All dressed up and ready for a function I could not avoid: our annual dinner. I was daunted by the prospect of walking to the road to get a rickshaw. My pink chiffon dress with its trailing dupatta, decorated with lace made me happy. Usually, I loved wearing pink but today my heart felt heavy. The thought of the lack of transport took me down memory lane and all the opportunities I had lost along the way. I could have been a rich woman, but at such cost! I scolded myself. I was better off than millions, I told myself, and had better moral values than billions. I had coped with so much in life that I couldn’t allow myself to be daunted by a mere rickshaw! I had travelled around the world, I had managed in places where I could not even speak the language. Getting into a rickshaw would not slay me! My heels were killing me, my makeup was too heavy, my clothes too gaudy for my age. But I would not falter! Not now, not when I was so close. And then there it was. Bumping along, the elusive rickshaw, painted over with Afridi’s giant face. I smiled at the driver, who did everything he could to grimace in my direction. I caught the bracket and pushed myself in, and then heard a familiar sound: cloth ripping. The nightmare had come true. With all the dignity I could muster, I cleared my throat and told the driver where to take me.