The Chronicles of Miss Shola

The blog's epitaph: Miss Shola came and went as she pleased

Archive for November 2011

My first bundt!

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After months of drooling over them in many food blogs, finally made a 3 cup bundt cake of banana and chocolate chip with nutella cream dancing on it wildly.

~ Dedicated to An, sweet and lovely just like her excellent blog, who generously gave me the bundt cake pan from her large collection of bakeware. Thank you!

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Written by Miss Shola

November 20, 2011 at 1:31 pm

Posted in Chow

Rumi spotting in ‘Rockstar’

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Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I will meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about
language, ideas, even the phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.

Written by Miss Shola

November 14, 2011 at 1:34 am

Posted in Poetry

Pop art meets Monday morning

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~ End of Innocence by Romero Britto, a Brazilian Neo-pop artist. He combines influences from cubism with pop, to create a vibrant, iconic style that The New York Times describes, “exudes warmth, optimism and love”. Britto’s pop sensibility has since lent itself to many collaborations with such brands as Audi, Bentley, Disney, Technomarine, Evian and FIFA, for whom he created an official poster for the 2010 World Cup.

Written by Miss Shola

November 7, 2011 at 12:53 pm

Posted in Art

Dreams

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Its head is perched on the window,
Waiting for me to let down guard,
Soon it will open the bolted door and run amok,
It will climb mountains, it will swim seas,
It will chase tigers, it will breathe under trees,
Doing all that it has learnt and felt,
But when the time is up, it will flutter back again
Like Cinderella, only barefoot,
Unseen, unfelt, unreal,
Into its cage for another day –
My soul trapped inside my body
That lives my dreams.

Written by Miss Shola

November 3, 2011 at 7:49 pm

Posted in Poetry

The anthem

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It was a cold January morning in New Delhi. The father still dressed in his home clothes put his son on the pillion seat of his cycle and started off from the Officer’s quarters at Lodhi Road. This had been home for him and his family of nine for over five years now, since he migrated from his hometown in Larkana, Sindh following the partition of his country in 1947. Settling down in a new city had taken been difficult initially, but he was fortunate to have found a well-paying job in the Information & Broadcasting ministry of India. Though the new country and its people had been kind, on a thoughtful day his mind would often trail off to the palatial house he grew up in, the streets he wandered on in his youth and the people he knew all too well. He longed to just have a glimpse of it all but it had been locked away by fate in a memory chest, like a toy that a child can’t seem to have enough of. He hoped that someday it would come before his eyes just as he had left it behind – untouched, unblemished, untampered. For now he had to be happy with what he had found along the way in his long journey from the known to the unknown.

His 8 year old son was dressed in his school uniform but was not going to be dropped off to school by his father just yet. It was well before 6:00 am and the sun’s rays were still oblique and unable to counter the chill biting their bones through the thin sweaters. After about half an hour of strenuous cycling against the teeth chattering wind they arrived at their destination, India Gate. The father parked his cycle along with several others at the entrance.  The boy leaped off the cycle and waved one hand at his father and in the other proudly carried the mouth organ he had been trained on. The father smiled as he saw his son walking towards a crowd of children being instructed by teachers and musicians. This was the fifth day they had gathered together to rehearse for the welcome ceremony of Russian president Nikita Khrushchev. The final performance before the Prime Minister of India, President of Russia and other distinguished gentry in the Government was just two days away. The father stood under a gulmohar tree and saw his son fade into a small dot and then lost him as he mingled with other dots his size. But soon enough he heard the combined and coordinated strains of various musical instruments from a distance, playing the same soothing tune he had been hearing for the past five days. He stood on new ground unsure if it held the road leading to home, but the tune of the Russian anthem played by his son and his schoolmates was strangely calming and full of hope. It was his cue to wander off, albeit for a few minutes, to familiar territory that would become stranger with passing days and for many generations to come.

~ Dedicated to my grandfather who fought his own freedom struggle valiantly

Written by Miss Shola

November 3, 2011 at 3:23 pm

Posted in Shorts