Thursdays were “Creative Day” for Kabir.
For me, Thursdays were “Potential Doom Day.”
You see, I knew art class. I’d been to art class before.
It was a battlefield disguised as a cheerful room, paint splatters on the floor like confetti, brushes sticking out of jars like untamed hedgehogs and a faint smell of glue that had clearly been there since 1998.
Kabir, however, was unbothered. He slung me over his shoulder that morning, humming as we entered the room.
“You’ll be fine, Zippy,” he said.
Fine? That’s like telling a sheep it will be fine in a lion’s den.
We sat by the window, a rare safe spot. Sunlight poured in, making the dust motes dance in the air. On our table sat an army of paint bottles, reds, yellows, greens and… oh no… blue!!
I immediately noticed the blue bottle was sweating suspiciously, like it knew a secret.
“Stay away from that one,” I whispered (though only I could hear myself).
Kabir got to work on his “mountain landscape”, jagged peaks, a blazing sun, a few wobbly trees.
I was just beginning to relax when Rahul plonked into the seat next to us. Rahul was Kabir’s friend and also a certified chaos machine.
“Pass me the blue paint,” Rahul said.
Kabir reached over. The lid was… not on tight. The tilt was… far too enthusiastic.
SPLLOOOSH!
A cold, gooey wave of blue cascaded down my front. It dripped into my side pocket, soaked my zipper and oozed down my straps like slow-motion disaster.
I let out a mental scream.
If blueberries could cry, I now knew exactly how they’d feel.
Kabir gasped. “Zippy! Oh no, oh no—” He dabbed at me with a tissue, which shredded instantly, leaving little white fluff stuck in the paint. Now I looked like a mouldy blueberry.
The class erupted into laughter.
“Cool tie-dye!” someone yelled.
“Looks like Zippy went swimming in the ocean!” another chimed in.
Trying to salvage my dignity, I thought, Yes. Tie-dye. A bold fashion statement. Totally intentional.
Just as I was adjusting to my “new look,” the yellow paint joined the party. One clumsy elbow from Rahul, one dramatic brush flick and splat!! bright mustard streaks shot across my straps.
The combination? Let’s just say I looked like a banana who’d lost a fight with a blueberry.
Kabir’s rescue attempts only made it worse. A damp sponge left me wet and streaky. Someone handed over a rag that smelled faintly of onions. By the time the clean-up ended, I was a masterpiece of chaos, blue front, yellow straps, with little lint sprinkles on top.
The bell rang. Kabir stared at me for a long moment. I braced for pity, or worse—embarrassment.
But then he smiled.
“These,” he said, pointing at the stains, “are battle colours. Proof that Zippy survived the Great Art Class Disaster of Grade 6.”
Battle colours. I liked the sound of that.
It didn’t erase the fact that I smelled faintly of paint and onion rag, but it gave me pride.
As we walked home, some kids still giggled when they saw me. But Kabir didn’t hide me. He swung me proudly, like I was a war trophy.
And in that moment, I realised something important:
Sometimes the mess is the memory.