Anika Khan

Five stars

The endless recounting of half empty tills meant the end of the month was upon us. This was a solemn time for our humble (read: failing) family business. Every member from grandfather to grandchild must jam weathered hands into weathered pockets and frantically feel for an amount to contribute to the cause. This was to make up for the losses, which were undoubtedly there. My older sister Sana, who I respectfully refer to as Api, calls this manoeuvre the cost of optimism.