by Nazia Kamali

The lazy Sunday afternoon stretched into a quiet evening. Laila kept away the book she was reading and peered out the window. The sun was setting. Traces of saffron had started to sprout on the clear blue sky.

She went to the small room adjoining the kitchen and sat cross-legged in front of the pottery wheel. A thick mound of mud waited in a dish kept on the side. She kneaded the dough diligently; making sure it was even, devoid of air bubbles, and soft. She then placed a handful of it on the wheel. Slowly, she began building – mud, water, sweat, concentration…

Her petite hands held the wobbly pot-in-making. A few strands of loose hair grazed her collar bones as she applied adequate pressure with her fingers to carve out the neck.

Once the pot was made, she placed it inside an oven.

Post dinner, she came back to the room, held the half baked pot in her hands, and inspected it with keen eyes.

Lifting it high up in the air, she smashed the pot into several pieces.

The satisfaction of being ‘in charge’ blossomed through her bosom as she went to lie on the bed.

                                                             *   *  *

Nazia is a reader, writer, and teacher who regularly volunteers with organizations that work for Women Empowerment. She has worked for local news journal Harbinger India for several years. Her work has been published online on Indus Women Writing, the Whorticulturalist as well as offline in anthologies by Cape Comorin Publishers, PCC Inscape, and Other Worldly women Press.