Morning Reflections In the tender embrace of dawn, the kitchen of Jaya's Pune apartment greeted her new day with a quiet reverence. It was 6:00 Am, and the first rays of sunlight pierced through the half-open window, painting golden streaks across the aged granite countertops and the collection of copper pans hanging above. Each object in the room, from the well-used mortar and pestle to the vibrant spice jars, seemed to hold a piece of history, a fragment of a story. It’s a big day for me. I have a dream.  Jaya, her hair loosely tied in a bun, moved gracefully around this familiar space. As she filled the kettle, the gentle whistle of the Pune local morning train in the distance melded with the chirping of sparrows perched on the window sill. The city was waking up, its rhythm dribbling into the corners of her kitchen. The kitchen shelves, lined with cookbooks and old photographs, bore witness to her culinary journey. Among them, a black-and-white photo of a young woman, garbed in a traditional saree, her smile timeless and eyes brimming with stories – Jaya’s mother, Devika. Though gone, her presence was palpable, almost as if she were standing there, overseeing her daughter’s movements. I remember our kitchen in Paris — it exudes a warm, inviting ambiance, with its soft cream walls and delicate blue accents. A rustic wooden table dominates the center, surrounded by matching chairs, all bathed in the gentle glow of a vintage chandelier. Copper pots and pans, each telling stories of meals past, hang above the modern stove, marrying tradition with the present. On the countertops, a symphony of fresh herbs in terracotta pots mingles with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee. The room, with its open shelves displaying colorful crockery and the occasional hint of lace from the curtains, presents a cozy tableau of family life, where modern conveniences blend seamlessly with cherished heirlooms. Maa loves to bake bread, doesn’t she? Maa and Papa met each other in France, fell in love and got married. If Papa hadn't died in that road accident, we would have never come back to India from France. I’m only four years old. I don’t understand why Maa is crying and packing everything. As Jaya’s kitchen bathed in morning sunlight, she, clutching a bag of yeast, embarked on a nostalgic journey beyond mere breadmaking. Jaya was crafting her mother's French no-knead bread, a homage to her Indian mother's mastery of French cuisine.  Each ingredient stirred memories of shared laughter and culinary lessons. As Jaya measured three cups of flour from a brass container adorned with intricate patterns, into a glass bowl, echoes of the past filled the kitchen.  This should be enough for one loaf.  The process was a marathon, not a sprint. Twelve hours of mixing, resting, rising and baking, mirroring the patience and love her mother put into every dish. Jaya meticulously added one teaspoon of salt, one quarter teaspoon of yeast and two cups of water. Her mixing was an art form, characterized by leisurely yet precise, swift movements. The blend perfected by Devika, released a fragrance — comforting and evocative. On this day, as Jaya mixed everything, her thoughts drifted to the prestigious competition in Paris, organized by a world-renowned chef. This contest wasn't merely a challenge; it was a quest to crown the world’s greatest baker. Winning would mean validation for Jaya not just her skills, but for the legacy her mother left behind. Jaya transferred the dough in a transparent glass bowl in a warm place for the magic to start. Jaya was in no hurry. She gazed at her hands, coated with flour, each line and crease an indication of the years she'd spent kneading and rolling, just as her mother, Devika, had taught her. But this was not a time for lengthy nostalgia. She swiftly refocused on the task at hand, kneading the dough with a rhythm that mirrored her resolute determination to win the competition.  Done. Now the dough will rest for a total of eight hours. Good timing. With Ritesh on a business trip, I find freedom from the routine cooking of Chawal-Daal-curry. His absence spares me the frustration of his annoyance when he finds me in the kitchen for extended periods. He seems to think food cooks itself. He has never understood my passion for cooking, just as he has never fully grasped the bond I share with my mother. Ritesh and I never get along. Our married life lacks communication and understanding. His apathy stings, yet it also fuels my determination to prove my worth, not only to him but to myself. Damn it. I feel like the tasks I do are the least appreciated in the house. This bread requires twelve straight hours to build the gluten, rise, and then bake. I have to win this baking competition. Yes, definitely. Jaya’s memories from her early childhood flooded in — of her mother baking bread, grinding spices, narrating tales of her youth, and of distant, dream-like days in Paris. I’m only twenty-eight, yet the mundane kitchen work tires me so much. Today, however, is different. I need caffeine to keep going. It’s just 8:00 AM, and I already feel exhausted. The bubbling of the Chai on the stove served as a gentle timer. Jaya, lost in thought, poured the tea into a delicate, china cup, a relic from her mother's dowry. In this inherited kitchen from her mother, where Jaya now lived with her husband, each sip of chai became a silent homage, bridging past and present. Outside, the sun climbed higher, casting a warmer, brighter light into the kitchen. Jaya began preparing breakfast— Poha, for herself. Her movements were a dance of efficiency and grace. She chopped onions with precision, the rhythmic sound merging with the distant hum of the bustling city. The sizzle of mustard seeds in hot oil was like a melody, reminiscent of the many mornings spent under her mother’s tutelage. As she stirred the Poha, a traditional Maharashtrian breakfast, Jaya's gaze drifted to the small balcony adjoining the kitchen. The potted jasmine, a plant her mother had nurtured, was in bloom, its fragrance mingling with the scents of the kitchen, creating an olfactory tapestry rich with nostalgia. Let me move the jasmine plant in direct sunlight. It blooms only after getting enough warmth from the sun.  The clock, with its rhythmic pendulum, ticked away not only the hours but also the years since Devika’s passing, its every tick echoed the unyielding flow of time. Alone at breakfast, Jaya faced an empty chair, a poignant reminder of her mother’s absence since her passing a year ago. Silently savoring her meal, she connected with memories of her mother’s dreams of a Parisian kitchen, cobblestone streets, and artful cafes, despite her bustling life in Pune. Maa never had the opportunity to look outside her kitchen after marrying Papa. He never let her work. Maa's world revolved around meals and chores, her skills and dedication unappreciated. Just like Ritesh, my father never appreciated her time and effort. ‘Huh, cooking and cleaning are no-skill requiring work. Anyone can do it,’ that’s what he used to say. Ritesh reminds me of Papa. Jaya cleaned up after breakfast. The water swirled down the sink like time slipped through fingers. The kitchen, now quiet, seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next phase of the day. The morning had unfolded in a symphony of tasks and memories, each moment a step in her daily ballet. Jaya moved to the kitchen window, right behind the stove and pushed it fully open to let in the warmth and the bustling sounds of Pune. Jaya checked the old brass-framed clock: 9:00 AM. The warmth will help the dough rise well.  The honking of vehicles, the distant laughter of children playing, and the rhythmic clang of a local vendors’ bell created a cacophony that was both overwhelming and invigorating.  Jaya closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to be transported by the sensory links of her surroundings. When she opened them again, the kitchen seemed to have transformed – no longer just a room in her apartment, but a vessel of her history, her culture, and the unspoken bond with her mother. As the morning gave way to the heat of midday, Jaya knew the kitchen would continue to be her sanctuary, her connection to the past, and the canvas on which she painted her present. She smiled softly, her heart a blend of melancholy and gratitude in the quiet kitchen, her voice a bridge spanning generations, continents, and dreams.  Thank you, Maa. You taught me to make the most amazing bread and today I’m going to prove it. Stay with me Maa. I need you. Only you know how stifling it feels to not get what you want. Three hours ticked by, and the dough had started rising slowly, embodying hope and anticipation. The dough needs four more hours to rise. I can wait. A Mother’s Echo In the stillness of her apartment’s kitchen, the midday sun casted elongated shadows across the terracotta tiles. The kitchen was steeped in a silence that seemed almost tangible, broke only by the distant hum of city life seeping through the open window. Jaya’s mind drifted, her thoughts meandered through the alleys of her past.  What do you say, Ma, seeing me now?  In the kitchen, where morning light had begun to give way to the fuller brightness of the day, a faint, leaf-like whisper pierced the tranquility, arresting Jaya’s attention. This sound, both familiar and otherworldly, seemed to reverberate from the walls, hinting at her mother’s voice. Jaya’s heart fluttered with a mix of hope and apprehension. As the sunlight intensified, casting deeper shadows, the kitchen transformed into a crucible of memories and enigmatic happenings. Jaya stood at the threshold of a mystery, its secrets just out of reach, enveloped in the warmth of the day’s ascent. Lunchtime approached, and Jaya prepared a simple meal of Chawal and Rajma. Just for herself. Her favorite food, which Jaya never cooked because Rithesh hated Rajma. As Jaya chopped onions and pods of garlic, her mother’s teachings echoed in her mind, “Always cook with love, Jaya, for it’s the secret ingredient that no recipe can contain.” Jaya smiled, despite the turmoil inside her. The best part of cooking Chawal and Rajma was that it got cooked really fast. Jaya wouldn’t cook otherwise, but that day she cooked every meal to keep the kitchen warm. The heat and steam coming out of the stove and food increased the temperature inside the kitchen. “Maa always said that a warm kitchen gives the dough a perfect elasticity,” Jaya recalled.  It was lunch time and Jaya was famished. As she sat down to eat, the whisper returned, more distinct this time, like a breeze carrying words from a far-off place. Jaya’s heart skipped a beat. The voice, unmistakably her mother’s, was saying something indecipherable, a message lost in the wind. Jaya rose from her chair, a sense of urgency propelled her.  Ma, is that you?  Jaya called out, her voice trembling with a cocktail of emotions. The kitchen, bathed in the harsh light of noon, felt like a stage where the past and present converged, playing out a scene that was both surreal and sacred.  The Afternoon Lull As the clock in Jaya’s kitchen struck two, the Pune sun blazed outside, casting an almost ethereal glow through the sheer curtains. Inside, the kitchen, which had been a cauldron of unexplained whispers and memories, now settled into a quieter rhythm. Jaya stood by the window, her gaze lost in the labyrinth of bustling streets below. The city was alive, pulsating with energy, yet within the confines of her kitchen, time seemed to stand still, suspended in an enigmatic bubble of the past and present. Half-day children walked back home from school. A few got down the school buses at the bus stop. Their backs arched with the load of heavy backpacks. But they seemed happy, chatting away with friends; aloof from all the worries of future and life, laden with childhood curiosity and excitement amidst the chaos of cut-throat competition. Jaya’s mind was a whirlpool of thoughts, each one entwined with the next, forming a series of questions and possibilities. The mysterious occurrences of the day so far – the whisper, the wind, the flipping cookbook – lingered in her consciousness, both intrigued and unsettled her. Why now, Ma? After all these years, why choose to reach out to me in such an elusive way?  Jaya pondered, her heart heavy with the weight of her longing. She felt a strange sense of being adrift, caught between the tangible world she knew and the spectral realm she felt brushed against her reality. The afternoon wore on, and Jaya found herself moving mechanically through her chores. She wiped the countertops, and washed the dishes. Each task performed with a precision that belied the turmoil churning inside her. The silence of the kitchen was a stark contrast to the cacophony of her thoughts. The hours slipped by, the sun’s journey across the sky marking the passage of time in the changing light that filtered through the kitchen. Jaya found herself getting more and more anxious as the dough was nearing the rising time of eight hours.  Jaya checked the dough and noticed it had not risen as it should have been.  What?? In two more hours I have to start shaping the dough but…the dough doesn’t seem to be ready at all. What should I do? Something is not right. A sudden realization struck Jaya — the yeast was past its prime. The tension in the air was palpable as Jaya weighed her option. This unforeseen obstacle tested Jaya’s resolve. She ran to check the expiry date on the yeast bag, and there it was. The yeast had expired five months back. Once the yeast was past its expiry time, there’s very little life left to it. Upon discovering the expired yeast, Jaya’s initial panic gave way to determination. Suddenly, Jaya remembered a trick her mother used - a faster method for yeast activation using sugar and warm water to test the viability. Time was ticking. Realizing her yeast had expired, Jaya quickly improvised. She got the dough out on the mixing bench and mixed it with the solution of sugar and warm water. She had no choice other than to anxiously wait. I hope this works. Only two hours left before I have to roll out the dough. The dough, better work or I’m doomed. As the shadows began to gently stretch, marking the gradual transition into early evening, Jaya’s mind raced with the anxiety of the bread baking result and with memories of her mother – the lessons in cooking. With each memory, the sense of her mother’s presence grew stronger, as if each recollection was a thread pulling her closer to the ethereal veil that separated them. Her words hung in the air, unanswered, adding to the enigma of the day.  With yeast not working well, I don’t think I can win this, Maa. I always wonder what my life is like as I follow my dreams, as I venture beyond this kitchen, this city. Do you support me? Please HELP. An Evening of Memories The kitchen clock struck four, its steady ticking a metronome to Jaya’s introspective afternoon. Standing at her kitchen window, Jaya felt a familiar lull in her energy, the kind that always crept in as the afternoon waned. Outside, the Pune sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched across the pavement, signaling the early evening. As the workday neared its end, a palpable sense of anticipation filled the office. Workers glanced at the orange-tinted windows, eager for the evening’s freedom. The street lights began flickering to life. The distant sound of school bells mixed with the rhythmic hum of traffic, marking the end of the school day and the beginning of rush hour. Inside, the kitchen bathed in the soft, warm light, became a sanctuary of solace and reflection. Her mind, however, was anchored firmly in the present, in the kitchen that had been the stage of her day’s extraordinary experiences. The events of the morning and early afternoon lingered in her thoughts. Will my hard work pay off? The early evening sunlight was light, gentle and soft. It filtered through the kitchen window. Jaya peeked through the glass bowl to check on the dough. Her heart was beating fast, as if it would come out of her chest.  To Jaya’s relief, the yeast had bubbled to life, proving it was still active. The dough had risen perfectly. A simple amalgam of flour, water, yeast and salt, yet it held within it the essence of time, patience and memory.  Thank you God. Thanks Maa. Jaya leaned against the kitchen counter, her eyes fixed on that unassuming mound that was more than just a few ingredients. It was a connection, a bridge to her mother, to a past filled with the warmth and comforting rhythm of her kitchen. As the dough completed resting, the silence of the  late evening hours enveloped the kitchen. The soft light of dusk streamed through the window, casting a dim glow on the dough. This was the heart of the process, the rise that would define the bread’s character. Jaya stood there, reflecting on the journey that had brought her to this moment. Jaya began to roll out the dough. Her hand movements were mechanical yet precise. With each turn of the dough, her mind spiraled deeper into introspection. Jaya’s heart ached with these unvoiced questions, her longing for her mother’s guidance palpable. Jaya finally transferred the rolled out dough in the dutch pot for the final rise. Memories of her mother flooded in, each one a vivid reminder of her love and skill. Her mother had a knack for turning the mundane into something magical, and her no-knead bread was no exception. It was more than just a recipe; it was a legacy, a piece of her that lived on. Now, it was Jaya’s hands which performed the ritual. Her heart tried to connect with her mother’s, across the chasm of time. Maa, are you proud? Or do you wonder why your daughter, who dreams of Parisian streets, now stands confined in this Pune kitchen? The competition loomed large in Jaya’s mind. Hosted by a world-renowned French chef, it was an opportunity to step out of the shadows, to prove that she, too, had inherited her mother’s culinary prowess. But doubt crept in.  Am I good enough? The stakes feel impossibly high. Jaya glanced at the clock. Time was a strange companion in the kitchen, moving both swiftly and slowly. The dough had begun to rise, swelling with potential. She thought about her mother's words, always encouraging, always believing in the magic of patience. “Good things take time,” she would say. And so, Jaya waited, the dough’s gradual ascent a mirror to her mounting anticipation. Jaya’s husband’s indifference to her passion for cooking added another layer to her internal struggle. He saw her time in the kitchen as a hobby, nothing more. He didn’t understand the depth of the connection between Jaya’s mother and her, and how cooking was their shared language, their bond. His lack of appreciation stung, but it also ignited a fire within Jaya. Jaya wanted to prove him wrong, to show that she indeed loved cooking with passion, that she loved being in her mother’s kitchen, creating, experimenting, and keeping her mother’s memory alive. As the hours passed, and the sun climbed higher, its rays stretched across the kitchen floor,  the dough too began its slow ascent. It transformed. Jaya looked at the proofed bread, its surface now dotted with tiny bubbles, a sign of life, of fermentation. It was a living entity, reacting to Jaya’s touch, to the environment, to the very energy she poured into it. This bread was a tribute to Jaya’s journey, a blend of tradition and personal evolution. The act of baking was therapeutic, a way to channel her emotions, her hopes, and her fears into something tangible. The scent of the dough was comforting, a mixture of earth and life, proof of her culinary creations. It reminded Jaya of the countless afternoons spent in the kitchen with her mother. Those were simpler times, days filled with laughter and love, a stark contrast to the solitude Jaya now felt. The rolled bread was completely proofed and ready to go inside the oven for forty-five minutes to bake. Jaya preheated the oven to 400 Degree Fahrenheit. The heat was a harbinger of transformation. It was 4:30 PM. Placing the dough inside the oven felt like a ritual, an offering to the culinary gods and to the memory of her mother.  Baking is like life. It’s about finding the right balance, the perfect moment. Would Maa be proud of me? Would this bread be a fitting tribute to her? The kitchen, once bright with morning light, now basked in the dim golden hues of the setting sun. The dough, once a shaggy mass, was now a smooth, elastic entity, full of promise. Placing it in the oven felt like a culmination, a moment of truth. As the oven door closed, Jaya felt a surge of anticipation, a mingling of hope and anxiety.  I hope the bread get’s the oven spring. I hope it browns. I hope it becomes everything I’m wishing for. Outside, the world moved on, the sounds of the day reaching a crescendo. Inside, the kitchen became a sanctuary, a place where time seemed to slow down, where every minute was marked by the subtle changes in the bread’s crust, the aroma that started to fill the room. The scent of baking bread was timeless, a reminder of the kitchen’s past and present, of the thread that binds generations. The light now mellowed into a softer, warmer tone. It signaled the approach of late evening. The oven timer ticked away the seconds, each one a heartbeat in the life of the bread. The waiting was the hardest part. Jaya sat at the kitchen table, sipping on a cup of tea, lost in thought. The internal monologue continued unabated. Memories of Jaya’s mother’s illness and her passing came unbidden, each a sharp pang in her heart. Cooking had been their connection, and now, in her absence, it was both a comfort and a reminder of what Jaya had lost. Jaya’s thoughts turned to the competition, to the panel of judges who would scrutinize her work, whispering questions of her worth and skill. But then, the timer dinged - a clarion call to return to the present. The aroma of baked bread began to permeate the kitchen, a signal that the end was near. The smell that signified home, comfort, and love. Forty-five minutes of baking time was up. It was 5:15 PM. Opening the oven, Jaya was greeted with a sight that brought a mixture of relief and joy. The bread was perfect - just like her mother used to make, golden brown, and the sound of its crust crackling as it began to cool. Jaya felt a surge of pride, a rare moment of self-appreciation. The late-evening light cast a warm glow over the bread, now resting on the cooling rack, its aroma was a thanks to the journey it had undergone. As the evening deepened, the kitchen grew quiet, the day’s labors came to an end. The bread, once a simple mixture of ingredients, was now a symbol of something greater - a connection to Jaya’s mother, to the love and lessons she imparted. It was a reminder that time, while it moved forward, also circled back. It brought people closer to those they lost, to the memories people cherished. Triumph and Decisions As the golden hues of the afternoon sun gave way to the soft lavender of twilight. The bread, now cooled, sat proudly on the counter. Jaya had poured her heart into that loaf, a blend of skill, memory, and hope. The competition, once a distant dream, had become a vivid reality, with each passing minute drawing her closer to the outcome that would define Jaya’s future. Jaya glanced at the clock. It was exactly 5:45 PM. She put her loaf of bread right in front of the mounted tripod. Phone camera faced the top of the sliced bread to get the full view of the crumbs inside the slices. The video evaluation was conducted live online Jaya clicked “Ready to Submit” on the competition entry.  “Proceed,” came the reply immediately from the other side of the world on Jaya’s phone. As Jaya sliced into the loaf, virtually, in front of the screen, the crust gave way to a soft, chewy interior. Each slice was a blend of texture and taste, of history and hope. In the quiet of evening, inside her kitchen, Jaya reflected on the journey of the day - the rise, the bake, and the wait. It was more than just a process; it was a passage, a movement through time and memory. The bread was not just a culinary creation; it was a piece of Jaya, a piece of her mother, a story of love, loss, and the enduring power of cooking.  As Jaya submitted her entry to the competition, she realized that regardless of the outcome, she had already triumphed.  As the sun set, evening’s deep blues enveloped the sky, casting a serene glow in Jaya’s kitchen. Incandescent lights flooded the kitchen. Jaya, in her Indian home kitchen, noticed her phone lit up with an email.  The subject line gleamed: “Offer from Paris. Time: 6:00PM.” Jaya’s participation in the virtual competition had paid off. Reading the offer, a mix of excitement and apprehension surged through her. The once bustling kitchen now lay in peaceful quiet, reflecting her introspective state. Jaya looked out her window, where the first stars of the night twinkled, each a symbol of possibility. She had pondered over the glowing, unopened job offer email from Paris. Its presence was a bridge between continents and dreams. In the quiet, with a heart-set decision, she smiled. Jaya realized that no matter what path she chose, she had already achieved what she set out to do. She had honored her mother’s memory, proven her worth, and reconnected with a part of herself long neglected.  Whether Jaya accepted the offer or not, she had already risen like the bread, against all odds. This decision, once a heavy burden, now shimmered with opportunity, her journey illuminated by her mother’s enduring spirit. Jaya had finally decided, leaving a trail of anticipation and wonder. This moment, the culmination of twelve hours of patience and years of memories, was about to be unveiled. __________ Note: French no-knead bread, a hallmark of rustic French cuisine, is celebrated for its crisp crust and airy interior. This bread, requiring minimal hands-on effort, symbolizes simplicity and the joy of baking. The bread parallels the narrative’s twelve-hour span, encapsulating the theme of ‘twelve.’ The bread’s slow, deliberate rise over several hours mirrors the protagonist’s journey in the kitchen, where time is marked not by the clock but through sensory experiences and reflections. The story intertwines the bread’s gradual development with the character’s introspective passage of time, emphasizing patience and transformation.   Penmancy gets a small share of every purchase you make through these links, and every little helps us continue bringing you the reads you love!