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By Ammara Mohsin

Write two contrasting descriptive pieces (300-450 words each) about different shopping trips; one enjoyable, the other not so.

The narrow lanes of Meena Bazaar were jam-packed with people. Moving an inch without bumping into someone was a far out possibility. Also hindering movement was the fact that this place was dimly lit, with cheap, orange energy savers hanging from the ceilings. Except the ocean of heads, nothing was visible ahead. The local crowd, especially women clad in black abayas frantically hustled into and out of the shops, dragging their young ones by the hand. The little shoppers were running like penguins to keep up with their mothers, because of the quantity of shoppers thrust into their hands.

The shops were equally dreary. Tiny, claustrophobic rooms, also dimly lit, with one, poor fan desperately trying to battle the heat and a chart paper acting as a signboard. There were shops selling every commodity possible - from traditional jewellery and flat chappals, to cheap plastic crockery and equally cheap table cloths and mats.

As is this wasn’t enough to repel me, there was a repulsive, sweaty stench hanging around in the air, as if somebody had vomited all over the place.

My constant misery was increasing by the minute; because of all this and the constant, loud voices of the vendors trying to advertise their goods. The buyers were no less. They were roaring at the top of their lungs and bickering in attempts at bargaining.

I was exhausted. My stomach growled. Upon insisting, my mother pointed at a bun kebab vendor some distance away. I looked at him, each brain cell in disbelief. He was drenched in sweat, frying the kebabs on a dirty, greasy pan. Occasionally, he would wipe the sweat with his hands, and then use the very same pair of hands to assemble the bun kebab.

My appetite vanished in a flash, as I wondered how this trip could now not get any worse. Or maybe it could! I thought as the entire Bazaar suddenly drowned in darkness. There was a power breakdown! Great!

*****

Sensing my presence, the automatic doors opened in welcome. I stepped inside, eager to escape Dubai’s scorching heat. A waft of cool air greeted me. The air conditioned interior of Emirates Mall was heaven to my sweaty shirt and damp hair.

I stood there, taking in the atmosphere. The gigantic, spacious Mall stretched as far as my eye could see. It looked like a King’s durbar, lighted by magnificent glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling high above me.

In all directions, I could see expensive, designer wear shops lighted by vivid neon signboards. Not a single brand was missing! From glossy handbags to grand furniture, everything was available in a zillion colors and patterns. It was a shopper’s paradise!

What also caught my attention was the presence of people from all over the globe. People in saris, shorts, jeans, and shalwar kameez; and yet there was an easy intermingling of all nationalities.

I could hear a lively buzz – a kaleidoscope of sounds. People laughing and chatting, soft music playing, from advertisements playing on LCD screens, and the different variety of languages. It kept one hooked – made one feel alive.

Everything about this place was appealing. Even the smell. I could smell a fusion of fragrances; the candy-like smell of perfumes mixed with the rich smell of fried food combined with the smell of brand new things.

What allured me in particular was the smell of food. I made my way to the food court. I could only stand and stare at the entrance. My mouth was salivating at the sight of a hundred restaurants, selling all kinds of cuisines; ones that I knew about, and ones that I didn’t even know existed.

I bought a mouthwatering hamburger meal from Hardees', and sat on a comfortable sofa, folding my legs. I began devouring the food. It tasted delicious! I gobbled it up in five minutes! After all, I needed all the energy to explore the vast city I had just entered!

The Perfect Curry

By Fatima Raza

Amma is in the kitchen. One hand is on her waist; the other holds a spoon. She gently stirs the curry to which she has to add chickpea pakoras. She imagines her granddaughter, Fatima, coming from school, and greeting her with an ‘Adaab’. She pictures her face lighting up at the look of the pakora curry. Her granddaughter, Fatima, arrives home. The fresh smell of curry leaves catch her attention. Fatima smiles. The curry is on the stove, fresh and soupy. Amma fries the pakoras as they hiss away in the oil.

Fatima imagines the curry after it would be ready. A perfectly plated dish. Soft pakoras in yellow curry. The dressing of ‘Baghaar’ or fried cumin. Fresh coriander leaves sprinkled on top. Brown curry leaves visible in some corners. On the table, Fatima finds the dish just as she expected it. 

She takes out the curry on her plate just like Amma has taught her to, carefully from one corner of the dish. Otherwise, the gravy splits. She pours the gravy on a plate of hot, boiled rice. One pakora rests on the corner of her plate. 

Fatima gently presses the pakora with her fork. It splits open to reveal its spongy and moist inside. She thinks about her aunts and uncles in their homes. They would all envy Fatima. Amma’s curry is popular amongst the whole family. There are only a few people who can make curry like her. 

Not many can ensure that the pakoras aren’t powdery. Not everyone can balance the flavors of the gravy. And very few can tell a story through it. Amma can. 

Her bowl of curry narrates the story of Hyderabad Deccan before partition. Of the Hyderabadis who love sour and bitter dishes. Who say ‘Aye Haye’ with that distinct tone of surprise. Who speak Urdu or Hindi in their own slow accent. Amma’s curry; it catches Hyderabad- her childhood home- on a plate.

Fatima pops half a pakora in her mouth. The juicy bite explodes inside her mouth. Next comes the gravy with the rice. It has the tinge of yoghurt that it is supposed to have. She feels she is in an old house in Hyderabad. Hyderabadis are talking to her in their surprised tones andistinguished accents. They say ‘Aye Haye’ at the end of each sentence. Fatima smiles. As always, the dish is perfect.

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By Aleena Kazi

Q. Write two contrasting pieces between 300-450 words each. One which describes a particular place at the end of a war or natural disaster and one which describes the way it looks after being rebuilt. In your writing you should bring out differences between setting and atmosphere.

The dirty brick wall that was once decorated with a myriad of colours had crumbled. The graffiti no longer stood out. Despite the large variety of shades splashed onto the walls of the destroyed houses, only one colour was prominent. The crimson shade of human blood was splattered across the previously grand Chinese white walls and the gravel road. All the houses, cars and small stores contributed to the amount of shattered glass on the road. You could see it glisten in the morning sun. You had to be careful not to step on the sharp pieces. Although, you only had two options. Either to damage the soles of your own feet or emotionlessly step on the mutilated bodies lying on the ground.

You had to thank the Lord that you had survived the war but then again, looking at the remains of the Defence area in Karachi would leave you hopeless. You had survived but the city had not. Your fellow citizens had not. Do you remember your neighbour? The one who used to sit in his garden and sip his warm green tea every evening and smile at you every time he saw you? You smiled back every time but what do you do now when you see his lifeless body crushed under a car? You don’t smile do you? Looking ahead of the debris filled road, you can imagine little Asiya riding her tricycle. Now, just the colourful orange and yellow tyres lie on the street.

Behind you once stood your house, the clean windows displaying everything that took place inside. Your father reading the newspaper and your plump mother waltzing about in the kitchen preparing new dishes for you to try. Yourself sitting on the carpeted floor of your lounge in front of the wide screen television, playing Modern Warfare. On the ground, right on top of the rubble, lay half of your PlayStation 3. Unlike in your game, you cannot restart the round and bring your players to life. You sit on the ground in tattered, bloody clothes just waiting to find a restart button to your life.

****

Large dirty orange road rollers moved along the once cracked roads, making the coating of gravel smooth. The fresh tar on the road sparkled like a precious onyx stone. Like a lake full of the beautiful stones. The rubble had been pushed to the side and the houses were being repaired. It was a slow process but effective nonetheless. No more dead bodies littered the floors, reminding you of the ones you had lost.

The half done houses gave rise to your hope. The telephone poles once again stood up tall and a crow had already made its messy nest at the top. Busy men walked around the area and you could see they were tired. Exhausted mentally as well as physically. They stood in front of walls newly built as well as the old ones that had managed to survive. Sweat patches clearly visible and the clean white paint coated their dark hands. It was a difficult job, trying to cover up the blood of a war victim with just paint. The blood could have belonged to someone they knew or maybe someone you knew.

The trashed cars had been pulled away and a few people who survived the devastating war stood there, in front of their new houses, just like you. You looked around and took in the sight. The transformation of the Defence area from a lifeless war zone to a once again springing neighbourhood was remarkable. At that point, right after the war, you had lost hope. Lost the will to live. However, right now you stood tall, looked back at your almost finished house and raised your head to the sky. You smiled; you had found the restart button.

Trip down sugary memory lane

By Rida Zaidi

Q. Describe a food and the memories associated with it.

I have always had a sweet tooth. My favourite desert since childhood has been home-made egg pudding, made by my grandmother. I can still imagine her standing in her kitchen. Her long auburn hair tied in a loose pony, soft linen clothes flowing in the light breeze coming in through the window. 

The kitchen was her all time favourite place to be. Briskly she would beat a couple of eggs together until they became fluffy. Boiled milk and sugar would be poured in next. The milk streamed through the mixture reminding me of a river on the sun. The whole pan was then placed over simmering water and was allowed to cook. About an hour later the pan was kept in the fridge. 

I can remember my anticipation waiting for the dish to cool. My grandmother would gently place a kiss on my cheek after I checked the dish for the tenth time. She would place me on her lap and play with the loose curls that hung naturally near my shoulders. She told me stories about her childhood to make the time go by. Open verandas, large gardens and swings would be a part of almost every story she told. 

Finally the dish would be ready. Skipping next to her as she took out the pan from the fridge my joy would be inexplicable. With one swift movement she would flip the pan over so the caramelised side faced the top. Beautiful golden syrup painted over the surface of the lemon yellow pudding. It looked like a work of art! The pudding seemed so smooth and silky I imagined sliding down its slippery sides. 

My grandmother would place a large slice into a stemmed bowl for me. The icing on the cake would be the dollop of fresh cream placed on the top. Whenever anyone mentions home-made pudding it takes me down memory lane.

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By Aleena Kazi

Q. Describe a food and the memories associated with it.

My grandmother stood behind the marble counter, skilfully cutting thin slices of the ripe Sindhri mango. My brothers and I waited impatiently to finally taste the first mangoes of the season. She gently sliced the mango into golden yellow crescents. The knife passed through the luxurious fruit smoothly, making me salivate. It was fresh and slightly orange on the inside. My grandmother told us how to spot the best mango. “It should be soft like a peach but not mushy. It should not be green or red but an appealing shade of yellow on the outside.” This one was perfect.

Once done, she washed her plump hands and left the knife in the sink. She decorated each moon shaped slice on a large porcelain dish and filled the cubed mango into a large plastic bowl. The slices and cubes glistened on the counter top and the sweet aroma pulled me in closer. My grandmother smiled and pushed the dishes towards us. We each quickly grabbed a fork and dug it into a perfect cube. I enjoyed the sight of the delicious mango cube before eating it. Slowly, I placed the cube into my mouth and as soon as it touched my tongue, there was an explosion of splendid flavours. It melted on my tongue like butter melts on a frying pan. I remembered all the previous summers we spent eating mangoes from the Kachelo Farms. It definitely is the King of fruits!

Eating mangoes after dinner was a tradition in my family. Savouring the taste till the time we slept. Relatives would visit our house and the first thing they would say would be, “Bring out the mangoes!” it is a custom for Sindhi families to eat mangoes with rice. Just plain white rice with the rich slices of a mango was divine. For the children, milk and mango cubes would be blended together to make the thick mango shake. My aunts would complain about gaining weight because of being unable to resist the heavenly fruit. After all, the King cannot be refused.