Ananyamously.yours

    This post is two days late because nostalgia is a hard high to get out of.     Do you know what June smells like to me?   It smells like the brown cover on books soaked with Camlin glue. It smells like fresh ink on new labels which soon gets smudged. It smells like the dalcha steaming on the stove in my grandmother's house and like the hot piping poori we’re frying together. It smells sickly sweet, like the aroma of overripe mangoes left overnight on the table. It smells like the burnt wick of the candle I blew out in the evening once the power came back in our house. It smells like petrichor from the scattered summer rains that shook the mango tree in our yard. It smells like sweat, anticipation, and the sweet taste of victory while hiding behind doors during hide and seek.   It smells like shoe polish gleaming on leather shoes, aligned straight near the front door ready for the first day of school. It smells like the steam rising from a freshly i...

  The city is under a cloud bank and there’s a breeze that reminds me of a bike ride 5 years ago where a friend and I were racing against time to make it on time for a movie. It looks like the skies will pour at any moment and it takes me back to a dimly lit classroom where my professor stood at the helm and spoke of the Mughal warriors that ruled the lands. She walked from one end of the classroom to another, her saree swishing back and forth but her tone, her voice, and her words held all my attention. She weaved triumph, loss, conniving cruelty, war, and glory around us like a spell that could only be broken if she wished it to be. The breeze holds the fragrance of the earth, the rain falls in rivulets outside, and the soft light that streams in through the floor to ceiling windows takes me back to school. This was the same breeze that playfully ruffled our skirts and chased goosebumps down our arms. It was under this weather that we sat in the field for lunch, near a grotto a...