Heera, the charwoman , was in the habit of applying some kind of a strongly aromatic oil in her hair . Being downwind of Heera as she dusted the windows and sang bawdy songs , was the worst thing that could happen to you on a freshly washed , crisp Monday morning. All promises wilted, as you veered windward, while trying to finish homework, assignments, and projects.
Assembly bell would sound in a couple of minutes. But Mother Superior had to have the class register, filled in correctly, brown paper cover crisp and not torn, and names entered correctly, no smudges there, please. So , lives for senior students and prefects was edgy, a few minutes before the assembly. Heera's assault on everyone's olfactory senses did not help much either. In fact, it cemented a sort of pavlovian response, so much so that the other day, in a local train , when I was accosted with a similar smell, I was filled with a foolish dread of urgency. I had to do something , fill some register, submit some assignment, which lay pending.
Smells are known to trigger memories. Sudha , the head girl , offered Heera her imported scarf , when all entreaties ("dust the room later, Heera", Why don't you go and wash your hair , Heera?" " Which cat s(h)at on your head , Heera?")failed to evict the determined sweeper.
Next day , the scarf was seen adorning the nether-end of Heera's last born, lungi-fashion.
My grandmother chewed betel nut and cloves . The fragrance still makes me , falsely so, very comfortable and reassured , and results in fruitless, time -wasting conversations with pot-bellied grocers. These nearly always end with me getting conned into buying cloves by the "Pudiyas",which keep getting accumulated in my kitchen, un used.
The fragrance of fresh apples , makes me want to read tintin comics, hiding in a shady corner of a sun-washed terrace. My father brought apples and tintin comics for us , in one large duffel bag , resulting in this hodge-podge of memories.
The aroma of aggarbattis means Gods have been propitiated , and all is well, or is going to be well.
The smell of frankincense burning, means the pooja has come to an end , and delicious , sweet prasad awaits us all.
Assembly bell would sound in a couple of minutes. But Mother Superior had to have the class register, filled in correctly, brown paper cover crisp and not torn, and names entered correctly, no smudges there, please. So , lives for senior students and prefects was edgy, a few minutes before the assembly. Heera's assault on everyone's olfactory senses did not help much either. In fact, it cemented a sort of pavlovian response, so much so that the other day, in a local train , when I was accosted with a similar smell, I was filled with a foolish dread of urgency. I had to do something , fill some register, submit some assignment, which lay pending.
Smells are known to trigger memories. Sudha , the head girl , offered Heera her imported scarf , when all entreaties ("dust the room later, Heera", Why don't you go and wash your hair , Heera?" " Which cat s(h)at on your head , Heera?")failed to evict the determined sweeper.
Next day , the scarf was seen adorning the nether-end of Heera's last born, lungi-fashion.
My grandmother chewed betel nut and cloves . The fragrance still makes me , falsely so, very comfortable and reassured , and results in fruitless, time -wasting conversations with pot-bellied grocers. These nearly always end with me getting conned into buying cloves by the "Pudiyas",which keep getting accumulated in my kitchen, un used.
The fragrance of fresh apples , makes me want to read tintin comics, hiding in a shady corner of a sun-washed terrace. My father brought apples and tintin comics for us , in one large duffel bag , resulting in this hodge-podge of memories.
The aroma of aggarbattis means Gods have been propitiated , and all is well, or is going to be well.
The smell of frankincense burning, means the pooja has come to an end , and delicious , sweet prasad awaits us all.
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