The Scent of Memories

I've always believed in a particularly enigmatic method of time-travel. And before you abjure this piece of information raising doubts on it's credibility, I'd put forward another claim. That you'll believe me when I explain.

Smell. Indoor smell, to be specific.

"Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived." - Helen Keller

I've always had an intensified sense of smell. When I was little, I would go about taking everything in with my nose in a dilettantish manner. Little did I know that a long time after that, those scents would come back stalking, haunting and frequenting their way into emotions every unwary moment of reminiscence. I could smell interesting odours, uplifting aromas and soothing fragrances from miles away, but I could never smell trouble that was but only two inches away from my face!

My earliest memories of scent is one of the most common memories for all. Its the smell you get when the rain-soaked earth freshens up with a typical aroma, after it has rained heavily on a hot afternoon suffering from a capricious weather pattern. While innumerable memories remain attached to this particular smell, there always is an early bird that leaves a indelible impression. For example, the very first time I saw a rainbow is among my earliest memories, and the smell of the wet soil is certainly a part of it. I still remember how me and baba went for a walk on the rain-washed tarmac in front of our house after the downpour subsided. It was the city of Allahabad when there were no towers or high-rises and as the sun came out of hiding, we soon got a clear view of a rainbow in the sky. It was clearer than it ever again appeared to me. I remember how desperately I tried convincing baba to run for the rainbow's end and claim the leprechaun's pot of gold. I was visibly dejected at his denial.

The next smell that I can remember right now, is that of freshly brewed coffee. Remember the convivial atmosphere at those wedding receptions in winter, and how lackluster it would have been in the occasion of the espresso machine being broken? The smell of strong black coffee brewed by forcing hot water under pressure through finely ground coffee beans has always been the only thing worthy of the price they charge at the Cafe Coffee Days and Starbucks. I could not attend many such nights of revelry as I left for boarding school at quite an early age. But whenever I make coffee in my hostel room on rainy nights and in goes that aroma, I ponder on those days.

Another smell that I remember clearly would be that of milk. In Allahabad, we used to have goat milk, boiled and presented freshly after being milked out of a generous nanny goat. The milk had a sweet hint of grass in it. Of course, we don't find it in the pasteurized, tetra-packed milk of today. To think of it now, it is in fact the various scents in that house in Allahabad, that make up most of its memories.

My alma mater is (in)famous for its doctrines of lasting discipline and versatile erudition. Or that's what people believe it to be. I had passed six whole years sleeping in the prayer halls of six different hostels. I didn't know why I couldn't stay awake in those nauseous gas-chambers with the smell of incense continuously flooding our senses. The care-taking monks used to give us some beating for it! They didn't merely want us to meditate, they demanded us to follow and I'm pretty sure that the incense was being used to hypnotize us into doing it!

The smell of incense still confuses me, whether to feel a sense of tranquility or to expect a thrashing afterwards, for drooling in the sanctum sanctorum of ethereal effects.

The human brain is definitely a recondite entity. It stores all these memories like a computer ROM and lets us access them whenever triggered by an external stimuli. Nose, as we know it, only perceives the smell, converting the abstract idea of the scent into an electrical impulse. These electrical signals are transmitted to the brain by the neurons, and give way to lucid memories. The brain evidently has a penchant for nostalgia.

If I could capture smell and keep it in bottles, I'd do so.

First, I'd capture the smell of old books. Supposedly they're just grass, with a tang of acid and a ting of vanilla according to scientists. So I'm guessing that it is replicable? You may say that new books smell even better, but I don't always get familiar vibes unless of course its a well packaged delivery from Flipkart and the cardboard packing is somewhat moist with humidity. We used to maintain a study and a computer room in Allahabad, where all the old books would be kept. Time and again we'd give the worn-out books for hard-binding until one day we found that the termites have got to them from within. The uplifting aroma filling that room and the disheartening feeling of losing good books have been consistent in metaphor, to the bittersweet rise and fall of childhood memories. Stands true for everyone, I guess.

"A book has got smell. A new book smells great. An old book smells even better. An old book smells like ancient Egypt." - Ray Bradbury

Moving on. Remember Vicco Turmeric, nahi cosmetic?! Before the advent of Fair and Lovely and Ponds Age-Miracle, there were just Boro Plus and Vicco Turmeric, the ayurvedic creams of choice for the Indian ménage. It had an unmistakable fragrance of haldi or turmeric in it. I know its hard to come by nowadays, thanks to all the deodorants and perfumes and creams and gels and foams in the market. But that was one smell that I always related to my grandmother. My grandmother was the iron-lady of the household, working hard to keep the family going. Mother India-ish of sorts. Whenever I smell Vicco Turmeric, I find myself being very proud of what we have in our country. Something to call ours. People to relate to, like my grandmother. Distinguished people with distinctive Indian-ness. I would love to have this fragrance as a room freshener.

Third, the smell of Ma preparing mutton in the kitchen! I'm a Bengali, and Bengalis are known to be hoggers. But its not the scent of the cooked meat. Its the scent that comes particularly when mum slyly declares on a Sunday morning that she's preparing brinjal for lunch. We begin to sulk, until a familiar aroma fills in the house and we can't wait for lunch-time to arrive. That was childhood of course.

The scent of marker pens would be another one of those things I'd capture. The scent of that caramel popcorn at the multiplexes. Scent of cola. The distinctive fragrance of one's mother. Scent of a freshly mowed lawn. Scent of vanilla. Scent of a woman's neck. Scent of a retired travel-case. Scent of mothballs.

Hello?! Folks from Ambi Pur, you listening to any of this?
Oh time-travel, I tell you.

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Submitted as an entry to the Indiblogger AmbiPur Smelly to Smiley Contest.