பூ வாசம் புறப்படும்.. When Time Returns as Fragrance!
எல்லா நினைவுகளுக்கும் வார்த்தை கிடையாது.. சிலவற்றை உணர முடியும், சிலவற்றை நுகர முடியும்.. அது எப்படி என்று கேட்கிறீர்களா..
நம்முடைய வ துர்காதேவி எழுதியுள்ள இந்த மினி நினைவுக் காவியத்தைப் படிச்சுப் பாருங்க.. சும்மா படிக்காதீங்க.. சூடான ஒரு காபியுடன், அமைதியான இடத்தில் அமர்ந்து... கண்ணை மூடிப் படிச்சுப் பாருங்க.. அத்தனை சுகமாக இருக்கும்.. இந்த நறுமணம் கமழும் நினைவுப் பொக்கிஷம்.. அத்தனை வாசமாக இருக்கும்!
வாங்க படிக்கலாம்...!
Not all memories return as words.
Some come as fragrance—
unseen,
unannounced,
yet certain enough
to undo the present.
They do not belong to time.
They belong to the heart—
and the heart does not forget.
The first is always my father.
Not his voice,
not his face—
but that gentle sacred powder
resting in temples,
settling softly on folded hands.
It was beside him
I first breathed it in.
So even now,
when that fragrance touches me,
I do not stand where I am—
I stand beside him again,
small, silent, complete.
Then comes vibudhi—
warm with the faint curl of sambrani—
and with it, my maternal uncle.
He did not follow my father,
nor stand behind him—
he stood beside him,
equal in affection,
equal in quiet strength.
Even today,
when sacred ash rests in my palm,
it carries both of them—
not as memory,
but as presence.
And then—
almost unwillingly—
comes sampangi.
The first time I knew that fragrance
was in a house where voices had fallen silent,
where time had slowed
out of respect for loss.
Since then,
its sweetness has never come alone.
It carries stillness with it—
and something within me
falls quiet when it arrives.
A softer breath follows—
baby powder in hospital air,
the first tiny life I went to see
while I was still a child.
That innocence
has remained untouched within me.
Then my father again—
in the smoke of burning dry leaves,
rising slowly from the garden
he cared for like a living companion.
That smell—earth and fire together—
still feels like his way
of being present without speaking.
And then, unexpectedly—
glue.
But in that simple scent
lives an entire evening:
my father sitting beside us,
wrapping our notebooks,
his fingers steady, unhurried,
while we watched,
as though something sacred
was being created before us.
Even now,
that faint smell holds
a fullness I cannot name.
There was sweetness too—
vanilla ice cream
from a small shop,
with no choices offered.
And yet,
we never felt the absence of anything.
Because happiness then
was not in variety—
but in sharing.
My grandmother’s kitchen returns
not as a place,
but as warmth—
charcoal fire glowing,
jackfruit frying slowly,
time stretching itself
to match her rhythm.
Milk boiling in wide vessels
in the careful hands
of my aunt—
my father’s elder sister.
Butter turning into ghee,
aroma filling the house
as though abundance itself
had taken form.
Even now,
that fragrance brings back
a life untouched by urgency.
Then the hills—
a long journey to Tirupati,
a bus filled with voices
that did not know distance.
And somewhere in that journey,
the quiet grace
of Magizham Poo.
A fragrance so gentle,
it did not demand attention—
it simply stayed.
Even today,
when it finds me in temple air,
I do not search for it—
I recognise it,
like an old truth.
There are memories
that arrive without warning—
a passing fragrance in a lift,
unnoticed at first,
understood later.
Even now,
it holds the beginning
of something that has continued
beyond that moment.
My husband—
in the freshness after a bath,
soft, unassuming,
like a morning that does not try
to impress the day.
And then jasmine—
Not as a habit,
not as a ritual—
but as a moment.
The day after my child was born,
he came with hands full of it.
He had never done it before,
nor after—
and perhaps that is why
it stayed.
Some gestures are not repeated—
because once
is enough
to make them eternal.
The kitchen returns again—
drumstick sambar,
my perima’s unmatched hand,
a taste that refuses comparison.
Appalam rising in hot oil—
and chitti, Pushpa,
always near the fire,
her presence woven into
the smallest of routines.
Then came a time
when even fragrance abandoned me—
when I searched for it
in spice boxes,
opening them slowly,
as though life itself
had to be confirmed.
Kesari rises in celebration—
with pachai karpuram,
a sweetness that carries
my uncle back into the room.
And then—
my amma.
In the warm, living scent
of fresh turmeric,
ground by her own hands.
That was never just fragrance—
it was her presence,
filling the house
before she entered a room.
Now she is still with me—
yet that scent is not.
I miss
that fresh turmeric fragrance.
My akka—
still the same—
flowers woven into her hair
so richly
that even an empty room
holds her trace.
Old temples rise within me—
not in stone,
but in scent—
a divine stillness
that time has not been able to erase.
Homes once filled with voices—
sambrani drifting through gatherings,
binding fifty lives
into one breath.
The scent of silk dye—
colour, labour, belonging—
not just an occupation,
but an inheritance
that lives even in the air we breathe.
Mango pickle under the sun—
sharp, patient—
a neighbour’s quiet mastery
preserved in memory.
Biryani rising at home—
from my son and Lakshmi—
a fragrance that carries
both past and present together.
And then—
the first scent of my child—
pure, untouched,
a moment the world
can never explain,
only feel.
Mustard crackling in oil—
a neighbour’s kuzhambu,
echoing through decades.
Nail polish—
a small, secret joy,
shared with Vimala akka,
still lingering somewhere
between laughter and time.
And finally—
the sacred fire.
Omam rising—
First, in my mother’s home,
when I was just a child,
watching from the edges
as prayers filled the air.
And then,
after more than thirty years,
I sat beside my husband,
within that same circle of fire,
not watching—
but belonging.
The fragrance had not changed.
Only I had.
---
These are not memories
I choose to hold.
They arrive—
as fragrance,
as presence,
as quiet returns.
it is these fragrances
that remember me.
(வ துர்காதேவி, பட்டதாரி ஆசிரியர், அரசு உயர்நிலை பள்ளி-நெசல், திருவண்ணாமலை)