Smells and Memories
There is a peculiar magic in smells — an alchemy that turns the intangible into a wellspring of memories, more vivid and enduring than any photograph or a journal entry. Growing up in Kolkata, my life was full of colourful smells – each one seamlessly woven in a chapter or two of my childhood. Even today, a fleeting whiff can hurl me back into a specific moment, where every lane, market, and season carried its own distinct aroma. Scents of my childhood, scents of my youth… scents of my day-to-day struggle.
Bhawanipur, for instance…..
In the 1980s, the city was being reshaped, and the first underground metro rail system was a marvel in progress. My school days were punctuated by the tang of earth being turned inside out—a mixture of mud, rusting metal, and the acrid smell of tar being laid. The excavation pits near Bhawanipur exuded a damp, musky scent that clung to my senses like my city’s humid air. It was a fragrance of creation, of transformation. Whenever I pass a construction site today, I’m swept back to those dusty or damp late afternoons, where progress had a smell of its own and from where – me and my sister could save a slice of it in our hearts along with the then popular smell of fish-fries at the Purna Cinema More – or
Ghari-More if anyone of you remembers.
Hazra More, with its eternal bustle, offered an entirely different olfactory feast. The Marwari chanachur seller next to the Radha-Krishna Temple, the omnipresent fire in their oven overflowing with fried besan chunks of unknown geometric shapes and peanuts and curry-pattas, coated the air with a pleasant, spicy scent. That distinct, hot fragrance carried promises of delight wrapped in old newspapers or in Thongas that also housed boiled-green-chilies coated with secret Marwari massalas. Even now, when I pass any mandir during the Evening Aarti, it’s as if I’m standing on that bustling bus-stop once again, jostled by the city’s unrelenting energy and drag the never-forgettable mix of chanachur massala smell in my lungs.
Christmas came early in Kolkata — or so it seemed whenever me and my sister entered New Market along with my Aunt and Ma. The smell of freshly baked cakes wafted through the old Hogg Market- they called ‘New market’, whether it was December or May. It wasn’t just any cake; it was that uniquely Kolkata blend of soft fruit cake, caramelized sugar, along with a major dose of butter in the air. Walking through the lanes of New Market was like entering an eternal winter celebration, and even today, the scent of a Christmas cake is enough to bring in the collage of elderly shopkeepers in brightly lit stores with welcoming glint in their eyes.
Cinemas, too, had their stories to tell. New Empire, Globe, and Lighthouse — these were not merely theaters but shrines of collective joy. The unmistakable aroma of freshly popped popcorn, tinged with melted butter, would hit you even before the ticket checker tore your stub. Sitting in those red upholstered seats, the buttery scent became part of the experience, inseparable from the flickering silver screen…. A smell that wouldn’t allow us to seat with an additional excitement of a meat-roll that our father would bring in during the interval, for which he would off-course miss a considerable part of the film – but that was his way of saying ‘I love you’ to his kids and his family.
And how could I forget the kebabs of Mullick Bazaar? The smoky aroma of sizzling meat mixed with the sharp tang of onions and chilies was both intoxicating and grounding. Even as a child, and then later as a college-goer, I recognized this smell as an emblem of the city’s culture-blend — a heady Mughlai and Bengali massala-mix that satisfied taste buds of almost any and every non vegetarian homo sapience.
Rashbehari Avenue was fragrant in a gentler, more poetic way. The rajanigandha flowers sold in roadside stalls exuded a sweet, melancholic aroma that seemed to seep into the very fabric of the place. I still remember my aunt carrying dozens of those flowers on a birthday in the family and on days when she remembered her parents and grandparents who left years ago. The Rajanigandha scent stayed with me and often in Delhi, I find it mingling with the smoggy air of a specific November morning, a day – when they say I was born eons ago. But, then again, I know it’s just my memory playing trick with me, as that typical flower is scarce in the dryland of the national capital region and above all, no one knows that I still am carrying that smell in my heart today.
Golpark, in contrast, was anything but subtle. The aroma of egg rolls, and at times meatballs being fried in hot oil was unapologetically bold.
Egg, paratha, and spicy sauces combined in a medley that made resisting temptation impossible. The scent alone was enough to make one salivate. No trip to Golpark felt complete without succumbing to its allure. And then a stroll through the heady smell of old books; a roll-of-heaven in your hand – with melting pieces of chicken in your mouth.
And then, there was Burra Bazar—the city’s mercantile heart. I remember visiting this place for some reason with my father when I was seven or eight – may be to buy firecrackers. But somehow I remember the chaos the thick voices of porters and smell of human sweat in the crowded alleys. But, above all I remember the aroma of tea – cooked in thick milk emerged like a thread of continuity through each and every corner of the place. And believe me, till today I have saved that joyful smell in my heart as a warm, rich, and reassuring smell. A moment of solace and delight in the cacophony.
Two fragrances stood apart in my memory: the “warm Pujo smell” of Anandamela Pujabarshiki in my hands and the smell of intoxicating “chhatim flowers” during the Pujo. Chhatim tree with its tiny star-like flowers, released a fragrance so heady and heavenly that it seemed to echo the chants and conch sounds of the season. It was a smell that marked the passage of time, from monsoon’s end to autumn’s arrival. Similarly, flipping through the pages of Anandamela — its freshly printed ink mingling with faint, almost cinnamon-like warmth — felt like holding the scent of Pujo itself in my hands. But this one’s just a memory now.
Smells are our most primal sense, bypassing logic to reach the core of who we are. For me, the smells of Kolkata are not mere recollections; they are living, breathing parts of my identity. They carry the city’s spirit — its chaos, its charm, its resilience…… my sweat, my passion, my resilience.
Aaahhh…. I am not done yet, I wish to add a little more…
my den, my home – Maddox Square Park, smelled of heavenly Naag-Keshar flowers at its south-eastern side throughout the year. And during the lazy March and the easy summers the north-western side of the park smelled of Bokul.
I remember, the Bokul tree was never leafless, and the Bokul flower’s faint, woody fragrance was almost imperceptible at first, but once noticed, it lingered, as delicate as the dappled sunlight on the grass. Bokul, to me, symbolises the quiet joy of discovering beauty in small, overlooked moments.
You never know – a five year old me with my three-and-half-year-old sister might still be collecting the fallen ones beneath the tree in our small flower-bags at the north-western corner of the ‘park’. A park that was almost our household lawn. And…. may be,
when we’ll be back home today evening, me and my sister, like always will keep them on a China plate and sprinkle a little water for a little more fragrance.
Yes, smells hold memories. Much more than we think. And in the quiet moments when a familiar fragrance resurfaces, it feels like my city from my childhood is whispering to me, reminding me of home.
Victor Ghoshe
21st Nov, ’24
