They say sights make lasting memories, a touch imprints forever but it was the smells that lie splattered across her memory-scape. This is her story through the years, tracing an olfactory journey, as she put the pieces together, wondering what lies next.

1980 –  It is the smell of soap – an expensive luxury bar of white soap. The aroma of the soap in the bathroom and the silhouette of a man carrying that aroma are vivid in her memory. She was barely 3 years old. She can recognize that smell anywhere but does not come across it often. She does not remember who he was but the memory is so distinct that she ponders over it.

She sometimes worries that she needs to dig deeper into the recesses and find out why the fragrance of that soap and that man, is so alive in her mind even after 40 years. There are no answers; she does not even know whether that time was good or bad; whether that memory points to a distinct event in her life. The lack of answers makes her uncomfortable as they remind her of an unknown man and his soapy odor from when she was barely a toddler.

1984 – The house smells of freshly cooked food and ginger cake. She loves ginger cake. The proposition of a big slice should fill her with glee. But it does not lift her spirits. Her back towards the dining table, she is perched on a chair, looking outside the window at a large circular children’s park, right across the road. She wants to feel the winter warmth and play with the other children, or just be out on her own.

In this house, a girl is not supposed to be seen or heard, only fed and nurtured, until she is ready to be transferred to another household, as a wife. She is too young to understand the bondages and the rules that govern her childhood because she can see other girls her age, swinging, see-sawing, giggling, whispering, the daylight playing with their freshly-washed Sunday hair and colorful hairbands. Her heart is heavy, for she cannot fathom the burden of loneliness. She is just a little girl. May be a piece of ginger cake, with a hint of molasses, will lift her spirits.

1987 – The citrusy flavor of the Chinese orange tree, reminds of her grandmother’s house. The little delights that were so sour that only the charm of a traditional recipe could turn them into bottles of sticky, sweet, orangey preserves.

Then, there were the big green lemons. You would think they are bitter but they transformed into the most satisfying glass of juicy exuberance. The lemony fragrance was soul-nourishing as it danced on her summer-parched lips, slowly slithering down and disappearing into a thirsty tummy, that was instantly covetous for more. The loud gulps with which she drank the yellow elixir, invited disapproving glances and a scolding from her mother. Those soothing and tangy moments with a touch of ambrosia are few. Trips to the grandmother’s house were rare.

1992 – It was much later in life, courtesy to the brilliance of the Internet, she learnt that the special scent was called petrichor. The distinct fragrance of the first rain on parched earth. Virgin petrichor tingles your nerves and then attacks your senses with utmost ardor, sending you either in the throes of despondency or ecstasy. She still cannot comprehend, how it made her feel. There was a shiver down her spine as the earth embraced the first drops of rain. She felt an urgent need to be held, to be embraced, to hold someone’s hand and stand in the rain. As the drizzle turned to torrents, the feeling overwhelmed, until it hurt, and turned into a lump in her throat.

The next day, the trees lining the roads were heavy with mossy liveliness that had replaced the magical romance of the first. There was a new enchantment in the air – of verdant foliage and the shimmer of the monsoon sun glistening on wet leaves with a promise of relief from the bristling summer. Her lips quivered as she bicycled down those paths. Her heart still held on to the petrichor and it choked until her eyes were moist.

1998 – That was the last year she accompanied her family to the local bakery for the annual ritual of getting the Christmas cake baked. She recalls the aroma of rum-soaked peels folded into vats of ingredients from which wafted distinct flavors of vanilla and marmalade, of caramel and spices, all reminiscent of long afternoon spent in a dingy bakery. When the cake batter was ready and put into tins and carefully placed on the glistening coal of the kiln, she roamed around to the front shop and got a muffin or a cream roll treat. The sugar overload was nothing compared to sinful aroma of freshly-baked Christmas cake as it emerged brown and flavorful from the kiln. When cooled down, the loaves and the atmosphere of the bakery were delicately packed in a tin trunk, and transported to the house.

Only one who has been there can know the blissful warmth of Christmas plum cake with hot coffee, and the delight of scraping the butter paper lining the tin, with a knife and savoring every little bit of rum and raisin. That day at the bakery work floor marked the end of childhood as she transitioned to adulthood with a job and a life in another city.  Now, cakes were delivered to her house, every Christmas.

2001 – The stale smell of cigarette smoke and the heaviness of last night’s liquor on her breath, made her hate herself. She scrubbed herself clean, put on a fresh dress, a dash of make-up, brushed aside the self-deprecating languish of the night before and strut into her workplace. There was diversion here –endless cups of fresh coffee, hot meals in the cafeteria, the constant spraying of air fresheners by the housekeeping staff, and the myriad perfumes and deodorants emanating from cubicles. These made the day bearable but as evening drew to a close, as the loneliness in her heart mocked her, she was back into her den, surrounded by the haze and the ash, and the mellow liquid in a glass that would lull her to sleep. The reek stained her fingers, her lips, her bed, reminding her how socially dysfunctional she was. She has not learnt how to make friends.

2006 – They said join our group. Fold your hands, close your eyes, say a prayer. Chant and sing, and tell us your woes. We will pray for you and then you will be blessed, and emerge a whole new being. She tried it for some time, going from one prayer meeting to the next. They heard all the stories of despondency, loneliness, ill-health, ill-fate, and whispered in sweet reassuring voices but did they really understand! She would come back home smelling of the incense at the altar, and the Chanel and Dior of the silk-adorning, diamond-flashing self-assured women.

She was still seeking, so she moved from richly decorated living rooms, to earthly ashrams and lively temples. With the whiff of smoke tendrils from the sacred fire that hungrily consumed sandalwood, clarified butter, herbs, coconut and spices, she hoped to rewrite her horoscope. Did the prayers breach the heavens beyond, did the fragrant offerings please the Gods that played with destiny? Only time will tell; Time will pass the last judgement on how pure the intentions, how acceptable the fragrant entreaties.

2011 – Antiseptic floor cleaner and baby poo, pee, and vomit, hit her nostrils, and made her sad. She wanted to turn away and never return. She did not want to leave her 6-months old baby there. She had no choice. She had to return to work; the money was needed for her husband had commitments. They also had dreams of their own; to buy a house, save for holidays, and to keep up with the Joneses. Materialism translates to mortgages, which means she had to leave her child in the daycare and go back to work. As she handed him over to the kind caretaker, she gently swiped her fingers across his head and had a flashback of when she had held him for the first time. He had carried her smell, of the amniotic fluid that kept him secure in her womb, until it was time to come into the world.

The days turned to years and the smell of the daycare now belonged to her son, too. It would remind them of when they were separated for most part of the week day. It was the smell of separation and sacrifice as they built their lives.

The Present – The house is inundated with her essences and choices. The fragrances around her have converged. Most have become a part of nostalgia that makes her write stories like this. There is hardly any time to feel longing, or sorrow, or overwhelming joy as fragrances swish and swirl around her. All she can grasp are little wisps of fleeting images, one fragrance after another.

There is the soapy fragrance of a well-bathed child, of freshly shampooed hair, and sun-kissed laundry. The array of cosmetics and body sprays, all evocative of her individuality. Essential oils and camphor silently burn near the Himalayan lamp to cleanse the air. The sizzle of oil in the wok, as it greedily consumes the vegetables, pulses, and spices making them release their flavors with a sigh and a hiss. The chocolate cake in the oven, the buttered bread in the toaster, the ripening bananas in the fruit bowl, attracting fruit flies; these are smells that are now part of her son’s childhood.

The balmy winds still bring just a bit of petrichor into the urban household. By the time the monsoon ends, and autumn arrives, the air starts to stink, the succor of rain long forgotten. The wind carries the smog from across the borders and then disappears with an evil laugh, leaving the heaviness to linger in the brown air to slowly infiltrate our daily existence.

The Chanel, the Dior, the air freshener, the coffee, the doughnuts – the Mall at the corner, and the one next to it – offer a potpourri. The smell of cigarettes on her fingers still make her guilty but the headiness of liquor has lost its lure. Fresh citrusy smells are hard to find as artificial essence fills up fizzy bottles and natural flavors struggle to survive in jars of preservatives. These exist only in the mind, redolence of a bygone era.

The Future – It is inevitable. He will arrive; Death will come knocking at the door. They will wash the dust and grime of life, lay her on the ground, stuff her nostrils with cotton, and cover her face. Will she be able to smell then? The incense, the candles, the hurriedness of the last rites, the urgency to let go of the mortal frame before it emanates putrid lifelessness. What will be her last smell – clammy dirt or burning embers, or will she finally make sense of the fragrance of the white bar of luxury soap! Who knows, who can tell?

Published by Aneesha Shewani

I am just ME … a soul streaming across constellations, over eons of turbulent changes and tranquil noises, perturbed by the visions that engulf me and ruffled by the oft complacence that challenges the change. Yet, I must travel further across the galaxies, in search of the ultimate metamorphosis. Until then, I sojourn in this life, engrossed in my earthly callings of a wife, mother, professional, writer, dreamer, and seeker. On this blog you will find a spectrum of fiction, poetry, reviews, thoughts, snippets, inspiration, experiences, voices, concerns, excerpts, and everything that the soul has gathered in her fold, over years of reading, searching, finding, losing, and discovering. I regularly indulge in various creative pursuits, like crochet, experimental cooking, reading, and writing, and I hold a managerial/editorial role in a financial services organization with a global footprint. For a long time, social media hijacked my personal writing space, as I was sharing more on Facebook and writing Tweet-sized poetry on Twitter. Social media is instant but temporary gratification. Ultimately, a writer needs their own space, and personal blogging provides that space. I had started a blog more than a decade ago but all things need to be infused with new life, emerge in a new avatar, and so it is with my new blog space. Let your love and encouragement pour into Blue Pen Strokes. Check out Aneesha Shewani (@tweetoeuvre): 

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