for the horse’s face but she was not tall enough. The horse just watched impassively. It was not even slightly interested in Ameya and that was not acceptable.
“This is your last chance, I’m warning you!”
Ameya had no idea what she would do if the horse did not listen. But she would not allow for a horse that only winked at Shia.
As she turned to take the plank and harass a wink out of Mr Carrotface, her eyes landed on something even better. Kerosene and a lighter.
If Mr Carrotface would not wink at her, it would not be allowed to wink at Shia.
And so Ameya set the barn on fire.
Shia was the first person to wake up in the house and come running out, only to see Ameya standing outside a burning barn with a large plank and the lighter in her hand.
“Nooooo!” screamed Shia, running towards the barn. “Mr Carrotface! Noooooo!”
“I did this!” shouted Ameya. “Let this be a warning to every horse that won’t listen to me.”
“Shia, Ameya, get away from the barn!” Their parents came running out.
And still Shia ran. She ran to Ameya, grabbed the large plank, and smacked it on Ameya’s head.
“Ow,” said Ameya. She shoved Shia.
Shia shoved her right back. “This is why no one and nothing will ever wink at you!”
All the while, the barn burned, and all their mother could think as she ran to them was What the flying fuck.
She grabbed one arm each and dragged them back to the house where they waited for the firetrucks to arrive, one kid seething and the other wailing. What the flying fuck.
(3 days later)
The judge cleaned his glasses, a habit he had developed to help him deal with his lot in life, not once considering that he could just quit, take all his money, and go live on an island somewhere. He put them back on and looked at the family sitting in front of him.
“So according to your neighbours, Ameya set fire to your barn because a horse would not wink at her, is that right?”
Ameya scrunched her face up, blew a raspberry, and refused to speak.
“Yes, your honour,” said her mother, doing her best not to shove Ameya off the bench. “But she is a child, and it is my fault for indicating that horses could wink. And she is only five, and she is a child, and she could not have known better.”
“Liar,” said a sulking Ameya, throwing a dirty look in her mother’s direction.
Her mother just sighed. “Please.”
The judge looked at the family again. One pissed child, one zoned out child hanging onto one worn out mother, and one uninterested father. It was the mother he felt for.
“This is what we will do,” he said. “A few blocks down the road, there is a childcare home for difficult children–”
The mother gasped. “No! Please!”
“– I would like Ameya to attend daily group therapy there for three weeks,” he completed quickly.
“It was not my fault!” yelled Ameya. “That horse refused to blink!”
“What is group ther-pee?” asked Shia at the same time.
“It’ll be one hour a day, five days a week,” continued the judge. The parents could answer their kids later. “Attendance will be noted.”
The mother imagined hitting her head on the desk in front of her a few times. But it could have been a lot worse.
(That evening)
“It’s only three weeks,” said the father. “We can manage three weeks.”
“We?” muttered the mother, combing Ameya’s hair while Shia braided hers into knots.
“We should look this therapist up, see if they are worth anything,” continued the father.
“We?” muttered the mother again, even quieter, following it up with a normal, “I looked her up. She’s not really a therapist, her qualifications say ‘life coach’, but what choice do we have?”
“Life coach?” the father looked disgusted.
“Like I said, what choice do we have? It’s court-mandated, we’ll just do it for three weeks and be done with it.”
“Ameya, you’re all done. Shia, come here now.” She would have to deal with her own hair late in the night, after the two little freaks were asleep.
(The next day)
“Mama, you did not tell me what group ther-pee means!” said Shia, holding her mother’s hand.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” said Ameya loftily. “This is only for special people and you don’t count.”
“Mama!” Shia complained. “Why am I not special enough?”
If only I had one day to myself…
The mother did not have the time to complete a thought before Shia tugged at her hand again.
“Mama! Will they not let me in?”
“Shia, Ameya is going to group therapy because she burned the barn down. That is not a special or good thing.”
Both girls erupted.
“Are you calling me a bad girl?” Ameya wailed.
“I could have burned it down too! I can burn things too! I can! I can!” Shia pulled her hand away from her mother’s. “I can do it right now!”
“Okay,” said the mother, grabbing both hands again. “Time out. We do not burn things. Ameya, you should not have burnt the barn down. That was not good. But that does not make you a bad girl. It means you made a mistake. Shia, if you want to be in group therapy so much, I will ask them to include you. Happy?”
Both girls sulked.
Group therapy included about fifteen children, all of them older than Ameya and Shia. The non-therapist-therapist lady started with introductions. Name and age. As they went around the circle, Shia interrupted.
“I am four.”
“Thank you sweetie,” said the lady. “But we are going around the circle. Wait for your turn.”
“I am five,” said Ameya. “One year older. And special.”
“I’m special too.” Shia stood up at this point and crossed her arms intimidatingly.
“Thank you both. I’m sure you’re both special, and I would love to hear more when it is your turn, but let–”
“Your hair looks like a broomstick made out of dried coconut,” said Shia to the lady.
The lady’s jaw dropped.
Their mother giggled quietly. The joy of not being on the receiving end.
“I agree,” said a random child. “It’s pretty but it’s also really loud.”
“Okay,” said the lady, scrambling visibly. “Let’s get back on track. We had a few more introduc–”
“Why are you here?” asked another child.
“I’m here to help–”
Ameya stood up at this point. “She’s here because we are special and she wants to hear from us.”
Some of the older children laughed. Someone yelled “YES!”
“Let’s get back on track here,” said the lady. “Enough.”
Her emphasis quietened the room down.
“Forget the introductions. Let’s get started. Think about your life. If you could change one thing, what would it be?”
Shia jumped in. “Ameya’s hairstyle.”
Ameya shoved Shia, who toppled over.
The mother just held her head.
“No, think about your life. What do you want to change?” the lady tried again.
“Your hairstyle,” one of the older kids laughed.
The lady self-consciously touched her hair. Too many people had commented on it. But still she tried. “Your own lives. What do you want to change in your own lives?”
“But Mama,” Shia said. “You said we are all connected in this universe. I want to change Ameya’s hairstyle.”
“I agree,” said one of the kids. “We are connected. And I want to change you.” He pointed at the lady.
The lady just stared at this point.
“I want to change Shia’s face,” said Ameya. “It looks like a horse.”
“That’s why you want to change it then,” Shia laughed. “Not a single horse likes you.”
“Children,” began the lady, finding hope and perseverance in the gap where competence should have existed. “Let’s think about what brought us here.”
“My mother!” said Ameya.
“A cab!” said another child.
“God!” said another child.
“Clearly someone who wanted to punish us with you,” said an older kid wryly.
The entire room laughed.
“Why are they laughing, Mama?” asked Shia.
The lady threw her arms up, and said, “Okay, that’s it, we’re done for today.”
The judge received a report the next day.
Child displayed no remorse, referred to sibling as ‘horse-faced,’ derailed therapy session. Suggest terminating group therapy and letting the mother deal with this child and her other child. This can stay in their family.