A favourite
poet had once written that the smell of mutton being cooked, on any given day,
can outdo the fragrance of several blooming flowers taken together.
When
I talk about smells, this one sentence dictates my entire olfactory existence. When
I was a child, Sunday lunches were synonymous to mutton. A warm concoction of
spices: bay leaves, caramelized onion, garlic, ginger, turmeric and chilli
paste and down in it, went the mutton! The pieces tossed and turned themselves
in the brown paste and as they swam, their rigid bodies relaxed and softened. The
sight reminded me of my first swimming classes. The spices penetrated into the
mutton, making them more tender and succulent. The smell of oily orange gravy
of well-cooked mutton was ambrosial. I would rush to the kitchen every ten
minutes, deep breathe the aroma and wait for the opportune moment when Grandma
would offer a piece of mutton and ask me if it was adequately soft. *tears of
joy*
My
grandma would often sprinkle a mixture of powered cardamom, cinnamon and cloves
on the cooked mutton before serving. In winters, she would garnish them with
tufts of coriander leaves, finely chopped. (I was too small to know what
orgasmic meant, so I would settle for the word ‘heavenly’ here). In Sanskrit,
there is a saying: “Ghranen ardhha bhojanam”
which means “having smelled is half eaten”. How true!
Time
flew. We grew up. Mutton, now is no more a Sunday-affair. The easy access to
‘savourites’ has diluted its charm. The fights among siblings for the most
coveted cylindrical bone, the eternal tug of war between the bone and the mouth
over the ownership of the brown bone-marrow, the potatoes half-slit and above
everything, the richness of the aroma…the aroma that could magically transport
you to the Wonderland of Alice, the kingdom of Narnia or the colourful world of
Oz.
If
childhood was a fairy tale, I would have dog-eared the pages on ‘Sunday mutton
curries’ forever.
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There
were days when the father (and the Father of the nation) would be kind to me.
Instead of coins to be dropped in earthen piggy banks, Baba would bestow upon
me, a crisp green five rupee note. It was like winning a lottery. If 25 and 50
paise coins made the city of Paris, the five rupee note stood as tall as the
Eiffel Tower. For a child, its monetary value was nil, but the olfactory
sensations it spawned was enormous. The very first thing I always did was to
bring the note close to my nostrils. The smell of fresh, new paper currency,
unadulterated by human touch would reek of a smell so dreamlike. I cannot
remember the last time I held one.
I
am sure they still make five rupee notes in the Mint. Perhaps, the ones that
should have reached me, held hands with my childhood and fled. : (
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The
commonest of gifts from friends and relatives from foreign lands, were colognes,
chocolates, cigarettes (alliterations amuse amateur authors). As children, tags
and signs like ‘Made in USA’ fascinated us to no ends. When Baba dabbed the
cologne or smoked the cigarettes, he smelled magnificent, regal. I would hold
onto him tight and inhale the mixed fragrance of foreign cigarettes and foreign
cologne (yes, ‘foreign’ is the key word here). It was an inexpressible
feeling. The words which come close to describe is the feeling of smelling chilli
chicken for the first time…the smell
of something alien yet amazing.
The
advent of shopping malls and internationalisation of domestic markets have
robbed us of that feeling. You name a foreign brand, you get it right here.
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A
conspicuous part of childhood was spent with my maternal grandparents. My
grandma had a leather banded watch. When she travelled in a bus, she would fold
the ticket longitudinally and tuck it under the leather band out of fear of
losing it. Once she was home, she would take off her watch and hand over the
ticket to me. (Yes, I collected bus-tickets and playing ‘bus conductor’ was one
of my favourite games). But more than the tickets, what mesmerized me was the
smell of the leather band. It would be
slightly wet from her sweat, yet it exuded the soft lavender fragrance of
‘Cuticura’ talc (which came in orange and white bottles when we were kids). The
blended smell of sweat, talcum powder and leather was one of the things, I
wish, she left for me when she left.
Its worth would have been a million times higher than all the jewelry I
inherited from her.
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My
mother always told me that the secret of Rapunzel-hair was coconut oil…the
coconut oil which came in narrow plastic bottles in summer and broad-mouthed
cylindrical tin cans in winter. The comb would dig in its teeth into my tresses
and make way for the oil to flow. Ma would run her fingers across the scalp and
I would close my eyes in ecstasy. With eyes closed, I would be transported to
the seas. I confess that I was never particularly fond of the smell of coconut
oil, but the feeling it emanated when eyes shut was magic! I could instantly
see rows of coconut trees lining up the coast, sand drenched in sea water, the unrest
of waves and the smell of salt. While Ma braided my oil-soaked hair, scenes
from the seas also wove themselves into long plaits of memories.
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The
courtyard at my maternal grandparents was a powerhouse of fragrances.
Homemade
pickles placed for sun-drying was not only one of the prettiest sights in the
world, it also smelled delightful. The aroma of raw mango, red chilli or lemons
embedded in mustard oil was a delight for the senses.
The
mali (gardener) would water the
plants in the courtyard and a delightful fragrance would spring from the wet
earth. It smelled of life, bloom and greenness. After watering the plants, he
washed the courtyard. The cemented body bathed in the stream of water rushing
down from the hosepipe. What if it didn’t rain every day, the smell of the wet
courtyard made up for it.
With
the advent of autumn, its grey body would turn white. Hundreds of Shiuli flowers
dressed it up for the upcoming Durga puja. The smell was intoxicating. The
Shiuli tree also offered the joy of finding my favourite tricolour. White
petals, orange stem and green leaves.
The
tree was infested with caterpillars. The branches were chopped off. The tree
died eventually. The house changed its owners. A slice of my childhood changed
too. Forever.
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Every
evening in summer, guests would flock in. They were huge in number and infamous
for spreading Malaria. Fancy repellants were unfamiliar. To ward off the little
monsters, there were homemade secrets. “Dhuno” was one such. Fuming coconut
shells were arranged in a terrracota pot (with a funnel base and an open top)
and powdered incense was sprinkled on top. The smoke traversed from one room to
another as someone constantly flapped the haat-pakha
(hand-fan made of palm leaves) in order to keep the fumes alive. Sanjay Dutt
may have glamourised the other-wise humble ‘Dhuno’
by performing a Dhunuchi-naach in
Parineeta, but the truth remains that one of the chief purposes this wonder
substance served was making Bengali households mosquito-free. The overwhelming fragrance
of camphour and burnt coconut shells spread all over the place. Ethereal!
I
wonder sometimes. Was it because camphour was its chief ingredient that Dhuno vanished in oblivion?
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Mosquito-infested
evenings also remind me of another common phenomenon in Kolkata. Power cut. Every
now and then, electricity would make a disappearing act. In those days (late
80s and early 90s), inverters or generators were not common in middle class
households. So we would resort to hurricane lamps or lanterns. The flat wick
would be rolled up and lit and the flame guarded with a glass chimney fitted in
between four tiny spikes. The tinted glass-bodied fuel tank down below would be
filled with kerosene every morning. The black soot clinging onto the inner
surface of the chimney was cleaned too. As I write this, I am drowned in goose
bump-evoking nostalgia.
As
soon as the wick was lit, the room would smell of kerosene. The smell! Aaaah….how
delightful it was. The delight was rudely distorted by the fact that there
would be school tomorrow and homework needed to be finished.
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As
I mention school and homework, my mind dips into huge plastic packets full of
new books, note books and brown papers I got at the beginning of every new academic
session. The books and ‘exercise copies’ got new clothes just like we received
new school uniforms and black Ballerina shoes. The exercise books were
differently dressed. The Maths notebook wore a white and blue checkered shirt
while the others wore white shirts with horizontal blue stripes. Ma put brown
paper jackets on each of them and they looked and smelled nice and new. When I
was in junior school self adhesive labels were not in vogue. I would cut each
label and stick them with glue on the covers while Ma wrote my name, class,
section and subject. The smell of the blank pages, brown paper and adhesive was
all-encompassing. I wished ‘studying’ was equally interesting. :/
I
also loved the smell of new erasers. The tiny pink ones encased in silver
sockets crowned wooden pencils. I never used these erasers. I only smelled
them. My love for the tiny fragrant things served another purpose. I refrained
from chewing the ends of the pencils.
Then,
there were white erasers with a green translucent layer on top. It used to have
an alphabet printed on it and a picture of something the name of which started
with that alphabet. They had a strange smell which amused me to no ends.
New
session and new shoes remind me of white shoe-polish which Ma put on Keds canvas
shoes when she couldn't wash them. The smell of the whitener left me
speechless.
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Oh yes, I miss Baba’s medicine-box and I miss its slow-but-steady therapies. The smell of Arnica, Nux Vomica and Bryonia 30 is missed too. : (
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Baba had a wooden box. It had a honey-comb chamber. The
beehive pattern resembled the steel-bodied armour guarding the external
bellow of a harmonium. In each aperture, stood tiny slender glass bottles of
Homeopathic medicines, corked up tightly. Some held white round sugar-coated balls
while others contained ‘mother tincture’. In all those cute little bottles lied
a smell so thrilling. The strong pungent smell of alcohol escaped the containers
every time Baba opened them. Baba stroked the bottles and small droplets of liquor
jumped into the mouth. The effervescent liquid mixed with the happiness of
popping the small white sugar pills was ethereal. If I was a doctor, I would
have relentlessly suggested Homeopathic medicines for all ailments. More than their
healing values, I felt that they were instant mood-fresheners. They smelled
magic!
Oh yes, I miss Baba’s medicine-box and I miss its slow-but-steady therapies. The smell of Arnica, Nux Vomica and Bryonia 30 is missed too. : (
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The
smell of Inland letters and postcards was subtle and beautiful. It is one such
smell which you cannot describe in words. If emotions had a smell, it would emit
the fragrance of letters. I am not really talking about scented letters that
lovers sent each other, but about every other letter or postcard which carried
the smell of the person sending them. Picture postcards sent from relatives
travelling abroad were special. I could almost smell the place from where the
postcard was sent. Figments of imagination of a little girl…..nevertheless.
With
the advent of emails, the personal touch, the smell and the warmth have reduced
manifold.
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My
grandmother never kept Naphthalene balls in between woolen clothes. She would
make small pouches filled with dried red chillies, bay leaves, black pepper,
cinnamon and other spices and put them in the trunks and suitcases, stored in
the attic. In addition, she would put Eucalyptus leaves in abundance, sandwiched
between the woolens and blankets. With the arrival of winter, they were brought
down, soaked in sunlight and the whole place would smell like a valley of
spices.
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I
was six years old when my brother was born. I thought babies looked like those
from advertisements of baby products.
26th
August, 1989. I saw him for the first time. He looked like a lizard. I could
almost hear my heart break into thousand pieces. Yes, I was sad at the sight. I
didn’t like him at all.
One
day Ma wasn’t around. The baby was fast asleep. I had been deputed with the
task of vigilance over him. I brought my face close to his neck and smelled
him.
I
can never get over that feeling till death.
That
was the best smell in the world. He smelled of powder, pee and poop all mixed
together. I unfolded the tiny palms. I rubbed my nose on his belly. I ran my
fingers through the few strands of hair on his almost-bald head…..And, I cried
out of joy. Nothing could, till date beat the experience I had on that day. He was the best smell in the world.
He
still is.
It’s
been many years now. The tiny lizard has metamorphosed into an attractive young
man (It was inevitable. After all, he has my genes). And, he turns 24 today. (And
no, I won’t turn this post into a mushy birthday post)
I
may have my own babies someday, but he shall always be my first. The joy of
holding him in my arms and drowning in a pool of baby-fragrances was, is and
shall always feel like paradise…a paradise that I call ‘home’.
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This post is written for a contest hosted by Ambipur. And the guidelines are here.
Image courtesy: Google images.
Image courtesy: Google images.
