The geography of smell

 Calcutta is the smell of a certain fleshy, voluptuous flower that used to carpet the grounds of my favourite park. When I was young, I would fly to the city during my vacations for a few blissful weeks of being pampered, buried under new clothes, fed Gulab Khas mangoes, and taken to the park every day. I don’t remember the park’s name, but, it was somewhere near Elgin Road. Or perhaps it was in Elgin Road? That detail is unimportant… for now. However, I do remember straying away from the other kids in the park to go to the huge, damp, mossy tree that produced the exotic flower. I would squat to pick the white-and-pink beauties up, take them to my nose and be transported to some olfactory Shangri La. I would grudgingly walk towards the area that housed the merry-go-rounds and see-saws only when my aunts herded me away from ‘my spot’. They were worried, no doubt, that I was displaying psychotic, loner tendencies.

The tree was located in the corner of the park and was well-shaded by collective foliage, giving the space a dark, Secret Garden-esque feel. God, how I obsessed over that book. The city, to me, is also the smell of delicacies stewing in mustard-in-all-forms, the aroma of hot tea just as it makes contact with the miniature clay pot it is served in. It is also the not-altogether-disagreeable body odour of an old artist who rushed past me one day, when I was walking to my summer painting class, with my strictly-summer-vacation friend- Chithra.

Chennai is a nose-y bag of strong filter coffee (duh), the Cooum River, salty beach air, fishy Central station. And molaga podi (why on earth is it called gunpowder?).

People remember cities by the friends and family in them. I connect cities with smells. I remember smells before all the awesome/ disgusting memories begin to hit me. In fact, the memories come flooding in only because each of them is associated with a particular smell. Why? I don’t know. But, I reckon I was born with a giant nose for a reason.

Okay, so back to Chennai. Chennai is also the smell of home. It is the smell of confusion, for that same reason, because we went through cooks faster than we went through jeans.

Belgium, ironically, isn’t the smell of Godiva. It will always be the warm whiff of fresh Mc Donald’s French fries. When I was around 15, I did a tour of Europe with my mother. Our Sabena aircraft landed in Antwerp. After checking into the hotel, we decided to take a walk and find some food to eat. We found a Mc Donald’s (the first ever one I entered) at the corner of our street. It was a beautiful grey, chilly evening and a couple was heatedly kissing right by the entrance. It was my first experience with PDA. Once my jaw came back to my face, we entered the eatery and were hit by the delicious smell of anorexic potato fingers in the fryer. So, that’s why Belgium will always be connected to frying tubers, in my head.

Switzerland is the scent of bitter chocolate. But, not the kind that is eaten in cute, super-expensive Interlaken cafes, as tinkling cow bell sounds and fresh air are enjoyed. It was in Jungfraujoch. We'd taken that charming little train to the top, and once there, we were surrounded by a bunch of oldies. I was smugly thinking about how they were all going to pass out due to the sheer altitude and pressure. Until I passed out. I had to be revived with a steaming Styrofoam cup of bitter chocolate. When I came to, I wanted to die. “Robust tennis girl faints”. The shame.  

Scotland is the rustic tang of obese sheep and the woolen heat of a random church service in Glasgow.

Dallas is the redolence of Indian food (not deep fried chicken), courtesy the Indian couple I stayed with for a few days, before I decided to hot-foot it back to India.

Kerala is a nice bouquet of jack fruit, mango pickle, rain, a particular black insect that bit us all one year, and the heaped clothes of my cousins.

Malaysia. Anchovies. Sambal. Yuckose.

Mahabalipuram. That magical land fragranced by the sea and chewy calamari.

Thailand is an interesting olfactory mélange of galangal, overpowering drag-queen make-up and Sambuca (yes, it is an interesting story).

Bangalore. Sigh. The sweet perfume of beer, beer, beer and BACON. Makes sense, since I spent countless lazy hours in my favourite pub there- Plan B- with my partner-in-beer. Bangalore is also the lovely Lavender incense I used to burn in my room, and the kebab-scented living room.

Mumbai. I don’t remember a single smell from that city. Let’s just say my time there wasn’t the happiest. So, maybe that’s why my dear brain erased it all away.

I also associate people with smells at times. A good friend of mine is a walking bag of dust. Another pal is a tube of B&B cream. One of my old schoolmates is a talking banana. Random memories of another friend, who is thankfully no longer in touch, always hit my nose in the manner that a hard cake of dried sweat might. I also have a disturbingly vivid recollection of his ‘breath of death’. It would make me want to evaporate every time he said ‘hello’. Imagine this: let us assume the devil does not bathe or brush. Therefore, his mouth is already tarter-land. One fine day, he decides to lob a few onions into his mouth. But, before he can get into the act of chewing, he is called away on urgent business. When he comes back a few days later, he meets a beautiful woman and says ‘hi’, only to realise the onions have been happily fermenting in the acids of his cavernous cavity all the while. The woman dies a million deaths. I was always sure this friend lied about bathing. Yes, I did ask him if he bathed... of course, I cleverly masked the question. But, he lied. Unless, of course, his body produces sulphuric acid instead of sweat. Andddd, I also wondered how he got all those women... he often spoke about a time when he had enjoyed multiple dalliances. Did he lie? Or, did they all die? Leached to death by the toxic fumes? I am not being mean. You must smell this person to know what I am talking about. You don't even have to go out of your way to meet him. Any time a wind blows in your direction and brings with it a stench, it's probably our little friend exhaling.  

My daddy will always be the whiff of Brut-after-a-nighttime-shower, even though he has since shifted loyalties. Mummy is a God-scent combo of jhaal muri, Nivea cleanser and liquid kumkum. 

I remember good-looking men by the perfume/deodorant they wear, or their natural scent. Intoxicating! 

For some reason, I don’t have any specific smells for any of my best/close friends.

One of my closest childhood friends associates the smell of molaga podi with me. We were at a movie theatre recently, and wafting about amidst aromas of fresh popcorn, hotdogs and other unhealthy foods, was the smell of fresh idli podi. She turned to me and said, “That reminds me of you, Anu! You would bring dosa and molaga podi to school every day, at one point, remember?" I wish I were associated with something else. Even the comforting perfume (yes, I will call it that) of stale beer would do.