The world of odours
By: K S S Pillai
From my childhood, odours have warned me of pleasant and unpleasant matters waiting for me.
When the first rains of the season soaked the dry soil, accompanied by a series of lightning, peals of thunder and dark clouds rushing across the sky, it would emit a peculiar smell, declaring the end of the dry season. Our parents would prohibit us from venturing out in the dark as the smell would bring snakes out of their habitats.
There was a small paddy field in front of our home. We would know that the transplantation would start soon from the smell coming from the upturned soil when it was ploughed with the help of a pair of oxen. Several cranes would follow to devour the worms exposed by ploughing.
At the beginning of the mango season, the emerging flowers of the trees would announce the impending happy days. Our cashew tree would follow suit. We, the children, would look at the flower-laden branches longingly and pray for an early arrival of the school vacation.
At the beginning of the academic year, I liked the smell of the newly-bought textbooks and notebooks. Later, it was the same case with my newspaper. When I hurried to my home about a kilometre away during the lunch break, the mouth-watering smell of cooking would hit me from nearby houses, aggravating my hunger. Even before entering my home, the smell from the kitchen would tell me what dishes to expect.
I had a special liking for the aroma of melting ghee. After the melted ghee was bottled, my mother would put some cooked rice in the hot pan, add a little salt and give it to me in small balls.
The floor of our ancestral home used to be plastered with cow dung every few days. Since I did not like its smell, I used to cover it with mats for a couple of days till it was fully dry. I also liked the smell emanating from the washed clothes brought by our washer-man once a week.
When I was a boy, I liked the smell of cigarettes my uncle smoked and that of the fumes of petrol when he started his motorcycle. At twilight, an oil lamp and sticks of incense would be lighted in the puja room, where everyone was expected to join the prayer.
Now, I keep the doors and windows of my first-floor bedroom open early in the morning. The pleasant fragrance of unseen flowers wafts through them, along with the sound of the gong from a temple nearby. We have planted some trees that flower once a year around my home. When those trees are in full bloom, they are visited by butterflies of different colours and sizes, fluttering from flower to flower. A large number of honeybees suck nectar from them. The fragrance of flowers spreads all around for a few days till all of them wither and tumble down in the gentle breeze.
I was under the impression that my friend in the neighbourhood was a teetotaler till I paid him an unexpected visit the other day. He was reeking of alcohol. All his efforts to camouflage the fact by spraying the room with perfumes had failed.
I avoid visiting the homes of some of my friends in my residential colony in the evenings because of the smell of frying fish. Though I am not a strict vegetarian, I don’t like the acrid smell and fumes that linger in the house.
When I suggested to one of them to install an exhaust fan in the kitchen, he assured me he had already done so, but it had proved to be of little use. As he took me to his kitchen to see for myself, I was astonished to see the glee on the face of his wife, who was busy slashing a dead fish with a formidable-looking knife, stuffing it with spices and dropping it into a frying pan with boiling oil. I left the place in a hurry remembering stories about the after-death life of sinners.
(The author is a retired professor of English. A regular contributor to ‘The Kashmir Vision’, his articles and short stories have appeared in various national and international publications)
