Smell Of Faded Memories

By Aayra Singh

Wheat gains churn through the well-oiled machines in an almost centuries old mill in my grandparents town. The earthy scent in the air surrounding the chilly stone halls takes one back to an unfamiliar yet nostalgic memory. A grey bearded turbaned old man who knew my grandfather since he was a child fills up a sac with freshly grinded flour. Wrinkles run through his forehead to his

cheeks and disappear in his massive beard, like thousands of stories untold. His son grinds up mustard seeds and fills two empty cola bottles with liquid gold, the smell of which takes me back to the shelf of my grandmother's kitchen, right before she put cumin to the hot burning mustard oil. This old mill feels like a warm hug of all the summer vacations that I spent in this town as a child. Even though my grandparents do not live here anymore, their memories are steeped in deep this beautiful small town.

By Aayra Singh