Taking Time to Smell the Roses

One of my professors was droning on about a quotation from an essay by Gustave Flaubert, where he explained how a smell can trigger powerful memories. It went something like this:

A memory is a beautiful thing, it's almost a desire that you miss."

The rest of the class looked around confused. But for once I knew the answer to the question.
My mother is the only daughter in her family. She has four brothers who raised her after my grandfather died when Mum was just a child. This was Mum's first trip back after emigrating. The family had pined for her for ten years. Even phone calls had been scant. This was eons before Skype or phonecards would make the world smaller and the time apart more bearable.

However, neither my brother nor I were too excited about the trip. We had never met our relatives and heard horror stories about the bathrooms and the abundance of lizards and mosquitos. We felt little connection to the country. We were children. We were concerned about missing our friends, our books and three entire episodes of  Dr Who.  One of our biggest worries was  how our cousins would react to us.

Our fears were unfounded.

When we reached Hyderabad airport, I saw a crowd of about sixty people watching from a waiting area above that had large picture windows. I thought there must be a Hindi movie star flying in. Then the entire crowd started waving They must have received some collective signal of recognition. I looked behind us in case there were famous people descending the plane . Then my mother told me they were waving at us. All those people were my relatives and they had come to greet us.

They placed garlands of flowers on us-so thick and heavy that we had to sit down on one of the plastic yellow airport chairs that were attached to each other in rows. One of my aunts put bracelets made of jasmine on my wrists and thrust a curious bouquet in my hand- a sort of lollipop with a huge white rose attached to it. It emanated a fragrance straight from Paradise.

My brother went straight up to a rather distinguished looking gentleman and said confidently:
"I know who you are" You are Bare Baba. He was startled and asked how he was so certain. My brother replied:
"My Dad told me you would be wearing a white sherwani and that your English would be perfect.

Bare Baba did not know how to react. He was the archetypal uneffusive Nawab Uncle, a cigar in his breast pocket, refined but generous to a fault. I think these were brand new emotions for him. He looked at my brother intently. Maybe he was desperately looking for some resemblance to his own brother. Finally, he laughed out loud and took his nephew by the hand, saying, "The photos your mother sent didn't do you justice. You are exactly like me"

The 1970s were simple times. But in Hyderabad we were treated like royalty. Our relatives lavished countless gifts on us, took us on a sight-seeing tour every day, regardless. I just hope they didn't go bankrupt during this trip. Being the children of struggling immigrants, we were not accustomed to eating out regularly or such frequent shopping excursions. Aunty Farhath or Azeema woud stand us in front of Osman Jewelers or Dyal's Textiles and say; "JO hona, bowlow" ( You can have whatever you want) Being only 10 years old, I was uncertain how to react to such an outpouring of affection. Today I would probably demand diamonds.

We hardly even walked anywhere. My older cousins and uncles used to carry us on their backs as though we were toddlers. I was even gave a piggy back ride up to the top of Golconda Fort one afternoon. On another day Khalid Mamu convinced the curator at Falaknuma Palace to let us actually SIT in the thrones instead of gawking at them.  One evening when we were just lounging around lazily,  Zehra Chachi opened up a back room where she had arranged an  entire gurya ki shadi or a wedding of dolls with a complete entourage and banquet.

Needless to say, it was an unforgettable month.

When the plane finally landed at Heathrow, one lone tear trickled unpatriotically down my cheek. Back to rainy, colorless London again.

Digital cameras are convenient and immediate but in those medieval times, you would send your roll of film to Kodak and they would arrive in the mail two to three weeks later. That gave you a decent amount of time to reminisce about your vacation and feel a longing to re-live it briefly. I was the only one home when the long- awaited yellow package arrived from "Kodachrome Limited, Swindon X." Four pictures of the Queen smiled back at me on the 8 pence stamps as if to say "Welcome home! It rains quite a lot here but the plumbing is splendid!"

I tore the envelope open, saw the faces of people I had been dreaming about since we returned -and finally succumbed to a fifteen minute cry-fest.

Decades later, whenever I smell a rose (ironically the most English of symbols!), I am transported back to that day at Mahatma Gandhi Airport, those garlands, the anxious faces of my aunts,uncles and cousins, straining their necks to see a glimpse of us.