My Indispensable Dictionary

I was set the challenge to compose a poem about an object that most people would not think twice about. Mundane and commonplace, dull and unremarkable, the dictionary is that one tome of the shelves that encompasses perfectly the devastating polar opposites of being essential, and yet not remotely pleasurable. Brain cells were indeed sent into acrobatic compression as I gathered my wit, guts and gallons of brute resolve to crack down and deliver an alternative perspective, breathing upon it a revitilizating twist to a book that sadly, time and time again, passes into shadows and forgetfulness, and whose tale is all the more poignant because he is only reached out for as a means to an end. Using the time-honoured literary technique of personification I attempt to create a poetical portrait of an unsung hero who, coincidentally and eternally, means the word and world to me♥♥♥

LINK: Read about the eccentric ‘OUTSIDER‘ orbital path of what scientists believe to be the newest kid in our solar block, a PLANET NINE, and though it is said that a CAT has NINE lives, on the contrary, Planet Nine must have felt that its thread thin luck had run out, for consider the enormity of time that has passed without its detection, until today! I suppose it could be said that my beloved dictionary shares in the sentiment too, he is over the moon that so many of you have taken the time to read about him, he feels as if he is that wooden toy of fairy tales who finally became a real boy… ♥♥♥   

http://www.theguardian.com/science/2016/jan/20/ninth-planet-solar-system-edge-discovery-pluto

My Indispensable Dictionary

“… O dictionary, my moist maypole of refreshing rains; With You, I rewrite the constitution of stones…”

 

Image, Words & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2016

A Grand Elopement With Mr Grandpa: Ahem, Ahem, Does Anyone Have A Spare Yellow Van?

I was sat on cordial banks of steps embraced in thickest, purest yellow
Packed above my carpet bag a tale for my goofy-toothed Fellow

I am a granny lady, I know, but Children’s books fascinate me still
Uncaring of its heaviness, to meet him I’d defy the sharpest hill

My eyes told me to choose this book, Destiny whispered it to my soul
For garden gloves I do wear, especially when tipping in the coal

Long worked are these hands of mine, on paper and on the field
Many people I have brought together, many hearts that I have healed

Oh, I cannot wait to show him the orchard of stories etched in each raggedy glove
Time to scoot from here my dear Reader, awaits my goofy-toothed Love 

I was sat on cordial banks of steps embraced in thickest, purest yellow
Packed above my carpet bag a tale for my goofy-toothed Fellow… ♥ 

A Musty Afterword: This tender but enormously humorous poem was inspired not only by the one book that I was drawn to whilst on my safari expedition in the Birmingham Library but by the much anticipated and upcoming release of the British comedy film ‘The Lady In The Van’ played by the exceptionally magnetic Maggie Smith, one of my favourite actresses of all time. Tipped for Oscar success, British cinema solidly demonstrates that it is growing from strength to strength on an international front and if You do crack the code and find that You can appreciate and understand its dynamic of dry wit and sardonic humour then You are one step closer in catching me – yes, me, in the silly Yellow van… ♥

Lots of Glove – sorry – Love
Mazzy xxx 

LINK: http://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcfilms/film/the_lady_in_the_van

A Grand Elopement To Meet Mr Grandpa

“… I was sat on cordial banks of steps embraced in thickest, purest yellow
Packed above my carpet bag a tale for my goofy-toothed Fellow…”

Photography & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Birmingham Library | Birmingham | Midlands | UK 2015

The White Rabbit And The Dubious Case Of The Coronet Box Camera

Dear Puddle-Soaked Soggy-Socked Fisherman & Other Curious Readers – including flatulent foxes!

I do hope You will be accommodating enough in heart to accept my apologies for the sparse buttering of posts from me in recent times, I am skipping and hopping in between holiday activities and creative projects that have proved to be quite fine effectors of completely removing me from the virtual world whilst I get my grubby fingers stuck into the theatrical business of the real world! I had no sought-out intention to sit by the computer at this moment but perhaps it was You who has made an impassionate call for my services as a disperser and dispenser of Good Magic that finds me in front of this glaring big old screen! Giggle, giggle! I do promise to return at a more consistent and regular rate once I have tied up what needs finishing – please quit rolling those squishy eyeballs, a passer-by may construe it as a first sign of irreversible lunacy! What did You say? You are in Love with me and my pen and that this sweet illness of lunacy had struck You so far way back that it has now come to the point where any external expletive charged against You by third parties is as afflicting as a speck of dust on skin?! Oh my, steady, steady my dear fellow! 

Before I return to my adventurous taskettes and leave the virtual platform once more – a short while I promise – I have once again received a blessing from Destiny in which I shall present to You a story of stupendously magical proportions. Whilst I was traipsing from one place to another today I heard the distinct sound of SLEIGH BELLS in the air. I know many of You will in an instant assume that I am making this up but that does not bother me the slightest, the day I asserted that one of my spiritual vocations would be to don the cloak of the Writer I knew that I would always write not because I was haunted by an obsession to appease others, rather, it came down to the fact that I HAD to write, on par in force with the natural instinct of breathing.  

Ahem ahem, where was I?

Ah, yes, I was walking along when suddenly the pure and sacred music of sleigh bells trilled into my ears. I stood on the street and looked about but could not locate the source of this exquisite and invisible treat. Who had played it to me and for reasons why? The Winchester Christmas season had not yet taken effect and I was at quite a distance away from the cacophony of the city centre so the MYSTERY of it all firmly latched onto my lungs and I soon turned into a mobile vessel of internal monologue, legs walking in auto-pilot, however, the brain completely seized and captivated by what it had just experienced. I prayed to Allah that He would help me to solve the case of the curious bells and it was upon reaching home just now and switching on the computer that it all became as gloriously clear as a relieved blackboard taking in the peace and quiet during the school holidays! Stop laughing! 

Do You remember the a-MAZ-ing gift of magical synchronicity I sent You in my last missive where my earlier poetical words came to spectacular life on the bustling streets of NYC and to everyone’s astonishment? Disney’s Aladdin hovering over fast lanes, shoving out of the way all those fancy ‘boxes with circles’ – I mean to say fast cars but to me they appear like polygons on the rampage!

Guess what?

I have the pleasure of gifting You once again the fabulous eye-opening convergence between my WORDS and real-world events!

A ‘LONG-LOST FRIEND’ of mine in the joyful grip of a winter wonderland, thought to have died into the cold shadows of perpetual forgetfulness, has been found and shall return to the big screen in a premier here in London! His stone statue lives in the treasure troves of my garden, he is the time-keeper in a book that shall never be tossed into the fires of callous extinction, a tea-coaster paints a Paradisiacal portrait of his visage that sits on my bookshelf and I do think I am right when I say that the Tanner’s Magic Shop chose him as their proud mascot! I sincerely hope You have not endangered Yourself into my calling You an utter muttonhead if You happen to be at this moment confounded by these clues as to the identity of my LONG-LOST FRIEND! Yes yes, it’s MR RABBIT! Pfffshhht!!

WATCH how inside an ordinary tin can, a mystery box of sorts, sat in a film library in London, sweeps You off Your feet to a place as OLDEN-AS-THE HILLS, A VAST SNOWY LANDSCAPE, where Oz-World – so sorry – Oswald the Rabbit, Disney’s first ever creation, WHIZZES around with the essence of a free spirit on his heels!

Ah, what was that You muttered? He is not white, You say? Seriously my Dear Watson, Your frivolities of the mind are indeed most disappointing! In the temperate climate of Hampshire where I live there really is no need for a rabbit to be wearing a black JUMPER!

With my knuckles tucked under my chin, I am lost in reverie as light as marshmallows and I ask out to Destiny: Could it have been Oz-World the Rabbit, the Lucky & Magical, who aired the first ever balloon to sit on my rosy ALTAR OF RED BALLOONS… ♥ 

Please take care of each other and, to a few I can see out there, cut out the bog-standard swearing and, to immediate effect, conjure cleaner but more inventive forms of language. If anything it will prevent a premature onset of dementia! 

Your Eternal Entanglement Of The Quantum Kid – sorry – Kind! 
Mazzy xxx

LINK TO ANOTHER A-MAZ-ING VIDEO: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-34711495

White Rabbit, White Rabbit what olden, old-as-the-hills secret thou keep in thy Coronet Box?
Pray tell me not of the commonplace, answer me with the cunning of the sly fox!
I, Alice, felt at this point my arbitration was urged and necessary
Hereby, my Beloved Reader, I distil a riddles apothecary:

Shrewdness no prerequisite, the young are the wise yet with age there is no guarantee
Those of worldly chores suffer, lukewarm never is the Eccentric’s tea
Puddles are as souls who reach heaven by the steps of my apple tree
Poetry tastes like Mother’s ghee, us Visionaries will unanimously agree
This thing, a bonfire of Aliveness, like fireflies whizzes within but is most certainly free
Can You guess what it is, do not hide, come closer and tell me what You see… 

White Rabbit, White Rabbit what olden, old-as-the-hills secret thou keep in thy Coronet Box?
Pray tell me not of the commonplace, answer me with the cunning of the sly fox!

The White Rabbit And The Dubious Case Of The Coronet Box Camera 1

“White Rabbit, White Rabbit what olden, old-as-the-hills secret thou keep in thy Coronet Box?
Pray tell me not of the commonplace, answer me with the cunning of the sly fox…”

The White Rabbit And The Dubious Case Of The Coronet Box Camera 2

“… Puddles are as souls who reach heaven by the steps of my apple tree…”

 

Photography & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | My Home | Winchester | UK 2015

Métropolitain (The Paris Metro)

Diary 8: Métropolitain (The Paris Metro)    

I sigh a long drawn out breath and admit that too many times it has been the case that I have circulated excited jibber-jabber on the topic of the London Underground transport system but there is no cure for it, I am comfortably helpless in front of my geeky appetite and admiration for all things associated with trains! Should You need to incriminate a villain for this treacherous habit then I advise You seek out the Krishna-blue suited one who chugs out fragrant columns of steam with a smile on his face whenever he arrives at my platform! Giggle, giggle!

I dare You to form a conjecture of the size of the spectacular burst of thrilling jumps I made when I laid my viciously probing eyes on the Parisian’s answer to the Underground system! Lavished entrances blazing above with retro Art Noveau style architecture, immediately I was netted into whiffing scents of old worlds, times gone by, and artistic and bohemian extravagance that shimmered in the dramatic flair by which ‘Métropolitain was penned. In comparison to the no-frills London Underground choice of signage, a great big circle lined in red, the Parisians had once more enforced their commitment for stylistic flair, even if it was on the most mundane of objects on the street, to produce an atmosphere of sultry cabaret, enticing Your movements towards it for closer and more devoted inspection! Had that been the order of the day in the more conservative streets of London I would have had rotten tomatoes and tattered shoes thrown at me!

Not forgetting my expressed compliments for the Parisian’s dedication to relaying the artistic vision in all aspects of their life, the metro included, there is an additional rationale that motivated my fingers to click the image below. I cannot explain why my mind works in the way it does, however I see things – or I am meant to see things – always in the service for Your entertainment and enlightenment. Lost in translation? Oh do stop sulking otherwise I shall confiscate Your smartphone, never will it make acquaintance with Your palms again! I will be merciful and tell You what I saw inside ‘Métropolitain’. A set of anagrams that proved the umpteen time that Destiny had taken to a spot of prancing about in the brilliance of the yellow canvas, my eyes deciphered FOUR very, berry, merry magical words, pieces that had taken covert habitation – like the way I am in Your imagination – inside the word:

Métropolitain is made of…

  1. Pir: The Teacher whose quest is to inspire the Fool to grow into the Wise man
  2. Lit: The Teacher whose Orange Vision forever strives to light the path ahead
  3. Moon: The Teacher who inspires a crescent moon smile in all whom she touches
  4. Tea: The Teacher who is gladdened in heart when her student brings her a cup of Tea… :))

To perceive it as a mere coincidence is symptomatic of the lazy mind. Did I not say to You once that, similar to the world’s greatest metro systems, You and I are connected…  :))

Metropolitain

“… the Parisians had once more enforced their commitment for stylistic flair, even if it was on the most mundane of objects on the street, to produce an atmosphere of sultry cabaret, enticing Your movements towards it for closer and more devoted inspection…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Paris | France 2015

 

      

In Words: Wishing You A Magical Christmas… :))

On this festive night I would be a most embarrassing blunder to myself and to my eccentric ways if I were not to present you with something to make you miss a heartbeat and to carry a smile of hope and promise up the stairs and into bed! So I thought long and hard about gifting you all with something that reflects the magic of the shared experience of storytelling you and I have had over the miles in the last year or so. Correct me if I am wrong but, through the magical bridge of words and the canvas of photography I am hopeful that I have entered your heart and imagination to leave such a signature aura that whenever you should come across my name you bear the Faith that a ray of marmalade sunshine is about to cleave open any stubborn cave of darkness or grey cloud that may have been looming over you.

My dear friend, thus, I gift you a garland of words tonight. Using all the word tablets of my Scrabble game, I have composed an interlinking montage of words that have made appearances in my poetry and discourse over the year. Here is a entire wonderful circus of tender and fiery and mysterious images and my soul KNOWS that many will strike a deep resonance within your own soul as if a phoenix has alighted your sky with fireworks that spell out your most secret dreams. These are words in which you and I have met in without even standing in the same room. If it is the case that ALL the words settle into your heart like an old friend who has returned home to you then, it is Destiny’s expression of the prophecy that we shall indeed meet someday – boil the kettle and do keep the teapot warm I say…!!!

From my heart to yours, wishing you a magical Christmas…
Infinities of Love,
Mazzy :))

Wishing You A Magical Christmas...

“From my heart to yours, wishing you a magical Christmas… “

Note: To non-Hindi speakers, ‘Chand’ and ‘Noor’ translate as ‘Moon’ and ‘Light’ respectively. 
Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | My Home | Winchester UK 2014

 

 

The Undeciphered Message

I am a firm believer that all who we meet along the meandering paths that course through our lives have something to teach us, whose presence will undeniably serve to be a pivotal influence on our spiritual development. As much as many may be quick to dismiss it, at the end of the day there is no other growth as important as the one that nourishes the spirit. I can personally testify to this claim since I have witnessed in the past the remarkable sparking of true self-realisation in the terminally ill and it is always the case that the sensation of approaching mortality – The Grim Reaper – takes on the last role of teacher in the patient’s life. Such is this teacher that the dying one comes to the painful regret that what they know now they wish they had known in earlier life. The miser who cloistered his attention to building towers, tight-fisted and cruel, miraculously turns into a tender-hearted giver on death’s doorstep. The workaholic, in his final days, becomes fraught with a sudden awareness that what he had deprived himself most in life was the chance that could have been his – to be there to watch his children grow. The vain model forever preoccupied with her prepossessing looks, now emaciated to the bone, sheds silent tears for not releasing herself from the beast of her ego earlier. HOWEVER, Life, too can enrich the content of our souls. I became a teacher to this end. I admit there have been times when it has been substantially harder for me to accept that a quality of untapped good potential exists in the person in front of me but, I always try my best to see it. If I find it torturous to observe any good in the person then, I reflect the entire experience back on myself and ask my conscience if I am the one holding back in giving someone a chance – am I the bearer of deep-rooted prejudices and unhelpful attitudes? Yes, dear reader, I am no more teacher as I am student. Therefore, returning to my original first line, I believe Destiny does bring people into our universe for spiritual edification, and quite often it is not apparent at first that this is occurring.

The photograph below is of one such tale from my past that I felt strongly compelled to share with you tonight. Three years ago a stranger posted a message on his Facebook wall which subsequently appeared on my Newsfeed. I remember vividly that I was in class and preparing to pack my bags to go home when something told me to open Facebook on the computer and, lo and behold, his message popped up on my Newsfeed. Alas, I am not fluent in Bengali – my ancestral tongue – and even to this day can only read and write my name. BUT, I am possessed with a sixth sense and have partial synaesthesia so the script on the screen that day began to glow and pulse with the fragrance of mysterious significance. As if I was a conduit of some higher power, my fingers on their own accord reached for the mouse and I glided straight towards the print button. I took the piece of paper home and looked at it again and oh how to tell you how I felt the urge to have it translated by my Amma (Mother) but she was quite poorly at the time so I did not want to bother her with my trivial curiosities. Accepting with a dull disappointment that this was beyond me, I folded the paper up and tucked it into my copy of Tagore right at the back of my mountainous bookshelf. In time, the message vanished into the thick mists of the past and it was only in those times that I needed to refer to specific passages of Tagore that did the piece of paper flutter out like a white origami butterfly.

Message Undeciphered

“… the time is ripe for sharing a message that I have failed to unravel although, I can smell the scent of its essence much more intimately now: it is like spring and monsoon and dusk light dancing altogether in ecstasy in some faraway land…”

Today, that sixth sense that had originally ascribed significance to the message reawakened and I found that I could not hush my desire to explore again the brackets and colon dots of that message. How peculiar that even today in Facebook I end all my comments with smiley faces made of brackets and colons, letting the final sentence always trail into lingering and unfinished thoughts using a parade of marching dots! I still have not deciphered the message into English and nor have I shown it to my Amma. Why? Because I know I am not meant to. My stranger, who may or may not know – wherever he may be – has taught me the beauty of patience and who has reinforced my inner Faith that everything will always work out in the end. I say this because I feel now more than ever that I must send this photograph out into the wider world. It is for this reason that I have photographed and posted this message today because I can feel it in my gut, the strength of iron conviction, that this is what I was meant to do and to do it now. Yes, the time is ripe for sharing a message that I have failed to unravel although, I can smell the scent of its essence much more intimately now: it is like spring and monsoon and dusk light dancing altogether in ecstasy in some faraway land. If you should be reading this and happen to be fluent in Bengali then please permit me to be bold enough to predict your response: your heartbeat knocking a little faster than usual followed by a slow tender smile, a dawn sky yawns… :))

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2014
Bengali Message printed off FaceBook in 2011

Getting Something Off One’s Chest: The 123-Word Short Story Series

Presenting a bite-size morsel of storytelling magic that shall refrain from tipping over 123 words…

English is overflowing with fascinating expressions, often hoisted into service when in pursuit of articulating on the affairs of the heart. The colloquial phrase ‘getting something off one’s chest’ is one such example. No, I am not referring to the very rude act of pulling off one’s garments to reveal their chest! The phrase simply translates as mustering up the courage to finally saying something that for a long time you had stored away inside of you. Now, at the Christmas markets I came across what would have appeared to most folk as an oddity of objects placed here and there but, for me at least, I saw on a vivid blue chest of drawers, a pair of winged hearts ready for flight…

Getting Something Off From One's Chest

“… I came across what would have appeared to most folk as an oddity of objects placed here and there but, for me at least, I saw on a vivid blue chest of drawers, a pair of winged hearts ready for flight… “

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester Christmas Markets | UK 2014

 

Mulled Wine: The 123-Word Short Story Series

Presenting a bite-size morsel of storytelling magic that shall refrain from tipping over 123 words…

Mulled wine is a seasonal concoction popular in England and brewed of red wine or fruit juice which is mulled with festive spices such as cloves, grated nutmeg, cinnamon and orange peel. On this particular day I purchased a little cup of the fruity variety whilst admiring the decorative opulence of the stall. Dwarfishly fat wooden barrels and huge brass cauldrons partnered with shiny long-necked ladles had me thoroughly entranced on the spot!

Mulled Wine

“Dwarfishly fat wooden barrels and huge brass cauldrons partnered with shiny long-necked ladles had me thoroughly entranced on the spot…”

 

It was a little after the queue had died down that I noticed something most curious. The lady vendor had frozen completely, enwrapped in some unreachable private thought – indeed, she was mulling over something and I can tell you for certain that it was not the contents in the pot…

Mulling Vendor

“The lady vendor had frozen completely, enwrapped in some unreachable private thought – indeed, she was mulling over something and I can tell you for certain that it was not the contents in the pot…”

 

Note. In English the infinitive verb of ‘to mull’ means to be in a state of deep thinking.

 

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester Christmas Markets | UK 2014

Signs: 10 Degrees x 10 Degrees

My faithful reader, can I be as bold as to assume that by now you will have hopefully endeared to my off-the-wall capers with the pen and lens, imagination and wit, to the point that what I am about to present to you below will only add favourability of my humble self in your eyes. I dearly pray that you shan’t scoot off but remain seated, smothered in a warm comfortable buttering of a grin and a unputdownable desire and niggling inquisitiveness to learn what other tricks I may have up my sleeve. The truth of the matter is, dear reader, that there are no magic tricks involved here. I am simply and naturally ushered by Destiny to move towards things and see them in a way that most people cannot or will not. The Universe is a most remarkable dispenser of Signs, messages of guidance and reassurance, encoded in the fabric of our perceptible worlds and, like orphaned children eager to be accepted by a loving home, they await to be plucked out of the ocean of infinite meaninglessness and made sense of. Their rightful place is in the eye of the beholder to which they were originally addressed to. Potential species of nomenclature to pop into your head right now might include ‘coincidence’ and ‘synchronicity’, the convergence of incidents that strike a chord of significance with the witness. Some of you will take it away with you and ponder over it at night whilst you’re in bed or discuss it with a friend over tea; conversely, others will have only but considered the matter for seconds before throwing it out of their consciousness for, they reason, what use could possibly come out of a sheer bit of coincidental happenstance?

Now, let me very briefly tell you about a recent Sign that I received whilst surveying that most wonderful of shops, the antique market – many trinkets as old in years as I! My attention was instantly captivated by the old sepia-toned maps hoisted on the wall. I absolutely love maps from history; there is a commitment in them to go beyond the purpose of technical and navigational instruction. They are works of art. In my mind I imagined myself as a seafaring pirate sailing the high seas, except, unlike the classical resume of the blackguard, I would be the thief who would plunder from the rich and give to the poor. A Robin Hood of the ocean! My eyes then drifted down towards the vintage bicycle clock and, as everyone so amusingly knows in my circle, country bicycles are my favourite mode of transport. Again, the cogs of my imagination got to work and I now saw myself cycling the oceans with a flag displaying of a teapot and cross-spoons sticking out proudly upright from the back saddle! I let out a quiet giggle. But that was not all, dear reader. I read the time and the time was a most important one. My sixth sense immediately informed me of that. Ten past ten? No. 10 x 10? No. Wait, there are world maps behind it so could the numbers refer to co-ordinates? Yes!! Longitude ten degrees and latitude ten degrees. Oh do stop worrying that I might be a robot! I am not as insanely clever as to have worked that one out in a jiffy!

 

Signs: 10 Degrees By 10 Degrees

” Again, the cogs of my imagination got to work and I now saw myself cycling the oceans with a flag displaying of a teapot and cross-spoons sticking out proudly upright from the back saddle…!”

 

I had forgotten about my light bulb moment when I arrived home but the next morning the memory was revived of my secret ‘co-ordinates’ and so I waited not a second more and plugged the data into the computer. The location is provided below:

“Samiya-Dan-Maina Maji Road, Nigeria”

It made perfect sense! At least to me! Behold:

Samiya’ in Arabic means the high, exulted one.
Dan’ in Bengali means the gold of the farmers, their crops.
Maina’ in Indian languages means bird of sweet song.
Maji’ in Indian languages means the boatman AND it sounds very much like my own name, Mazzy.

The confluence of all these words produces the personal vision of Heaven that I have always so carefully cherished in my heart, more so because collectively they contain the essence of the stories my parents used to tell me about their beautiful homeland, Bangladesh.

As for ‘Road‘ and ‘Nigeria‘ I sense that nasty old witch, ‘Baba Yaga’, inserted them there to waylay any travellers who might have undertaken an oath to set on a quest to find me! Be warned, dear seeker, she tends to loiter where the road forks. Listen to your heart wisely and you shall be guided safely to my land.

I shall leave you to ruminate on my words and give you the space to conclude your own thoughts about what you think of the possibility of a Universe strung by the beads and sequins of Signs…

 

“In emerald paddy fields of a distant land, stalks of rice speak to farmers as though each a monument of pure gold. Nectar of birdsong cheeping and chirping, melting into silence as the great red clock gently settles down on the bed of the horizon and a boatman lies calm on his boat, one hand on his chest. It is at this time, at day’s end, when he feels most closest to her… ”  – Mazzy

 

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2014