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The smells that lacquered 'HOME'.

Turning smelly air into smiley takes a lot of time and effort. But my mother and my grandmother were harbingers of tidying our home and enravelling mystical aroma into the air. I strongly associate some fond memories of my grandmother when I think about the different smells that unfurl at home.

Every morning when I used to wake up by 9:00 AM as a kid, the first person I used to almost see was my grandma. She would be cutting vegetables for my mum to cook. The aroma of turmeric from her golden yellow skin used to waft in the air. When she calls me for bath and to apply turmeric on me, I used to runaway fearing the rabid yellow stains that my face will suffer. But I secretly steal a pinch of the yellow powder just to smell the pungent smell of it. 

My grandfather was a voracious reader. When the clock strikes 6, he used to eagerly look forward to the arrival of the paper boy with his favourite 'The Hindu' news journal. When he reads the newspaper, I used to sit on his lap and stare at the pictures with wondorous eyes. The smell of fresh sheets of paper being turned continuously was one thing that I could recall memories of him at home. 

My father used to pluck flowers from our tiny garden at home and I used to accompany him. I fondly recall many days of me walking on the wet mud and smelling its unique combination of smells in one. Till now, the smell of wet mud is my personal favourite.

My mother and me (seated on the maavu kolam)

My childhood memories of home doesn't end here. Watching my mother draw gigantic designs on the front of our house using wet rice powder during festival mornings was my favourite hobby. The designs which we call 'maavu kolam' brings on even more fonder memories of me secretly doodling with the rest of the flour on the floor of my room. I secretly used to smell the flour and even try licking some which got dried on my finger.

Now, the smell of my home has slightly been altered without my grandpa and grandma but most of my memories associated with smell reflect the way of their life and the traditions that they used to strictly adhere. 

This post is in association with Ambi Pur India and Indiblogger.

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FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















What writing means to me...

As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv.

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