He Was A Skaterboy | COMPLETE

four

So how come all of the movies that I 'needed' to watch as an intro to Bollywood are all love stories?

            Kiara bit her lip as she read the message that Emre had sent her on Saturday, well Sunday really, as he sent it way past midnight. It was 8.00am in the morning and Kiara was still lazing around in bed in her two-piece off-white, satin-silk pyjama set. She had with a whole lot of persuasion, and innocent-but-oh-so-very-tired expressions, convinced Mrs. Jones to postpone their four hour session today to be a bit later in the day. She would just like to for once, have a nice lie in on a Sunday, to have brunch in her pyjamas, to just enjoy a morning without any responsibilities. She knew that even though she would be done with her performance at Carnegie Hall, her mother will not stop with Kiara's daily practices.

            From the moment that Salima had noticed that Kiara could play the piano, and play it extraordinarily well, Kiara had become more of a project rather than her daughter. She had sent Kiara to countless workshops, camps, classes, to ensure that Kiara's musical talent was not only polished but well known amongst their social circles. Kiara was less a daughter and more a work-in-progress where improvements could constantly be made.

            A sigh escaped from Kiara's lips as she sat up and rubbed her arms as she thought about her mum. All her earliest memories were of her and her Baba, her mother was always somewhere in the background. Handing Kiara to someone else, so that she could go off to her Kitty Parties and shopping sprees. They weren't poor by any means even then, but Kiara could remember how they used to argue; screaming and shouting at each other when they thought she was sleeping. The only difference is that now, Salima doesn't bother to wait until Kiara is asleep. And whenever she is especially peeved at her husband, she takes it out on the person he loves the most in the world; Kiara.

            Standing up; phone in hand, Emre's message unanswered, she walks to her window and sits on the ledge that overlooks a shared private garden. She watches as one of the older ladies, a very distinguished looking Chinese lady with greying hair, wearing a cacophony of colours, on her hands and knees as she plants what looks like bulbs in soil banks. The lady pauses and lifts her head slowly, as if sensing eyes on her. Locking gazes with her, Kiara smiles brightly as she waves. The lady waves slowly, every bit of her moving as gracefully as leaves rustling gently in a warm summer's breeze.

Smiling at her own overtly romantic thoughts, Kiara shakes her head as she continued looking out her window. Her eyes drift up towards the sky, as she watches the white tufts of cloud slowly but surely make their journey across the sky. Her fingers start tapping a beat, a melody that only she can hear, as she closes her eyes and drifts with the music that plays in her mind.

            The door slams open, and Kiara jumps up in shock, dropping her phone on the hardwood floor with a loud smack. Eyes wide, she took in her mother's red cheeks and stern expression, her heart beating rapidly first in shock, then in fear. Her mother was already dressed for the day in an immaculate white silk shirt and grey tweed pants. Her make up accented her hazel-green almond shaped eyes and lashes, while also highlighting her high cheekbones. Her copper coloured hair was pulled back in a soft chignon, while her demeanour was anything but.

            "Why are you not dressed for piano practice?" Kiara was questioned tersely.

            Kiara gaped at her mother; she knew she had sent her parents a text informing them that Mrs. Jones had postponed their classes for later. She could hear the thumping of footsteps from outside, getting closer to her room. Her Baba, red faced stood behind her mother and shook his head at Kiara. While her mother was ready for the day, her father Moussa was still in his pyjamas. The white cotton shalwar kameez was full of wrinkles, indicating a night spent tossing and turning.