Dates don't make days special.
*
It came to me as one of the many perfumes I was gifted during (and more so after) my wedding, late last year. That perfume has an uncanny relevance. While opening it, I spilled a little bit in my make-up case. Throughout the honeymoon, even though I didn't actually wear the perfume, every time I would get ready, the fragrance sneak up on me as a gentle reminder of its presence. I didn't recognize it then, but I liked the way my make-up case smelt. Since then, Rose Essentielle has been lying quietly in my closet, patiently waiting for its turn, almost lost amidst the other perfumes.
This morning, for no reason at all, I sprayed some on. And the smell drove me crazy. Because it transported me back to the land of varicoloured flip-flops, bespoke cocktails, infinity pools, and uncontainable love. Just for a moment, I felt like a new bride. I thought of salespersons in stores looking at the mehndi on my feet - faded due to hours spent in the sun and the sea - gearing up to make their pitch. After all honeymooners are the perfect catch to make a sale. I thought of the Belgian restaurant with live Blues, and flying across a crowded beach - call it parasailing, if you must.
*
Working Saturdays are the pits. I'd rather get paid a little less and get the entire weekend off. No, really, I mean it.
So I was traveling back from work last Saturday. It was around 6.30 in the evening, and through the window of my cab, in came the smell of... food. I couldn't identify the exact smell - it was either masala being roasted, or a tadka simmering in a pan. Nonetheless, I knew instinctively that it came from the window of a housewife, living on the 3rd floor of one of the older buildings.
And I was suddenly 5 years old at my Nani's house, eating aloo paranthas fresh from the tandoor. I hated white butter back then because it looked an awful lot like malai. And even though I still physically loathe malai, I have fallen in love with the white makhan. As I remembered a tablespoon of hastily tossed butter melting rapidly on a crisp hot parantha - I melted right there with it. I simmered and evaporated and escaped through the window. I'm sure the housewife on the 3rd floor wondered why her kitchen suddenly smelled like white butter.
*
I was in a supermarket last week, picking up householdy things - my weekly chore of stocking up on essentials. As I impatiently swept the rows for cereal and salad dressing and other mundane things, I nearly bumped into a middle-aged lady. My head spun like crazy because she smelled exactly like my Mom smelled when I was a kid. Not like an expensive perfume, or a particular soap or shampoo. It was more like a clean, fresh, comforting smell. Like home.
*
A couple of days ago my grandfather, Pitaji, called my Mom to his room and told her, "I've been thinking about this a lot - who do I love most?" My Mom smiled a little, and later admitted to me bravely that she assumed he was going to take her name. It isn't overconfidence or anything, it's just a natural reaction. Frankly, it would have been my guess, too. Because it is often hard to believe that Mom and Pitaji are related by marriage, rather than by blood. It would actually be pretty easy to convince an outsider that my dad is the son-in-law, rather than the son. So Mom smiled a little and asked him who he was talking about. And he said "After deep thought and careful consideration, I've come to the conclusion... Sakshama."
My 97-year old grandfather thinks he loves me most.
I cannot possibly know what to say.
*
Like I said, it isn't the dates that make days specials.
*
It came to me as one of the many perfumes I was gifted during (and more so after) my wedding, late last year. That perfume has an uncanny relevance. While opening it, I spilled a little bit in my make-up case. Throughout the honeymoon, even though I didn't actually wear the perfume, every time I would get ready, the fragrance sneak up on me as a gentle reminder of its presence. I didn't recognize it then, but I liked the way my make-up case smelt. Since then, Rose Essentielle has been lying quietly in my closet, patiently waiting for its turn, almost lost amidst the other perfumes.
This morning, for no reason at all, I sprayed some on. And the smell drove me crazy. Because it transported me back to the land of varicoloured flip-flops, bespoke cocktails, infinity pools, and uncontainable love. Just for a moment, I felt like a new bride. I thought of salespersons in stores looking at the mehndi on my feet - faded due to hours spent in the sun and the sea - gearing up to make their pitch. After all honeymooners are the perfect catch to make a sale. I thought of the Belgian restaurant with live Blues, and flying across a crowded beach - call it parasailing, if you must.
*
Working Saturdays are the pits. I'd rather get paid a little less and get the entire weekend off. No, really, I mean it.
So I was traveling back from work last Saturday. It was around 6.30 in the evening, and through the window of my cab, in came the smell of... food. I couldn't identify the exact smell - it was either masala being roasted, or a tadka simmering in a pan. Nonetheless, I knew instinctively that it came from the window of a housewife, living on the 3rd floor of one of the older buildings.
And I was suddenly 5 years old at my Nani's house, eating aloo paranthas fresh from the tandoor. I hated white butter back then because it looked an awful lot like malai. And even though I still physically loathe malai, I have fallen in love with the white makhan. As I remembered a tablespoon of hastily tossed butter melting rapidly on a crisp hot parantha - I melted right there with it. I simmered and evaporated and escaped through the window. I'm sure the housewife on the 3rd floor wondered why her kitchen suddenly smelled like white butter.
*
I was in a supermarket last week, picking up householdy things - my weekly chore of stocking up on essentials. As I impatiently swept the rows for cereal and salad dressing and other mundane things, I nearly bumped into a middle-aged lady. My head spun like crazy because she smelled exactly like my Mom smelled when I was a kid. Not like an expensive perfume, or a particular soap or shampoo. It was more like a clean, fresh, comforting smell. Like home.
*
A couple of days ago my grandfather, Pitaji, called my Mom to his room and told her, "I've been thinking about this a lot - who do I love most?" My Mom smiled a little, and later admitted to me bravely that she assumed he was going to take her name. It isn't overconfidence or anything, it's just a natural reaction. Frankly, it would have been my guess, too. Because it is often hard to believe that Mom and Pitaji are related by marriage, rather than by blood. It would actually be pretty easy to convince an outsider that my dad is the son-in-law, rather than the son. So Mom smiled a little and asked him who he was talking about. And he said "After deep thought and careful consideration, I've come to the conclusion... Sakshama."
My 97-year old grandfather thinks he loves me most.
I cannot possibly know what to say.
*
Like I said, it isn't the dates that make days specials.
