I painted this as if I were standing again in the 1990s—when mornings moved slowly and life did not hurry us.

It is early morning. The kind of morning when winter quietly sits on your shoulders. In Singapore, winter was never harsh, yet December mornings carried a gentle cold—soft enough to feel, light enough to miss later. The air felt clean, almost shy. The house was still asleep, and the world had not begun asking questions yet.

In the painting, a woman sits beside the unun—the clay stove—her hands steady, her mind calm. Smoke curls upward like memories that refuse to fade. The fire glows warm, orange and alive, pushing back the cold. This contrast is everything to me: the warmth of the unun against the winter air, the comfort of fire beside the quiet chill of morning.

As an artist of the 90s, I remember how simple life was. December meant after-exam holidays. No tuition, no pressure—only freedom. Those days, we would go to our cousin’s village. The journey itself felt like a celebration. Mud roads, trees leaning in close, the smell of earth and wood smoke welcoming us before people did.

And then came the craving—for pitha.

In those cold mornings, pitha was not just food. It was warmth. It was love. It was hands working slowly, patiently, without clocks. I still remember sitting near the stove, palms stretched toward the fire, shivering slightly, waiting. Outside, the cold lingered. Inside, the unun crackled softly. The hot pitha would be lifted fresh, steam rising, and the first bite would carry sweetness, comfort, and a sense of belonging.

This artwork holds that feeling.

The emotion behind it is not loud. It is quiet nostalgia. A longing for a time when happiness was found in small things—a warm stove, a winter morning, shared food, and family nearby. The woman in the painting is not just cooking; she is preserving a way of life. She represents every mother, every aunt, every silent giver of warmth in our childhood.

I painted the shadows soft, the colors earthy, because memories are never sharp—they are gentle, slightly blurred, and deeply warm. The cold exists, yes—but it only makes the warmth more meaningful.

This is not just a morning scene.
It is a memory of December.
It is the after-exam freedom of the 90s.
It is the taste of hot pitha beside a warm unun, while winter waits quietly outside.

  -Shanta