Mahua Sen’s Nostalgia Crafting a Home Within, a book extract exclusively for Different Truths, offers a poignant journey through childhood memories, evoked by familiar scents and nostalgia.
Dreamscape
In the nocturnal womb of reverie’s embrace,
Amidst amniotic currents, visions unfurl.
Dreams, like seeds, germinate with grace,
Awakening to life’s beckoning swirl.
Once more, you breach my mental terrain,
Dispelling enigma’s mystic veil.
Do they discern that clandestine terrain,
The kiss, our secret, in night’s filigree trail?
Such a kiss, a balm for melancholy’s plight,
In charcoal eyes, it ignites a simpler age,
When archaic sunbeams pierced the white,
Cotton cumulus, on a tranquil stage.
Teasing zephyrs longing for veiled night’s bliss,
Desires surge in tides along my shore
Tonight, I savour oneiric ambrosia’s kiss,
A taste of dreamscape’s flavours to explore.
The dusky lap of night cradles with song,
My mind wields sleight to freeze the hour.
In every atom, I bear you along.
Chaos, your breath, soothes to a tranquil power.
Together, we trace the sun’s celestial flight,
Your heart melded deep within my breast.
Your heartbeat’s hymn, a soothing rite,
Mending the fractures of yesteryear’s unrest.
Your lips’ touch is elixir for my soul’s desire,
Your chest’s equator, my pillow’s embrace.
My fingertips erase the realm of fire,
My lashes answer questions in your breath’s grace.
Night, a panamime, amplifies tranquillity’s reign,
I ascend through your breaths, a ladder’s art.
Like Jacob’s ascent, it's heaven’s domain,
A psychedelic pastiche for the dreaming heart.
In bared truth, my essence I lay bare,
A semicolon in the tapestry of time we weave.
Within the flicker of your eyes, I find my air,
Quenching the thirst of existence, in you, I believe.
You breathe life into silence’s profound plea,
Within the monopoly of dreams, I find my key.
***
Echoes of Childhood Fragrance
Sometimes, I find myself lost in a reverie, a wistful journey to bid farewell to my childhood, which met an untimely end. In this mental landscape, I envision my youthful self, my dark-brown ponytail cascading down my back, shimmering like polished mahogany. My eyes, once mirrors of that glossy shine, now bears a sombre weight, a hint of enigma cloaked in resignation yet infused with a spirit of defiance. Within In this dreamscape, an iridescent shadow blankets the tranquil ruins of my past. I wander, much like a beggar, timid and lost, seeking alms of my childhood. My countenance bears an eerie silence as I witness myself running, arms outstretched, yearning for one last fervent touch—the touch of those periwinkle-hued days. This touch carries with it a scent that is soft and delicate. earthy and all-encompassing.
Nostalgia seeps through the cracks of my heart, crafting a home within. In these moments, I need not rehearse my brightest smile; instead, an involuntary grin dances upon my lips. accompanied by pearls of tears. I feel the warm embrace of these emotions on my bare skin and within my soul. My memory intricately entwined with my olfactory senses.
Certain evenings, in particular, carry a profound aroma, a scent that resonates with “home”.
My sense of smell becomes swiftvessel, transporting me effortlessly to my childhood days. I recall the local stores that lined the narrow lanes of my hometown, nestled in a rustic embrace, their air carrying the fragrance of dust and time.
There’s the grocer who sold. among other things, imli chatni sealed in tiny, transparent packets—a piquant smell that still triggers my senses to this day. Fondly, we remember Munna Dada’s shop, the neighbourhood snack haven, with its tantalizing samosas and jalebis. Every time I passed by, I inhaled deeply, savouring the sweet and fried essence of his wares. Then, there’s Baiju Dada’s grocery shop, where orders were taken one at a time, meticulously noted on ruled paper with a pen refill tucked behind his ear. I still wonder why he never used an actual pen. Occasionally, his daughter, a graceful teenager, would appear behind the counter, conversing flawlessly in Maithili. The shop exuded the unmistakable aroma of jaggery, a scent still vivid in my mind as I pen these words.
The fragrance of the litchi tree in our backyard and the mango tree, Lengra Aam, the scent of unripe mangoes knocked down by an optimistic wind or an eager bird’s pecking. The aroma of our feet, soaked from puddle hunting for the treasure we called “Tikola.” (unripe mangoes). The fragrance of the earth during Kalbaishakhi storms and the peculiar scent of festive air that teased our senses. The heady aroma of Shiuli phool (parijaat flowers) as we gathered them during Durga Puja, the captivating scent of the guava tree that bore pink guavas, fascinating my four-year-old self. The lingering memory of fledgling birds in our garden, the gentle pull of the Koshi River on our heartstrings.
The smell of Babai’s paan and the comforting fragrance of Mamma’s embrace—her unique soothing scent. The smoky aroma of my grandmother’s saree as she prepared various sweets, from Labanga Latika to shor bhaja, on an earthen stove. Sometimes, she bore the fragrance of her favourite perfume mingled with a hint of light perspiration. Mostly, she smelled of pure love and warm hugs. She smelled of love-soaked evenings, as we crooned her favourite Rabindrasangeet.
Above all, I remember the quintessential smell of our home. Everything seems to have its distinctive scent. The smell that emanates from that old shindook (aluminium trunk) lying in solitude in our attic, a sanctuary for precious mementos. I must confess, even at the risk of sounding peculiar, that I adore the musty scent of all things old. It evokes memories of my most cherished dreams. The smell of the blue rubber-ball I used to play ‘Pithho’ with, the scent of those old books in our home library, which never fails to ignite a nostalgic spark within my chest. The fragrance of lazy childhood summer days spent immersed in my favourite storybooks. Some scents connect us deeply to those we once loved profoundly and continue to hold dear. I’ve felt an ineffable poignancy when I I realized that my grandmother was once young, doing all the things young people do. do.
Tonight, as I stand in my balcony, sipping my favourite Darjeeling tea, I can smell all these memories and more. I yearn for the deliberate pace of my tiny town, for I have come to understand that its unhurried nature bequeathed a magical tranquility. I long for it intensely, deeply, and hopelessly, as such thoughtful slowness becomes increasingly rare in our cities, where everything rushes on relentlessly. The older I become, the more I miss it. I inhale the fragrance of nostalgia. wistfulness, and melancholy. A reminder that everything is in a state of constant flux. Though tears blur my vision, I can see, smell, feel, and touch “those days” that are gone, yet not truly gone.
Tonight, the sky transforms into an ocean for thousands of stars, like tiny ships adrift on a vast expanse. The moon serves as their guiding lighthouse. Memories cascade gently through the crevices of my mind, like my mother’s soothing lullabies. In these moments, I forget the world with its burdens and woes, dreaming of an utopian realm where love reigns supreme, and hatred and hostility find no place. I forget the world’s harshness as I am cradled by the motherly night, a sea of fireflies illuminating my surroundings, making me feel safe and warm.
As I stroll down the promenade, of nostalgia, I draw in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the bygone air. Instead of lamenting the loss of what once was, I revel in the essence of the present moment, spraying a cologne of “all things good”. I explore the depths of my being, akin to a tourist exploring an unfamiliar city. It is fascinating how life mirrors an endless cycle of exploration and connection with ourselves and the people in our lives
At times, an ache and melancholy settle beneath my skin. In those moments, I flaunt my brightest smile, but when As weariness takes over, I instinctively seek the solace of solitude—my unbound space. For that is life, with all its flavours—sweet, sour, bitter, tangy, and delicious. Isn’t it?
Tonight, I am engulfed in a flood of thoughts as the sky shifts from blue to grey and cerulean, the colour palette oscillating between light and dark, ascending and hanging. It reminds me of the trapeze act I witnessed at a circus when I was seven.
The sky, the canvas that cradles drifting clouds mirrors the labyrinthine corridors of my mind, where memories playfully challenge me, threatening to unleash waves of tears and laughter, all at once. The poised night evokes the vibrancy of Durga Puja, which is just around the corner. A sudden chill in the air heralds the onset of nostalgia. I chase time, yearning to return to those periwinkle-hued days, the open fields where kaash flowers danced in the wind’s embrace.
The mornings were aromatic revelation, awakening to the scent of Shiuli (parijaat) flowers. One sight and scent remain etched in my mind’s chamber, like the shadows that never fade—the fragrance of incense sticks during my grandmother’s morning prayers, her saree was invariably white, bleached, and starched like the full moon against a clear blue sky.
Her silver hair meticulously plaited and coiled atop her head, appeared as intricate and tranquil as Claude Monet’s Water Lily —each wrinkle on her face an exquisite masterpiece. After all these years, her scent remains unaltered in the olfactory annals of my memory. Her aroma carries the essence of an earthen stove mixed with her perspiration and her favourite body mist, enveloping me in the percale of days gone by.
Pujo, Durga Puja, awakens memories of Kaku, my uncle, invoking Goddess Durga with “jago tumi jago, jago Durga”. The scent of Sharodotsav, as we inhaled the rich, inky, redolent aroma of a Dhuno-soaked morning lingers in my senses. All of these moments come rushing to the forefront of my mind, like reels in a bioscope, charging two rupees for a glimpse. Reels that remind me of how I still rush to the bookshelf when I visit home, where my mother keeps all the albums of my childhood—faded, yellowed photographs developed from negatives. The photographs depict a younger me cavorting with loved ones against a backdrop of more greenery than houses. In one, I perch atop a haystack, reminding me of the joyous days of childhood spent leaping and playing in our backyard haystacks.
My first school uniform, the red Tobu tricycle passed down from my sister, the lush green cloak of chaparral in our backyard, the tire swings on the mango tree, the frogs frolicking among the fronds during the rainy season—I sit on the floor, surrounded by these memories and more. I recall when happiness resided in the simple things. How different yet how beautiful they were. In moments of reflection upon my carefree and opulent childhood, there emerges a longing for a realm where idleness finds its place of honour—a sanctuary where I may contemplate the world outside the window for as long as my heart desires, liberated from the relentless march of time, the oppressive grip of deadlines, and the burdensome yoke of societal norms. It is in this sacred space that I seek refuge from the structured expectations of conformity, a haven where the shackles of fitting in are cast aside, and I am unreservedly at liberty to manifest my unadulterated, authentic self.
Lost in my thoughts, I realize how the September night envelops my room, like a toddler seeking comfort in her mother’s embrace after an exhilarating game of “catch me if you can”. The trail of traffic outside, spewing purple exhaust that threatens the lungs of a street urchin scavenging for scraps momentarily disrupts my reverie. Out of nowhere, the clouds burst into laughter, raindrops tip-tapping on my windowpane. My music app plays “Ai Giri Nandini”, and nostalgia torrents through my senses, harmonizing with the pitter-patter on my window.
I recall Kris Kristofferson’s words, “I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday”.
About Author: Mahua Sen is the author of the bestselling book, Nostalgia Crafting a Home Within (Red River). She is widely published in numerous anthologies and ezines. She is the recipient of the Reuel International Poetry Award and the Poesis award for Excellence in literature, 40 under 40 by Business Mint, to name a few. Her poetry and writings have featured in various anthologies, newspapers, and magazines. Mahua worked with Hindustan Times, Ge Money, and Standard Chartered, before joining Bull’s Eye Outsourcing as the Regional Director, Business Development.
Photos sourced from Mahua Sen
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