An unfortunate picture exercise

I really don’t know how to describe my picture, it was of a man serving cakes to a little girl in a dinning room (or so I thought) but here’s the end result. And Rimi di hope you get well soon and become your usual roaring self in no time.

Tamosha couldn’t believe that this was indeed happening. She had been awaiting this day restlessly for so long and now that she was finally there, dinning in a five star hotel soon to meet Sharukh Khan, the little girl didn’t know where to hide her excitement. Mr. Sharukh Khan was in Kolkata for a charity event and a letter had reached her school stating that he wanted to meet few terminally ill children and spend a day with them. Tamosha didn’t understand what ‘terminally ill’ meant, but she knew that the words qualified her for she had heard them often enough to realize that.
The Reception at Sonar Bangla had been nothing less than royal. The multi-course lunch was unlike anything Tamosha had ever seen. She had even worn make-up and played at being a grown up. Her parents would have never approved of that! She was missing school again, but that wasn’t unusual, with blood transfusions lined up every month things weren’t exactly in her hands. But this was probably the first time she was enjoying the preferential treatment she received. Regular absence from school often made it difficult for her to keep up with the school curriculum but her teachers never scolded her the way they did others and she almost resented the partiality. She grew angry at the feelings of inadequacy this aroused in her. Her parents said she treated different was because she was special but Tamosha was a big girl now and she knew that it was not because of what she was but it was because of what she was not. She didn’t fit in her class, she wasn’t ‘normal’ like the other girls, and she envied them for it.
Tamosha had felt death when her grand mother died and it had made her recognize how vulnerable life was. It also brought the realization that she too would one day be what her grandmother had become, rings, bangles, perfumes and a wooden almirah full of sarees. She too would metamorphorise into some physical objects that would stand out as a rude reminder of a lost self. Was it then strange that she couldn’t never really write anything in her “my aim in life” essay? The future seemed like a dark void, they never talked about it at home.But meanwhile she smiled, and the little lines on her temple gave way to two charming dimples that blossomed on her cheeks. Hmm…the muffins were going to be delicious.