Thursday, August 29, 2013

The many scents of life.


Image from the Internet.
I think it is amazing how memories are kept warm and alive by the scents that are associated with them.
I always feel a keen sense of nostalgia when I smell oranges. It always takes me back to happy saturdays from my childhood when we would accompany a dear cousin to the paddy fields and while the grownups worked, we children would pick the ripe orange fruits off the trees surrounding the resting hut. There were oranges, guavas, pears, pomegranates, passion fruit, cucumbers, peaches and cherries, all ready to be picked at different seasons year round.

Smoke would be billowing from the tiny hut where delicious smoked beef galho (a Naga dish of meat, vegetables and rice cooked together and served with green King chilli chutney) would be stewing over the fire, for lunch. We would collect dry twigs for the fire in the morning, on the way to the fields; fetch water from up stream of the canals irrigating the fields and spend the afternoon chasing dragonflies until we had to return home, carrying baskets of fragrant oranges and guavas. Those were the scents of my happy Saturdays of my childhood.

Another favourite memory would have to do with my mother's scent. Mother has always been fond of perfumes and as a child, I would lovingly gaze at the pretty bottles on her dresser until she would spray a little on me, on Sunday mornings as we got ready for church. Over the years, I have come to recognize her unique scent in a bottle of Chanel No. 5 though what she owned wasn't quite the real Chanel. But I feel like a little girl whenever I get a whiff of the scent. While Mother would be busy tying my hair into a pony tail, I would revel in the warmth of her presence and scent. It makes me feel loved and special and I get flashes of us dancing to ABBA songs while her colourful skirts would be swirling around me.

Home. So many happy thoughts and scents. I love the scent of pine and  firewood at the family hearth in Kohima. Christmas, my favourite time of the year is defined by the happy carols and the wonderful smells of baked goodies and fragrant sticky rice cakes being fried in our kitchen. And how can I forget to mention the sizzling aroma of meat being smoked or roasted for the festivities? There is such a happy buzz all over the place. All the scents and noise makes you feel like all is well and nothing could ever go wrong in life. Makes me long for Christmas and home all the time.

Another homey ritual is hot cocoa for the kids and coffee for the grownups, with cookies and cakes on Sunday nights when the family gathers for the evening prayers. I am not big on drinking coffee but my head is filled with images of my Dad making coffee noisily in the kitchen and serving everyone. I love waking up to the scent of early morning coffee in winters when holidaying at home. I miss my Dad whenever I smell coffee while away from home and I often give him a call then and there. There is this New Years Eve tradition of gifting assorted cakes and cookies to neighbours at midnight while exchanging warm wishes and blessings. Excited kids that we were, we would feast on the goodies from the neighbours at midnight and be put to bed, and later wake up to the unique smells of New Years Day - more cakes, meats and yummy treats.

 My happiest times in adult life have happened often in the winters of Delhi, a stroll at India Gate or Lodhi Gardens, the evenings thick with the scent of jasmine as little boys ran around at traffic stops with strings of jasmine flowers for sale. I am a generous customer to these precocious sellers. They are often generous too and give me a good deal. I hang them near my bed so that I can get a teasing whiff as I sleep. These are new scents that I love, besides all the other smells I associate with the home I grew up in. I now realize that this is my journey of life, punctuated by distinct smells at different intervals. Moving from the scent of fresh grass on the lawns, after the rains back home in Kohima, oranges, roses, guavas and fresh air of the hills to the wafts of drying jasmine, potpourri and room fresheners that help me create a comforting and cosy world here in my room, in the big bad city of Delhi I now call home, it's been quite a journey.

My new world is now a mix of new and old scents. Of coffee from the vending machines, the many human scents on the metro, a whiff of expensive perfume at the malls, in the office, a hint of cardamon, sometimes garlic and other times, the strong stench of the City reminding me of the struggles of life beating down on you when you are on your own. But when I get back to my room, I'm enveloped by happy scents. Back in the midst of familiar scents - of loved ones, some new but dear and all the little things in my space that I have come to love and call home. And I can only smile and wonder how a whiff of air can turn your world around and take you from place to place.



This is an entry for Indiblogger.in & Ambipur's  "Smelly to Smiley" contest. Find out more by clicking here.



Thursday, August 15, 2013

sunday picnic



sunday picnic

This is what I am feeling. Something yellow. Some peachy romantic lace. Nude flats. A little black. Kitty love and shorts. Yeah. And I have to learn to ride a bicycle ASAP.


Slim shirt
$23 - thehut.com


Mossimo shirt
target.com


Martone Cycling Co gold top
$1,150 - avenue32.com



Cole haan flat
colehaan.com


Buckle handbag
$20 - newlook.com



Enamel jewelry
$4.56 - newlook.com


Rut&Circle round sunglasses
$18 - nelly.com

Nothing

www.favim.com

in my darkest moments
i know you have deserted me
you have made up your mind to forget me
you refuse to allow me in
i cannot find my way in
and my pain is strong and raw

i want to be inside your flesh
running in your veins your blood
be the air that passes through your nostrils
the morsels on your taste buds
that your saliva engulfs 
and draw into your depths

how could you give our love away
and bind yourself to someone else
you called it magic
what we had
and that is what it has become
in the past tense

i am the dust 
you swept under your door mat
bitter is my heart
to know this the harsh truth
i never meant much to you
not half the things you meant to me
i am nothing
less than dust
no trace of me on you
nothing