Not a soul to be seen
On the deserted streets,
Lost are all hopes and dreams.
All of a sudden from nowhere,
A mockingjay sings a melody
Of Katniss Everdeen.
Author: Nuraine Sadaf
Writer|Traveller|Reader|
Somewhere in a French Patisserie
At 5:00 AM, the warm yellow lights turn on every day in the back of the bakery.
Marie gets busy with all the work that lays ahead of her in the day. She prepares herself, dusts her hands with flour and begins to knead the dough. She kneads the dough long and gently though.
There is flour on her apron, hands, and strands of hair that fall often on her face. From the pantry to the kitchen, she runs around gathering ingredients.
In a large bowl, she sieves the dry ingredients into the flour. In another bowl, she whisks the wet ingredients. She works with the intensity of a controlled hurricane.
Now and then, she checks on her pastry and bread dough. Kneading them long and gently though.
She works on the bread on one side while simultaneously working on a fluffy chocolate mousse.
She whisks warm whipping cream with cacao powder in a bowl. In another, she mixes milk, sugar, and cornflour. Folding in the batter smoothly until it all comes together.
She pours this mixture into a saucepan and turns on the flame. She adds chunks of dark chocolate into the concoction and starts stirring till it turns into a mini brown whirlpool in the pan.
She stirs and stirs until it becomes delectably dark and gooey. She pours this into a baking tray for cooling. She drizzles some cocoa powder on the chocolate mousse just before sliding the tray into the refrigerator.
She dusts her apron briefly and goes back to kneading a new dough again.
Like this, Marie passionately bakes away every single day. Tirelessly, making wonderful pastries in her French patisserie.
Photo by Davide Baraldi on Pexels.com
Light seeped in
Through a cracked window
Illuminating the room.
Paint brushes and stained cloth
Lay scattered on the
Greying dusty wooden floor.
An artist worked tirelessly
Somewhere in a corner.
A sad melody hummed in the air
In the hopeful season of spring
The spirit of gaiety is locked away.
Of a Book
Drowsy eyes
Read the same lines
Over and over.
Dustful Dreams
Yesterday, he called me in my dreams
Strolling in the dark green meadows
I turned around to look at him
Then walked away.
Next thing I know,
He is by my side
Giggling and questioning me with his eyes.
So I stop and ask, “Who are you?”
To which he replied “Your daemon.”
Self Isolation
The day was long and cold.
Not a soul to whisper a word or two.
“Oh how long will this go on?”
She sighed and complained
While absently stirring her pot of porridge.
A troubled mind
Became a cause of my misery
A hurtful racist remark
Made me doubt the sanity of humanity.
Stereotyping
It doesn’t matter where you are from
We all have faults of our own.
Lend a helping hand when you can
There’s no point kicking someone into a hole.
By the Ocean
An old villa facing the ocean on a summer beach stands still.
Three steps take you into the house through a blue colored two-way door, a string of bells hang above it lightly tingling with the ocean breeze.
A white intricate design of rangoli greets you at the doorstep, you step in and walk on the red floored tiles and enter an authentic South Indian home.
In the open hall area hangs an oonjal wooden swing with iron-link chains anchored to the ceiling. The oonjal is decorated with two maroon bolster pillows on the sides.
The swing directly faces the entrance door, when left open, the door acts as a window to the ocean galore.
Tall pillars standing impressively in the middle of the house holding its weight.
The aroma of ghee from kitchen, freshly prepared vadas, and filter coffee drags you further in. Steamed rice cakes continue to cook in the pressure cooker with the whistle going on and off.
Just by the kitchen is an open area with an open ceiling and right in the center of it is a tulsi plant.
Dressed in a sari with a damp towel wrapped around her wet hair, she waters the tulsi plant and does puja.
Two little girls cheerfully run in the open area holding up their orange-colored lehengas and dropping a few buds of mogra flowers from their hair onto the ground while playing.
There is lively banter and cheerfulness in the air. Grandma talks incessantly with the maid while the maid washes clothes just around the corner of the house on a stone slab.
A stairway leads you to several more rooms, a young fifteen-year old girl walks on the corridor holding a book in her hand and reciting poems in her sing-song voice.
Just when we are about to enter one of the rooms, I wake up with a startle to the sounds of loud impatient honking from vehicles across the street. I look out the window and see streets bustling with people and cars, surrounded by tall blocks of boring concrete buildings. I let out a loud sigh thinking of my heartwarming South Indian dream and get back to living the usual fast-paced city life.
Nuraine Sadaf 