The scent of turmeric drifts through the house, lingering in each nook and cranny. A small pot rests on a stove within the kitchen, holding a pot filled with cardamom, ginger, tea, and spice; it bubbles and boils as an aged, honey tone hand stirs it gently, and strains it into a cup of dooth.
The hand has a light touch -- it sets the cup away, and begins rolling out a mound of dough into the perfect circle, heating it on a flat, black pan that has been charred by multiple years of culture and tradition.
Once more, a musky smell settles into each room.
On a patterned sofa, a man's face is covered by the newspaper. He flips through it, eyeing the second floor of the house as if something is about to be stolen. He clicks on a nearby fan to cool his wife and himself off; it is another blistering day, but so is Mother Nature.
Golden bangles jingle from the side of the room. They carry history; each is priceless, belonging to the name on the door. Outside, the city begins to wake up.
"Fresh vegetables!" A man yells on the street, as cars and motorcycles yell at one another in rage. "Come get them, right from the farm!"
A milkman holds a bar over his two shoulders, a silver pot full of sweet white liquid hanging off of each end. Women dressed in vibrant colors and unique patterns walk past him with their children; the men on the sides of the road begin their daily labor. Cows and stray dogs roam the streets. The city has woken up.
A bright light peeks through blinded windows, shining upon the eyes of the children, and saying, 'wake up, subaah ho goya!'
Hey guys, this is piece that relates to my ethnicity and how morning's in my parents mother country usually go. I'm American, but my heritage is Indian, so I thought it would be cool to share a little bit about my culture and where I'm from -- especially during a period of time where racism is prevalent.