Petrol

By Pranamya Pradeep

https://youtu.be/-lyPgQXO4_w

I’ve always hated the smell of petrol.

It’s pungent;

and I’ve always thought it to be quite nasty.

This morning,

when the distinct smell wafted through the air,

my face curled in disgust.

Yet,

my mind flashed back to when I’d walked

10 feet into the ocean,

squealing because the water was too cold,

and they’d called me back

because the sea would swallow me whole.

I knew I wouldn’t drown.

But I also knew

that in their own way,

they were worried for me.

I walked 20 feet in

and held my hands out for them to hold.

For their comfort, or for my own - I don’t know.

I’m tiny, and the waves were tall enough to touch my chin.

But I hadn’t ever felt a joy as profound as when

each wave of brine shook the ground beneath my feet.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

Even as the salt made my eyes water,

and my throat was so sore I couldn’t speak,

and when I was so drowsy from cough medicine; you asked if I was drunk,

and when I was so offended to have been called an alcoholic,

and as I sipped on a too-hot too-bitter cappuccino at 3 AM

instead of throwing back vodka like I thought I would have been,

and as we kept stopping to take pictures

because the sky looked so wonderful,

and as we ate good cake - and then terrible cake,

all in one evening.

From sneaking off to sit by the pool every night,

I’ve got keeping secrets down to a science.

I’ve never climbed over rocks in a dress and flip-flops before,

but I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Each step along that very narrow cement beam

30 feet above jagged rock

during high tide

felt like flirting with Death itself,

but I would do it again.

Walking in the sand after the Sun had waved goodbye,

and as each remnant of vermilion had set the sky on fire,

your cheekbones glinting in the crepuscular Gold

would be my utter demise.

For one very brief moment,

it felt like it was just us.

The waves crashed so loudly that it was impossible to hear anyone else.

Truth be told,

I could barely hear you either - so I nodded along to what you were saying,

and tried to not stare too hard at how you smiled.

And even if the beat that my heart had skipped then

had been what killed me,

you can be sure I would do this again.

For just these few days,

I’d fallen so deeply in love with life

that my heart felt fuller than it had in a long time.

I was so enamoured by seashell bracelets

and the sand between my toes

and shivering in too-cold water.

I’d nearly cried when I found sea glass - yes, I know it’s broken beer bottles,

but it’s broken beer bottles

whose jagged edges have been curbed

and smoothened

and polished

and softened

and loved so ferociously by the ocean

that it won’t make the next hand that holds it bleed.

There’s some melancholy sense of romance

in how the same fragile sand

that washes away from beneath your feet

also anchors you to the seabed.

You don’t quite realise how fast

and how deep you’re sinking,

until your calves are half-sunken in the sand

and the smell of salt is making you dizzy.

So you squeeze your eyes shut and think secret thoughts,

and choke on words you shouldn’t speak.

I’ll watch as the sand makes your feet crack and the skin of your hands peel.

With each tear that seasons the sea,

rest assured no one can tell the difference.

There’s footprints in the sand,

and one foamy wave shyly flirts with the coast.

I’ll think back to this moment

with the echo of your voice in my mind :

Impermanence.

They say smells trigger memories.

The smell of petrol makes me reminisce.

It reminds me of getting over my fear of mo-peds,

and of going double the speed limit at 4 AM.

It reminds me of trepidation

and of someone taking my hand

when I held it out.

It reminds me of trekking in a miniskirt,

and of swimming in a dress.

Of sewing buttons by the riverside

and of running barefoot on the beach.

Of every midnight expedition when I clung to you

and of screaming along to songs I didn’t fully know the words to.

It reminds me of giggling because

the pharmacist thought

I wanted to get high on cough syrup,

and of buying glow-sticks on the beach to wear as bracelets.

Petrol reminds me of building sandcastles and going pebble hunting.

Of how each sunset set the clouds ablaze,

and how we never woke up early enough to catch the sunrise.

In my mind’s eye,

each moment I’m reminded of is a souvenir,

and as each drop of its essence

spreads into an iridescent halo

in some muddy puddle,

an odour so pervasive

that it’ll suffocate every other distinguishable memento,

and stifle

every

other

thought

but the thought of You.

By Pranamya Pradeep