Baking thoughts


Hands in mushy dough,

Not the best moment to pause,

But reflections happen anytime….for me,

All it needs is a full faced sight of my thoughts,

And I am left with a swirl of tick-tacking sounds in the head…..

As thoughts run asunder catching up with all artistic disarray around me–

The wisps of flour,

Drops of flavours so carefully captured in tiny glass bottles with

Labels so incoherently smudged that they look magical!


I wonder, as my hands mould the dough in rough shapes;

Kneading the lumps away with gentle effort,

Smoothening and testing its springiness, as I lie them on a well-buttered

Work- hardened base—isn’t this me?


Feather light, pure white floury ideas,

Blown across vast expanses with just a whisper!

Brought to form and shape with years of leavening,

Occasionally drenched with warm watery tears and then kneaded into


Who was it that said the idea is truth and form unreal?

He had never seen his ideas stretched out to the limits of reality’s horizon by life’s rolling pin , for sure!

He had never touched the sinewy outlines spinning around the spicy dream of a golden baked future-

the Here, the Now and the REAL, gooey dough on finger tips!


No, I was cake mix in a mixer,

A tornado spouting out baby babble, teenage tantrums and adult agrression,

As it whirled me into shape,

And neatly lay me down to bake:

Crusty, yet butter –mellow,

Warm, moist and fragrant with sweet –salt experiences.

A base of solidity on which ,one can layer, with cream and fragile loops

Of flavours,

And pack into pretty cellophane wraps

Labelled with care – pre and post-menopausal.


Or was I those delicate patterns, poured out with

Deep concentration and iced- up to perfection.

Lightly balanced on the very edge of reality…

Shaping others choice by contours of my thoughts – luscious blueberry

Or hot pink strawberry, or just frozen flames of chocolate pinned onto

A dreamy doughy cake. Firm but subtle, adding a distinctiveness to the mass of vanilla body that I stand

On tentatively,

Acknowledging support yet never blending in.

Guarding my uniqueness in the little globules and sprinkles of colour that are ME!


Who am I?

Decide, as you bite through the fluffy layers and lick the cream

Of 2 eggs, a cup of flour and fragrances added in measured drops , churned to perfection and browned in the oven,


It’s the rich, smooth form of thick reality or

the ethereal colours of the abstract dreams that trim the cake edge

that invite you

And then what remains in the aftertaste?

What is that you want me to be?

But what remains most important is—

Does it have to be a choice?

And What do I choose?          

Sheila bhattacharya                                                                      b2


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