My daughter says she can smell Bengaluru in India. ‘What was that about?’ I asked her. You know that smell which comes when we enter Fasi’s home in Akme Harmony Apartments — the heady blend of pine like evergreen trees, Plumeria flowers and white sauce chicken pasta.
Oh Yes! She was absolutely right. I can instantly smell mom’s roses that bloom in her Bengaluru balcony whenever she sends me pictures. Right here in Abu Dhabi.
A study states that your brain stores special odours related to people, places and incidents in certain cells that are associated with long term memories.
When can I see my mom again? When can I hug her next? My mom says I hug like a bear. It’s so tight that she becomes breathless and I love to hear her protest while kissing my brow. She smells like faded wild flowers. It’s the best feeling in the whole world when I cuddle beside her in her bed
The smell centre of the brain is called the olfactory cortex and is connected with two other areas of the brain: the limbic system and the amygdala. The limbic system evokes the sense of déjà vu and induces the emotions that flow in with the memory of a scent. Is it possible vice versa?
So much for the warm fuzzy feelings that cloud your brain and make your heart feel good when some smells come whiffing past you. Some familiar smells can transport us back to that time in your memory. This summer, the memories are smelling achingly stronger.
Holidays a happy memory now
July-August is supposed to be vacation time for most families in the UAE. It’s that time of the year, where you get to meet your mom and eat all the delicacies prepared by her.
Holidays have a peculiar fragrance. The luggage trolleys that open to the leathery fragrance of its insides, Head and Shoulders shampoo and Desert Cactus scented shower gels.
When can I see my mom again? When can I hug her next? My mom says I hug like a bear. It’s so tight that she becomes breathless and I love to hear her protest while kissing my brow. She smells like faded wild flowers. It’s the best feeling in the whole world when I cuddle beside her in her bed.
All my happiest memories are associated with her. She is my ‘Expecto Patronum’ charm in a world filled with ‘Dementors’. Our shopping trips are more enjoyable together.
My cooking pales in comparison to her simple fried eggs, pappads in coconut oil and white rice with a generous serving of a curd curry. Kitchen smells heavenly when she takes over the ladle and the stove pot.
These smells are flying me off on a vacation, which I will never have this year, all thanks to the Coronavirus. How I wish I was there right now to enjoy the fragrance of jasmine flower seller’s shanty that I frequented, see the granny who sold tender coconut water next to our back gate, eat the street side Momos in front of Gmart supermarket and shop at the Central mall.
All I can do for now is take a walk down the memory lane of last year’s vacation with the intertwined fragrances. I should call my vegetable shop and ask them to deliver a strand of jasmine flowers today while tucking into some Malai Pedas that have an uncanny similarity to the one’s sold in the Kanti sweet shop on Sarjapur road.
Nuances of nostalgia
I remember feeling tricked after eating a certain brand’s fried chicken after coming back to the UAE after my post-graduation. It just didn’t taste the same without my mom, dad and sisters around.
Even my favourite fried chicken couldn’t take out the sting from the strong bout of homesickness I felt then. I blame it on my brain that my favourite food wouldn’t match my favourite memory of eating jubilant meals after exam results of my childhood.
A long time ago, in our ancestral home, my grandma, Mariam had a cupboard. It was stocked up with savouries made from jackfruit and plantains.
She made them in large batches well before the monsoons and stored it in huge glass jars in anticipation of grubby little hungry babies that roamed about her home and heart in those rainy holiday months. This year my mom waits with bated breath for her grubby grandkids in Bengaluru.
The jog through these memory lanes is beginning to smell a lot like missed vacations and tight hugs from mom.
— Feby Imthias is a freelance writer based in Abu Dhabi. Twitter: @Feby_Imthias
