Itrnama- Perfume Stories

By Seher Pokhariyal

Nana has kept your boudoir just the way it was—

a bejeweled palace inside a cherry-oak chest of drawers

shimmering in the rubies, crystal jades and quicksilvers

of your bracelets, bindis, and and balis.

I sift and search and pry—

my archeological dig for rare artifacts of you

and tucked away in the corners I find

carefully folded scraps of papers and tissues from hotels and restaurants,

scribbled and scratched upon—

addresses, phone numbers, stow-away recipes,

little tunes and poems off of your own head

(did you ever sing them to us? I don't remember)

They still smell like you—

like the jasmines you wore in your hair on Sunday mornings

like the hot plum preserve you made whenever one of us got a cold

like the herbal tinctures and mineralising powders you swore by

like the itr you dabbed on your neck—

a musk so strong that I used to scrunch up my nose whenever I caught a whiff of it.

This time though, I drench my wrists in these familiar aromas

to welcome visits from the past—

visits from you.

It takes me back

To lazy summer days spent in your room—

the center of our universe:

crowded, full of laughter,

echoing with the melodies of Guru Dutt and Mohammed Rafi,

with your stories of days-gone-by—

the door always open.

You—were the sun

my mother and aunts circling you like planets,

my older brothers and I your little moons—

watching on gleefully in vicarious orbit.

It takes me back

to our walks in butterfly park—

our patient hands collecting drops of marigold sun-showers

from the gaps between the trees,

sipping on aam panna

as the breeze wrapped your pallu round the back of my t-shirt—

roots tangling—yours and mine,

warm in our own grand quilt of quiet belonging.

It takes me back

to blurry Skype calls to Bombay,

to postcards sealed with whispered kisses

and Blue Dart packages— portable pantries of spice concoctions at our doorstep every three moons.

Food, they say, is a love language.

You spoke it with me—

and I try to now speak it back.

Every time I cut fruit,

I think of how you'd bring me pear and apple slices, apricots and lemonade

as I did my homework on Sunday afternoons.

I think about how you thought of me in the kitchen as you did so,

and how ~years later~

I'm doing the same.

Like the itr that lingers on my skin for now

and might fade come tomorrow,

my memory isn’t great—

it’s become clouded over the years.

I know there will come a time when I forget

those small moments with you

that my brothers remember better than I do.

(But we will always have Sundays)

By Seher Pokhariyal