As a child, I looked forward to visiting my maternal grandmother’s (Nani’s) house with great excitement. A stay at Nani’s house meant a few days away from the usual routine and, more importantly, uninterrupted time with my cousins.
At Nani’s house, we had our own little routine: visiting the nearby church, going to the library, finding books that caught our fancy, and cleverly hiding them somewhere so we could come back the next day and read.
And then there was the Ramakrishna Math, right in the lane next to my grandmother’s house.
We would wander into its beautiful garden without any particular agenda. There was a little artificial pond with a small bridge across it. We would stand on the bridge, peering into the water, watching the tiny fish move around. Somewhere, in the garden, stood a large Champa tree.
About three decades ago, when malls, bowling alleys, gaming zones, and pool tables were not part of our vocabulary, this was what cousin time looked like.
You may wonder — what was so exciting about all of this?
Nothing, really.
And perhaps, that was the excitement.
It was about spending time together, with no adult supervision, no fixed plans, and simply doing nothing.
Yesterday, completely unexpectedly, I took a short trip down that memory lane.
I was walking through the landscaped garden in my society when a fragrance stopped me in my tracks. It was familiar, yet so distant, I couldn’t immediately place it.
I paused and looked around.
There it was — a white frangipani, or Champa, with smooth, delicate white petals and a deep yellow centre.
And suddenly, it all came rushing back.
The large Champa tree at the Math. The flowers scattered across the lawn underneath it. And our little competition to see who could collect the most fallen flowers.
We carefully picked them up, counted them, and proudly declared a winner.
It was such a small thing. Yet, decades later, one fallen Champa flower in another garden brought that entire childhood back in a flash.
The place was different. The people were not around. The years had passed.
But the fragrance remembered.
It reminded me of something I often forget as an adult — that some of our most precious memories are not created during extraordinary moments. Memories are created in ordinary places, while doing ordinary things, with people who make those moments special.
And sometimes, all it takes to revisit them is one familiar fragrance.
