Life is a tapestry of numerous indelibly memorable moments, delicately woven into its fabric; those that may, over time, lose their lustre somewhat but still retain their feel for many seasons even after several washes. Each one of us must have had umpteen number of big and small, intimate and warm, happy and poignant moments with people or furry/feathered beings, in activities or with our favourite possessions, at various junctures in our lives. And at times we keenly reminisce about those special moments that were left behind in the past. But often we get so caught up in the rush of life and in a multitude of chores and responsibilities day in and day out that we unwittingly drift away from those very people, relationships and things that once were close to our hearts and who had made those wonderful moments happen. Their memories remain buried beneath our busyness, hidden away in the deep recesses of our minds, until one fine day they resurface, out of the blue, when we run into something familiar that takes us down the memory lane and makes us to dig them up and dust them off. In an instant, vivid images of our old times start cascading before our eyes and we drift off into nostalgic reveries, yearning to relive those moments one more time.
A familiar ambiance or an old photograph, a recognisable melody or an identifiable taste or even a known touch -- it could be anything that unlocks and brushes up our long forgotten memories. But probably very few triggers would stir up memories as strongly as smells do. They create memory markers for us better than all the other senses. We often associate a distinctive smell with the memory of a specific past experience that had some connection to it. And instantly we get transported back in time to that specific moment if and when we bump into that familiar smell.
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| Those random memories that make me smile |
The ambrosial fragrance that pervades the air in the evenings as I pass by a temple, especially during the time of aarti, often takes me back to my growing up years at Bhubaneswar when grandma, ringing a hand-bell, would light up a diya before the Tulsi plant every evening and we kids would all follow her to the puja room to sing our prayers; and that would end with the blowing of the conch shell. Or whenever I happen to come across a 'havan puja', be it in a temple or at a friend's place for his/her housewarming ceremony, the conspicuous smell of ghee and 'guggal' burning in the 'havan' fire would remind me of my boyhood days when our family priest used to visit our home to perform 'havan' on Sankrantis or on Ganesh Chaturthi and Saraswati Puja. And I invariably end up conjuring up images of our puja room being adorned with mango leaves and garlands of marigold and Mummy drawing elaborate rangolis before the 'sankalp kalash' or of the scrumptious kheer that she often used to prepare for the prasad. Similarly whenever it rains here and I prepare khichdi -- my cult-companion on most rainy nights --, the smell of desi ghee that I often top it with, inevitably makes me reminisce back on the days when I would sneak into the kitchen to take a whiff of its enticing smell, only to be sent back by Mummy. And then a few minutes later, she would come out with a plate full of piping hot masala khichdi that would have got ample chunks of cauliflowers, carrots, tomatoes and green peas along with a whole slew of crushed dry spices and generously topped with dollops of desi ghee and lemon juice squeezed over it. I can literally smell the subtle aroma of the spices and desi ghee gently wafting from her plate even in my imagination! And so also I'm reminded of the fun fights that used to ensue between me and my brother to have a bigger share of the khichdi.
There are still many other distinct smells that evoke vivid memories from my childhood -- the earthy smell after the first showers in summer is synonymous with reminiscences of me running up to the terrace to get drenched in the rain and cupping my palms to form a pool of rain or of my sailing of paper boats and jumping in the puddles. Similarly the smell of a new book often takes me back to my school days when I would eagerly look forward to getting my new books and copies at the start of a new year. And as soon as I would get them, how I would flip through the crisp pages caressing them excitedly and would bury my face in them to inhale a few deep whiffs! These and many more such experiences that remain etched in my memory pop up every once in a while. For me though, the most olfactorily intimate memory is elicited by the comforting smell from Mummy's old cotton sarees. Whenever I miss her tender caresses and long for her warmth, I wrap myself up with her sarees like a quilt and instantly fond memories of my childhood waft before my eyes, when I often snuggled up on Mummy's elysian lap and she would put me to sleep, patting me lovingly and covering me with her saree's anchal.
But sometimes even fetid smells can evoke happy memories associated with them! Today being a holiday (Sri Krishna Janmashtami) I did not need to wake up early. Moreover it was one of those blissfully perfect, rainy mornings when you take your time to get out of bed and instead, just want to remain tucked in there for a few minutes more. I was too comfortable in my bed -- snuggled up in my sheet and listening to the sound of rain falling softly around me -- to get out. Just as I was contemplating how to spend the beautiful day, I heard some faint, barely heard sounds coming from the next room, that gradually intensified and kept nagging at me until I couldn't ignore them anymore. They stopped briefly but moments later, I again heard what sounded like gnawing of something hard like of cardboards or wood. "Eek! A mouse?", I dreaded the thought. I was forced to jump out of my bed and rush to the other room to check on my bookshelf where I had stacked my new books but there was no hint of anyone there. Using the torchlight, I looked around everywhere closely, checked all corners, behind the door and under the sofa as well but no intruder was to be found. But then, as I opened the locked cupboard, a teeny tiny mouse scurried past me, lightning fast, and disappeared out of the room.
And to my horror, my old magazines, a few old diaries and notebooks, and some newspaper clippings that were meant for my scrapbook -- all lay badly torn and ripped there. On top of all that, as souvenirs, the little devil had left behind smudge marks, urine stains and feces scattered all around inside the cupboard, to keep me busy for the next hour or so. Obviously he had ticked me off to no end. What was supposed to be a lazy, relaxing Sunday morning had suddenly got a 'cleaning-up-mess' start to it! But as I sat down cleaning the cupboard, it reeked of an odour which though was so peculiar that anyone would have involuntarily turned his face away but it also felt very familiar. It wasn't a pleasant smell in any respect, and I knew it was of the urine stains that the mouse had left behind but it brought back memories from my engineering days when I had reared two orphaned squirrels. And all of a sudden, my foul mood gave way to reminiscences and smiles. It's truly amazing how a re-encounter with a familiar smell can unleash a deluge of memories.
It was in 2004 when I was in the midst of my engineering course. I used to stay in a single occupancy PG accommodation that had 2 rooms (of which I had taken up one and the other remained unoccupied), a kitchen and a toilet (at the end of the corridor) on the top floor; the owners lived downstairs. I had not the faintest inkling of when a mother squirrel set up her nest atop the skylight of my bathroom and even gave birth to two baby squirrels there (there used to be a huge mango tree on the east side of the house, right next to the bathroom and probably that's how the mother squirrel would have reached the skylight). But after coming to know of it, I always made sure to latch the door of the bathroom lest some cat could enter the bathroom through the corridor and harm the mother and her kids. Unfortunately one day I forgot to do just that and the very next morning I found the mother lying dead on the bathroom floor. But as luck would have it, somehow the two infant squirrels were left unscathed! Or probably the cat hadn't seen them in the nest.
My PG owner asked me to abandon the baby squirrels on the terrace for some crow or vulture or some cat. But the orphaned infants were almost of the length of my finger and their eyes hadn't opened yet, they hadn't even developed hair on their body which implied that they were less than a week old; they had been squealing all the while (probably out of hunger) and were certainly missing their mother badly. As I took them up in my palms and held them close, there were two little life-forms before me who needed a parent. Probably anyone would have been overcome with love. I couldn't have been so stone-hearted as to just leave them on their own or to throw them before some crow or a cat to feast upon. So I decided to bring them up until they became capable of fending for themselves. But I had never reared someone as young an infant as the two kids, though I had raised an abandoned puppy before when I was a teen. Nor did I have any idea of how to feed them. The stupid that I was, I had initially placed a bowl of milk before them in the hope that they would just dip their mouth in and drink it. But then upon granny's advise, I tried feeding them by dipping a small cotton ball into the warm milk and then gently squeezing drop by drop into the baby's mouth, holding her up in my other hand. And the trick worked for both of them. After having fed them, they were to be put to sleep. So for their bed, I brought a shoe box and lining it with a layer of few newspaper sheets at the bottom and then a soft, old cotton cloth over it, I placed their original nest of straw and dried grass and then the two kids into it and covered them partly with a handkerchief for warmth. The two kids snuggled up in their nest and soon fell asleep. This soon became a routine -- after being fed, they would remain asleep for the next two or three hours until they were hungry again. So they would start squealing again and that would be an alarm call for me to feed them.
Though I had no idea about their sexes but to me, they looked like my two little cousins whom I loved as much. So I named them Liza and Nupur. It wasn't easy raising them and it did feel a bit unsettling at times, trying to figure out how best to look after them. I would often get very emotional, realising what a huge responsibility I carried as their parent -- I was both a father as well as mother to them. And it was down to me to care for them, protect them and respond to all of their needs. On one instance, Nupur had almost scared me to death when she didn't take in milk at all, didn't open her eyes and instead only continued to shiver. I had felt so helpless having no idea what to do. With no veterinary doctor around, all I could think of doing was to light an akhand diya in Shivji's name the whole night and pray for her recovery. That was so foolish of me as a parent, one would think, and indeed we were only plain lucky that by dawn, Nupur had sprung back to life but it was no less than a miracle and probably more for God's grace. Though I was floundering and fumbling as their parent, but the two kids readily took to my feeding and parenting ways. And on their part, they made me a more patient person and probably a better father for the future. I still remember how I almost threw up the first time that I came across that pungent smell of their droppings and pee. But steadily I got accustomed to it and the smell stopped bothering me. Every second day, I would replace the old newspaper sheets and the cotton cloth with new ones in the shoe box after they would have been smudged with their poops and pee.
They gradually started growing up and so did change their food habits as well - crushed peanuts, apples, grapes, oranges, biscuit crumbs, mashed rice with milk - they took a liking to everything that I gave them. They would hop around excitedly, running here and there playfully all around the room or on the terrace whenever I took them there. And then they would come running back to me, climb up my feet and onto my t-shirt up to my belly and would remain clung to it there. I often saw glimpses of my childhood in them, just as I used to do when I was a small kid and played with mummy. Though they didn't talk my language and nor did I speak theirs but we would still converse through eyes. And they often seemed to understand my words, as they would comply whenever I called them near by their names (and whenever I did that, they would often stand up on their hind legs and look around for me and then would come running to me; that used to be so cute) or asked them to jump onto my hands after I would have placed them on a height. The first time that I took them to the nearby park and placed them on a tree, they just sat still, stuck on its bark being unfamiliar to its feel and only looked around for me. But they had to go back to their world -- the trees, the grass, the bare earth and the open sky -- someday. So every once in a while, I would take them to the park and let them run around on the lawn to get themselves acquainted. Having been brought up on the cemented floors at my place, it took them some time to get used to the feel but gradually they started feeling at ease with every subsequent visit. But they would still come back to me when I would call out their names.
My exams were now fast approaching and I had missed my classes and practicals the whole of those 3 months. I couldn't have gone to my college either, leaving behind the two kids alone locked up in a completely closed room; there was the risk of asphyxiation (and what if they had started crying on not finding me around?) Nor could I leave the windows or the door open, lest some cat might have attacked them. They were fully grown-up now and squirrels do not do well when confined. I had to let them manage on their own in their natural surroundings at some point in time. And I thought the Balram mandir with its big grove of mango trees in the garden, where people would often dispose off the leftovers of the prasad, was the best place to shelter them with plenty of food around. So one day I took them there and let them run around in the garden, without calling them back. And probably they too were prepared for their new beginning. They ran here and there for a while, looked around for me at times and then finally just ran away onto a tree. They ran away but left behind trails in my heart.
It's said that sometimes the unexpected happens; strangers come into our lives out of nowhere, enrich our lives with their company and then go away leaving behind unforgettable memories. I wish I had a camera those days, to capture my moments with them to keep as mementos for life. Their stay with me was short-lived, but every single minute spent with them was totally worth it. And now when I look back at those 3 months that I got to spend with them, I am filled with fond reminiscences. I wonder where they would be now and how they would be doing and whether they miss me or not but they did reaffirm my belief that Love only begets Love and thus they left their traces ingrained in my heart forever. Someday I will become a father myself but in those 3 months that I lived with Liza and Nupur, they had already made me experience the bliss of parenthood 
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Interrupting my thoughts, I heard 'kut kut' sounds once again, this time coming from the kitchen. "Who could that be?", I wondered. "Oh, that little imp is at it again!" But my dander had given way to smiles long before.
