I remember the smell of the first rain. The rain water hit the ground as if to consume the fire like heat of summer. Nature's way of putting off the heat seemed so delightful.
I remember the smell of drenching in the same rain on the terraces. All the dust would mix up with the water flowing towards the pipes. One moment, my feet would be dirty and the next, clean with fresh rain. Just like the shore fun at the beach.
I remember the smell of my first plant. The small hole I dig up by the side of the drain, on a street where only a couple of bikes and scooters could go two way, housed the stem that I procured at a friend's. It was a consequence of a lesson in 'Stem propagation' of flowering plants. It grew quite well the last time I visited the town, years ago, and gives plenty of flowers. Indian streets stir up quite an emotion in elderly people looking to pick flowers for daily puja during the morning walk hours .
I remember the smell of the seasons, smell of the fresh jasmine, smell of the Eucalyptus trees, smell of the old books and the leaves and petals kept pressed in them, smell of powders from the flour mill, smell of the petroleum from Daddy's scooter and this list will go on. Indeed a childhood filled with memories of odors.
