INT. LOCAL BAKERY - MORNING (2006)

MOM walks in the bakery, the chimes of the bells ringing in her ears.

MOM

Hi, hello. I was wondering…

SHOP KEEPER

Yes?

The SHOP KEEPER looks up. MOM’s eyes widen.

MOM

Sorry, let me start over. My name is Fatema, and I just opened a custom cake shop. Can we sell some of our mini cheesecakes here at your bakery?

SHOP KEEPER

Hmm… sure. We can start out with 2 dozen and see how it goes.

MOM

Really? That’s great, thank you! I’ll come back as soon as I can!

INT. LOCAL BAKERY - AFTERNOON (WEEKS LATER)

MOM stands in front of an empty display case. The SHOP KEEPER slowly sips her coffee.

MOM

So, how did the cheesecake sales go?

SHOP KEEPER

We didn’t sell a single one.

MOM takes a deep breath.

MOM

I’m so sorry-

SHOP KEEPER

(Cuts her off)

Here’s your money.

MOM looks at the cash in her hands.

MOM

I don’t understand…

SHOP KEEPER

My son ate them all.

MOM

Excuse me?

SHOP KEEPER

Everyday after school, he’d visit our family bakery and sneak in a mini cheesecake. You’ve definitely got a fan.

ACT II THE BENEFIT DINNER

INT. COLLEGE DORM ROOMS - AFTERNOON (2018)

ZAHABIYA

(on the phone, voice breaking)

I’ve tried everything I can. I don’t know what to do.

MOM (V.O.)

And we’re so proud of you. You’re hosting a benefit dinner that you’ve organized from scratch.

ZAHABIYA

None of that matters if I don’t sell any tickets. We won’t have enough to donate to the restraining order clinic. I go there every day, Mom… I don’t have words for what we hear and see. They need our support.

MOM (V.O.)

But people are buying it. You already sold 15 tickets.

ZAHABIYA

That’s not enough. I need to sell 150.

ZAHABIYA stares out of her dorm room window. MOM taps her pen on the desk in her cake shop.

MOM (V.O.)

So people aren’t going to the box office to physically buy tickets, right? What if you bought the tickets for them, and then passed it out on your campus? And they pay you that way?

ZAHABIYA

That’s actually not a bad idea.

MOM (V.O.)

You’ll be taking a chance. But this way, you make it easier for people to say yes to you on the spot.

ZAHABIYA

I’ve got to go. I have class in a few minutes. I’ll go to the box office right after.

INT. COLLEGE BANQUET HALL - EVENING (WEEKS LATER)

150 people sit in elegant clothes. Tables are set, extravagant gifts from local business line the table, ready for the raffle. A band walks off the stage. A mic is handed to ZAHABIYA. She walks on stage.

ZAHABIYA

Thank you all for being here today. It means the world.

Applause from the audience.

ZAHABIYA

I’m only standing up here today because of my mother. She’s always told me to go after what I believe in with everything I got. We don’t wait until we’ve gotten it all figured out… we tend to figure it out along the way.

ZAHABIYA looks out into the crowd. She smiles.

We just do it. We’re passionate. We move with our heart.

ACT III: THE SOLA STORY

INT. LIVING ROOM - EVENING (PRESENT DAY)

MOM is sitting on the floor. ZAHABIYA is massaging hot oil to MOM’s hair.

ZAHABIYA

I’m sorry you have a headache.

MOM
This is making me feel better. Thank you.

ZAHABIYA

Of course.

MOM
What’s next with our spice blend? How are your videos coming along?

ZAHABIYA

I was thinking… it’s hard to taste something through the screen. What if we hosted a pop-up in a park?

MOM

I like that.

ZAHABIYA

We can have your spice samples and cookies from your bakery. Maybe even make some Rooh Afza so others can try our favorite drink.

MOM

I can make the samples this week. And how about I make some chips & dip so people can try it right then and there?

ZAHABIYA

The last few events I hosted, barely anyone came. I don’t know how this one will end up.

MOM

That’s okay. Even if we get 5 new people to try the spice, I’m happy.

ZAHABIYA

I’ll do my best. I think we might even be able to get a DJ.

MOM

Really?

ZAHABIYA

Yeah. Let’s make it a whole event. We have to at least try, right?

MOM
Exactly.

FADE OUT.

THE END.

A NOTE FROM THE DIRECTOR:

Building The Sola Story with my mom has helped me reflect on how much I am constantly inspired by her. She’s the reason I go all in on my crazy ideas.

JOIN US FOR THE PREMIERE (OUR FIRST POP-UP!)

We’re hosting our first ever pop-up in San Francisco at Dolores Park on May 16th at 2pm. If you’re in town, we’d love to meet you in person!

RSVP HERE

P.S. Want recipes and more stories from the road? Find us @thesolastory on Instagram :)

Do you have a pressure cooker?

He nods and wanders off, his footsteps echoing in the empty bed and breakfast.

I pull open every drawer until I find a knife.

I call my mom. She picks up on the first ring.

Beta, where are you? Are you traveling with your friend?

I tell her plans have changed. My friend had to go home last minute, and I’ve now spontaneously decided to volunteer in the Italian countryside.

But what I don’t mention is that I ended up taking 3 local buses and an overnight ferry from Albania without knowing where I was going to stay. I don’t tell her that train strikes and cancelled ride shares left me stranded on the side of the road for hours. I don’t tell her that not only am I this bed & breakfast’s first volunteer, I am also their only guest.

I also conveniently forget to mention that there’s nothing but rolling hills for miles, and that the only way in and out is by riding shotgun in my host’s clunky old white van.

Instead, I ask her how to cook nihari.

It’s not a FaceTime, but I can picture the confusion splash across her face.

After all, I’m in a country that is known for their culinary excellence, and here I am, embarking on a quest to craft a complicated meal I’ve never made before.

I fill her in on the conversation I had with my host this morning over espresso. He wanted to learn more about my Pakistani culture. Before I knew it, I was whisked away to his local grocery store, hunting the right cut of meat and gathering spices in unfamiliar packaging.

I don’t have the heart to tell him that my cooking skills are limited to following instructions on boxes.

She sends me a link to the YouTube video she made a few years ago on how to make the perfect bowl of nihari. After repeatedly consoling her that I am, indeed safe, I rewatch her video again and again until her Urdu plays on a comforting loop in my head.

I close the tab and increase the volume as I press shuffle on my Anuv Jain playlist. As his sweet voice and strums of guitar fill the air, my host returns with a dusty pressure cooker in his hands.

You’re really in touch with your culture, huh? Not something I’d expect from a young American.

I nod with a tight lipped smile. As I wrap my scarf tighter around me, I can’t help but feel like a fraud. Sure, I listen to a few catchy songs from the subcontinent. But what does that matter if I can’t hold a conversation in Urdu with my own grandmother for more than a few minutes?

As I nervously stir the pot, worried the liquid isn’t thickening as it’s supposed to, my Italian grandmother wobbles over to me. She inspects the pot. We don’t share a language either, but found that we can both piece together broken fragments of Spanish.

Es picante?

I place my thumb and pointer finger slight apart to show that yes, it’s a bit spicy. I hand her the spice packet to smell, and her eyes widen.

Me vas a matar.

Our giggles fill the room as I tell her not to worry, and that I won’t add that much in - she’ll live.

She leaves the room to lie down, and I’m alone again.

I guard the pot as if my entire culture is simmering inside. It’s a bridge between a random Italian family and my roots in a faraway land, which I try to grasp at as best as I can through online Preply language classes and renewed library books on the Partition.

The table is cleared, glasses filled with water, clean plates carefully set. With a deep breath, I hesitantly place my first pot of nihari directly in the center. My host brings over a fresh loaf of bread. I instruct them to dip it in the thick brown liquid and tear off pieces of the tender meat.

I carefully watch their faces as they taste Pakistani cuisine for the very first time.

Despite their kind words, it’s only until the next day that I get the real verdict - my host adds my leftover stew to his fresh orecchiette pasta.

That tells me more than words ever could.

Note: That bowl of nihari wasn’t perfect, but it was a bridge. Not only was I able to find home on the road, I was also able to see the power of sharing these flavors with my hosts. It’s the reason I’m building The Sola Story with my mom.

We go live tomorrow, April 26th at 10am PST. Join the loop at thesolastory.com for updates on my mom’s 16-spice blend & our limited edition mother’s day gift set.

P.S. Want recipes and more stories from the road? Find us @thesolastory on Instagram :)

My stomach rumbles.

I call my father, who’s watching TV back at home.

“Did you already eat?”

He confirms that yes, he ate all the leftovers in the fridge. He suggests we pick something up on the way for dinner.

I glance at the car dash. 9:16pm in the suburbs. Without looking at Google Maps, I already know - everything around us has long been closed.

“What if I made you corn ka dish?”

I tilt my head to the side, confused.

“You know, that dish I make with pasta and chicken.”

I look out at the empty streets as we glide past. Memories of a dish from my childhood flash by - the creamy, hot, comforting bowl that my sister and I would always finish in minutes.

“Whenever my mom used to make it in Pakistan, we’d really enjoy it. It wasn’t a dish for parties or gatherings, but it also wasn’t a daily staple - it fell somewhere in-between, and made a regular Tuesday night memorable for us when we were young.”

She presses her foot on the pedal as the light turns yellow. I ask her what’s usually inside.

“Creamy shredded chicken, cilantro, and ketchup. And of course, corn. Your nani was particular with the ratio - half blended, half whole. I do the same to this day. And then these fried bread pieces on top.”

I was curious when she made it for the first time.

“When I came to America, I made sure I had this recipe with me - it reminded me of home in a slightly different way than nihari or gosht ka salan. Your father loved it, you kids loved it, so I continued to make it.”

She pulls into the driveway. Car doors open and slam shut.

“I want to help you make this chicken corn business. You call it corn ka dish, right?”

“Yeah. No one I know makes this - it’s not a traditional Pakistani dish.”

“But it’s our traditional family dish.”

“Exactly.”

Keys jingle. Yoga mat tossed aside. Hands scrubbed under steaming hot water.

I pull apart the cold rotisserie chicken from Costco. My mom starts boiling pasta, from the forgotten box tucked on our shelf.

The clink of glass bottles on the countertop - soy sauce, ketchup, fresh ginger and garlic.

Under her watchful eye, I pour each one into the bubbling pot, splashing milk on top.

Half a can of corn. And then the grumble of the blender. A half a can of corn slushy follows.

“Butter in the pan, please.”

The sizzle of a few slivers on the pan as I guide them around. My mom glances over, her face twisting in disappointment.

“How will we toast the bread in that? We need more - a lot more.”

A bigger chunk of the stick is added. Tiny squares of bread thrown in.

The thud of a knife on a chopping board - carrots, cilantro, green onion. The bright garden joins the creamy concoction.

A final squeeze of lemon, and we each make ourselves a bowl and settle into the couch next to my dad. We’re silent again as we slowly savor each bite.

I’m packing my bags again in a few days, and I’m going to have to find a new grocery store.

But it’s comforting to know that as long as I have a can of corn, some shredded chicken, and a bit of milk, I can make a family recipe that has crossed oceans to make the heart a bit less hollow.

Note: This weekly Sunday series is a part of The Sola Story, a platform I’m building from the ground up with my mom.

We go live on April 26th. Join the loop at thesolastory.com for updates on my mom’s 16-spice blend:

Join the Spice Waitlist

P.S. Want recipes and more stories from the road? Find us @thesolastory on Instagram :)

She pulls off her worn Solomons, one by one. I can tell hers used to be cream. That’s why I bought mine in black.

She does a slow 360 turn, taking in her home for the night. I slide my curtain closed, careful not to bring attention to myself. I’d normally climb down to introduce myself, as hostel norms dictate, but I’m drained from my early morning surf class.

It’s been living in this tiny town for over a week now. I’ve achieved the coveted title of long-term guest at this hostel: I greet and hug travelers goodbye with the same enthusiasm as if I own the place. Every so often, I flirt with the idea of moving to a flashier part of Morocco - perhaps the crisp dunes of Merzouga, or the blue-washed buildings of Chefchaouen. But there’s a rhythm here. Familiarity. The swells are great, the people are kind, and I meet new characters every night - why would I leave before I have to?

Besides, Germany isn’t that far from Morocco. I can always come back.

The sounds of her rustling through her backpack lull me to a deep sleep.

When my eyes flutter open next, the lights are off and the room is completely empty. I stumble down the ladder, cursing as I narrowly miss the bottom step.

I wrap a scarf that I was pressured to buy in the Marrakech souks tightly around me. When I step out of the heavily air conditioned hostel, the sky welcomes me with splashes of pastel. Children toss a ball around on the street, their screeches piercing the air.

My stomach rumbles. I peek into the shops as I glide down the street. I’ve had enough tagine to last a lifetime, and nothing else is appetizing. I see an array of sandwiches. They look a bit sad, but it will do for tonight. I exchange some coins and swing my new package as I make my way back to the hostel, and up the stairs to the rooftop.

Just before I tear it open, the door opens. The woman from my dorm walks in, her hands carrying plastic bags heavy with produce. She flashes a quick smile at me, acknowledging my presence. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, though.

She slowly pulls each of her treasures from the bag onto the communal kitchen countertop. Tomatoes. Onions. Rice. And, a can of chickpeas.

She probably got them from Hassan, who sells fresh vegetables down the street. I wonder if he gave her the same deal he gives me - for some reason, the price of the vegetables goes down each time I return to his shop.

Before she can move any further, her phone buzzes. She looks at it, and for a moment, it looks like she’s going to ignore it. But her finger swipes across the screen, and it’s tucked under her ear as she makes her way up the stairs to the the second rooftop. She greets the caller in a soft tone.

I try not to eavesdrop, but how can I not? I forgot my AirPods in my dorm room, a hundred flights of stairs away. I barely make out her voice over the distant crashes of the ocean - she’s talking in a language I don’t understand.

My sandwich has now gone cold. As I take my first bite, trying not to be too disappointed at the dry bread, her words slip into English and drops down the stairwell with a thud:

“I want you to be happy, but I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”

I wonder what that is. Part of me wants to ask if she’s okay, but a bigger part knows I should mind my own business. I spot a nearby book, and feel instant relief - an excuse to look busy. I flip through the pages as I force myself to take another bite of the soggy rectangle.

It’s in Dutch.

And then, the voice from above:

“I. Don’t. Know. Every phone call, you’re demanding answers to the same question. And I still don’t know.”

Silence follows. I imagine her sitting criss-crossed on one of the cushions, the wind rustling her hair, the salt of the ocean on her skin, the seagulls flapping their wings above her. I imagine her wanting to fly away with the seagulls.

As she walks down the stairwell to the lower rooftop I’m on, self-awareness hits me. Why am I so preoccupied with her movements? I suppose I’ve been at this hostel for so long, everything has become a tad monotonous. Any new arrival is bound to hold my interest.

Other hostel guests walk in, some new, some old. We fall into comfortable chatter - where we’ve been, where we’re going, and the most interesting stories of our day. We discover that the surf instructor I had a few days ago has been making other women uncomfortable. A pit forms in my stomach as the memories of that day wash over me.

No matter how far I travel, these type of men somehow always follow. The hollowness clings to me like a forgotten friend.

Suddenly, I’m exhausted.

Someone proposes we play a game. I shuffle cards instead of sifting through the past. Tea with fresh mint is poured. One of the guys asks the woman in the kitchen if she wants to join. She nods and says, in a minute.

As I slap down cards, I follow her movements from the corner of my eye.

She carefully lays out her vegetables, chopping them one by one. It all gets dumped in a bowl. She drizzles some oil.

Then, her energy shifts. She’s frantic, searching for something. Plates, utensils, pots - everything is tossed aside. She turns and almost looks straight at me. I immediately drop my gaze and hide behind my cards, hoping she didn’t catch me staring.

I don’t look up for another solid 5 minutes.

When enough time has passed, I glance up and notice a small plastic bag in her hand. When she tears it open and scoops spoonfuls on her bowl of veggies, I can’t help but lean a little closer. She stares at the bowl for a beat, and then dumps a bit more into it.

That’s definitely not from our hostel’s spice rack. We only have a few dusty bottles, and most of the seasonings are clumped together.

We’re in Morocco, where some of the world’s best spices line the bazaars. Why is this woman carrying her own spice in a random plastic bag? Where did it come from?

She pops it in the oven, and sits down to play a few rounds with us. I can tell her mind is somewhere else, because she keeps forgetting the rules and she doesn’t look as excited as she should be when she wins. No one else seems to notice.

The timer rings, and she collects her work in the oven. She layers the bowl with rice, then lettuce, then tomatoes and onions, and finally, her roasted chickpeas. She dusts another layer of spice on top, and the aroma finally cuts through the air: toasted cumin, warm cardamom, and a sharp, citrusy hit of coriander.

She settles on the couch, pulls out her Kindle, and tucks her feet underneath her. She takes her first bite. Her eyes briefly close and she melts into the cushions.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask her what’s been keeping her up at night. Maybe she’ll tell me who was on the other end of the phone call. And maybe, she’ll let me sprinkle some of her spice on my sad little sandwich.

Or maybe, she’ll check out before I wake up, and I’ll never see her again. And I’ll be left staring at the mirror, trying to find my own unmarked plastic bag.

A Note from Zahabiya: I was that woman in the kitchen, and that unmarked plastic bag was the “Sola Story” - my mother’s handcrafted 16-spice blend.

If you’re looking for your own anchor, we launch April 26th. Join the loop at thesolastory.com for early access:

Join the Spice Waitlist

P.S. Want recipes and more stories from the road? Find us @thesolastory on Instagram :)

As her mother kept refilling my stainless steel masala daba, the girl’s hands grew - fingers longer, reach more certain. One day, a man I didn’t recognize walked through the front doors. Forty-eight hours later, the earthy perfume of mehndi filled the air. She traded stains from my turmeric for patterns that were a reminder that she was about to start a new life across the world.

The day of her flight, she rushed into the kitchen, gasping between breaths. Her eyes darted back and forth across the shelves, until her gaze finally rested on me.

She carefully popped open the metal lid meant to protect me from the unforgiving heat and began to scoop out my brightly colored piles into a plastic bag - red chili for its signature heat, and cardamom as a floral postcard of home.

Her mother appeared behind her. Eyebrows knitted together, she asked her what she was doing.

I’m going to be so far from you. How will I make your aloo gosht tarkari?

She disappeared in her mother’s arms, her face hot and wet against her shoulder. The next moment, I was tucked into a dark corner of her purse, and crossed the ocean for the first time.

In the heart of Kentucky, I was transferred from that plastic bag to an old pasta jar. The young woman’s face would scrunch up as she spoke on the phone with her mother, a thousand miles away, trying to make sense of adding a little bit of this and a healthy scoop of that.

Why weren’t there any clear measurements for the recipes from her childhood?

The kitchen became an experimental lab. As I sat in random heaps on the counter, I’d sometimes see a tiny smile, but most of the times, coughs would echo off the walls and salty droplets would fall on me. Before I knew it, two little ones were running around, and I was left to catch dust on her shelves.

Over the years, a suffocating cloud of powdered sugar would overtake the kitchen - the young mother had started her own bakery from scratch. As the amount of wedding cakes she baked grew, so did her daughters. When they made different cities their new homes, I’d hear the mother softly sigh as she pulled out a smaller pot than usual to make dinner.

One afternoon, home much earlier than usual, the mother sat quietly at the dinner table. After two non-stop decades, she was forced to shut her bakery doors. A terrible pandemic had swept through the world.

She wasn’t still for long. Quiet evenings were replaced with the thud of a knife on a cutting board, and the crackling of oil on the stovetop. The ancient yellow from across the ocean stained the fresh carrots from the farmer’s market down the street - in that pan, her two halves began to fuse into one another.

I’d overhear phone calls with her daughters, longing for a way to close the distance between them.

Soon after, the glow of a ring light would reflect off the repurposed tea bottles I was in. The mother’s soft Urdu would fill the kitchen as she sprinkled parts of me on dishes that would be shared not only with her daughters, but an entire online community. The young girl writing poetry in the shadows had found her voice, and now she was helping others find theirs too.

One morning, while the sunlight was beginning to seep through the window, the mother stood over the stove. She began to compose - a dash more cinnamon, a little less cumin. She guarded the pan, her attention never wavering as the heat made me bloom.

The mother funneled me in a plastic bag, and I felt the scratch of a Sharpie on my side - for Zahabiya. Hours of icy darkness and muffled engine roars later, I crossed the ocean in reverse. When light finally hit me again, I was in the hands of her daughter, surrounded by the crisp dunes of the Sahara Desert.

She was older now, more confident. Yet when she peeled open the bag and my scent wafted through the air, she stood still for the first time in months.

Her friend from Italy entered the tent, and the aroma made her head tilt to the side - Where did you get that from?

I was then sprinkled on whatever they could find - boiled eggs, carrots, and quinoa. With each bite, the daughter’s shoulders relaxed an inch lower.

From nihari in the Italian countryside to dal in a wellness cafe in England, I became the only thing in her backpack that didn’t need a translation.

When the mother asked her to help share her story, the daughter immediately booked the next flight home. Overnight, I was back where everything started: the California suburbs.

I was poured into a dozen different bottles and tested against every shade of paper. I was renamed a dozen times until the father spoke one word that made the noise finally stop: Sola.

The Urdu number for sixteen, for the sixteen spices the mother had chosen for our story.

Today, I sit on a table in their backyard, overlooking the rolling hills in the distance. The mother carefully pours each part of me into the bottle they selected, wrapped in the crisp, ruby-red paper of a new label. The daughter adjusts her lens, waiting for the setting sun to ignite my layers.

Chapter One is bottled. It’s time to see where I travel next.

A Note from Zahabiya: This story has been 30 years in the making, and it finally begins today.

• Launch Date: Sunday, April 26th

• Mother’s Day Gift Set: Only 30 available.

Join The Spice Launch

P.S. Thank you for supporting my mother’s journey - I’m just here to share her story! If you have any questions/feedback, feel free to email me or send us a message @thesolastory