Tag: writing

A Prayer for Plates

~ Nuraine Sadaf ~ 2 Comments

We are living in strange times.

Last week, I was in New York City with a friend. We stood in line outside a ‘popular’ bakery for a hot cinnamon bun. It was raining, we somehow managed to get inside without getting soaked, placed our order, and looked around for a place to sit.

There was none.

I found a tiny corner near a pillar with a tiny spot to hold a plate. When our order arrived, the warm cinnamon bun was served on a paper plate, my drink came in a plastic cup, and we had to use plastic cutlery to eat focaccia bread. Imagine cutting a focaccia bread with a plastic knife, that knife was showing off its moves.. bending and dancing and cutting the bread wherever it pleased rather than where we wanted it to. All this..while also struggling to hold our bags, making sure the plate doesn’t tip and fall. Somehow we managed to finish our food and left the bakery.

To be honest, we were relieved to step outside and breathe in some fresh air.

I have no clue how the food tasted.

In the name of convenience and in the concept of saving time we seem to be losing the pleasure of eating. What happened to real plates, spoons, and knives? Why are we served food in takeaway containers, even after saying we’re here to dine-in?

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Review: Beautiful Ugly by Alice Feeney

~ Nuraine Sadaf ~ Leave a comment

Book Review

Mystery | Psychological Thriller | Fiction

Rating: 4 out of 5.

First Impressions: 

Beautiful Ugly kept me guessing until the last page, and even after finishing it I’m still unsure what to make of the ending. 

I feel the author took inspiration from the song “Hotel California” and turned it into a book. The women are programmed to receive but the men can never leave!

Continue reading “Review: Beautiful Ugly by Alice Feeney” →

Elaichi

Green cardamom pods with some opened showing black seeds scattered on a wooden surface
~ Nuraine Sadaf ~ Leave a comment

The scent of crushed cardamoms and saffron
rises from a simmering pot of chai,
drifting through the house
from the kitchen,
up the stairs,
into the room where I still sleep.

I breathe deeply,
the khushboo of elaichi tea
a sharp cool green
opened by heat
sweetening the air,
A smile inside my dreams.

This is how the day begins
with the feeling of home,
somewhere in Spain.

Embracing Age

~ Nuraine Sadaf ~ Leave a comment

Holding onto the old
In a new world…
Like a worn leather jacket
Over a satin shirt,
Like a vase of fresh flowers
On a weathered wooden table,
Like a wrinkled hand
Holding an iPhone,
Like a mud pot brewing
Hot noodle soup.
It is not about living in the past.
It is about embracing age,
Imperfection worn with humility,
Finding beauty in austere simplicity.
It is Wabi-sabi.

A promise stretched across distance

~ Nuraine Sadaf ~ Leave a comment

I have always loved bridges, the way they appear
More than steel and structure.. like a promise stretched across a distance.
They do not ask why there is a divide,
They simply become the answer.

There’s something deeply hopeful about bridges
People coming together to build something that brings others closer.
It is a path for the lost,
a gentle insistence to keep going
A reminder, there’s always a way forward.
To me, they’ve always felt like symbols of courage, resilience, and possibility.
A connection linking two unknowns, two stranger lands.

And then there’s the Golden Gate Bridge, a work of art!
The scarlet red, or should I say fiery orange-red or accidental “International Orange” colored bridge,
gracefully suspended in the air which looks simply striking
against the endless blue sky and blue bay on a bright sunny day.

Continue reading “A promise stretched across distance” →

A door you refused to open

~ Nuraine Sadaf ~ Leave a comment

I dream a dream on repeat
In it, is a door..

A tall, imposing old door
Ornate two-panels
A gold knob on the dark wood
Shaped like the face of a dragon
The more I looked
the more it grew
Intimidating, alive.
I refuse to open,
Who or what awaits on the other side?

I dream a dream..
Of a traditional carved door
Intricate motifs on its arched frame
A faint scent of white pine
Lingered in the air.
I reach out to touch,
but step back
It is not my door,
am I allowed to touch?

I dream a dream..
It is a dark mahogany door,
polished wood:
Glossy and fine
It stretched toward the sky.
I stand before it,
Tilting my head in awe.
But am I allowed
to stand here and stare?

I dream a dream..
Of a red door
with a big black lock
I lose myself
In its structured pattern.
To find such careful carving
Feels like an anomaly.
I stand again before it
I do not try to open it.

I dream a dream..
Of yet another door
Broken, laced with spider webs,
No door knob,
Moss creeping upward
Slowly eating the wood.
Afraid it might crumble at my touch,
I turn away.

I dream a dream..
Of multiple doors
each one closed
Afraid of choosing wrong,
Afraid of being lost,
I run,
I hide,
I cry.

I dream a dream..
Of a giant single black door
It towered over me
I walked towards it,
an ant in comparison
I remembered my Dada told me:
You’ll never know if you never try
I step forward,
But courage runs dry
and I turn behind.

I dream a dream..
Of a familiar door
A door from the past
Its surface remembers my touch
It was opened before
Something had escaped
Something I never named
I look away,
I cannot breathe
and wake with a start.

I dream a dream..
Of the same familiar door from the past
The handle awaits
I walk toward it,
Slowly,
My hand trembles
But this time,
I open it.

Blue sky
Green grass
A silent breeze
I breathe deep
And rise with a smile.