An Inward Reflection: The Fragrance of Remembrance

“How do you remember people ?”

When she asked this, I couldn’t read the colors of emotion painted across her face, which looked like a cinematic portrait. I couldn't trace the underlying frequency of her mind from which this question emerged. At that moment, I found myself unable to grasp both the intent and the deep soul of her words.

Not all questions seek an answer. I sensed that her question wasn't looking for a factual response; perhaps it was searching for a different meaning within me. It didn't arrive on wings of confusion, yet I found myself hovering in a state of hesitation. No matter how I replied, my conscience would not be satisfied. Every answer felt confined, limited. Her question had tripped the steady, monotonous pace of my mind. I was startled.

I was unaware of what reaction she expected. My own heart began to claw at me: “Truly, how do I remember people ?”

Those who forget do so easily, I wonder what kind of hearts those ‘merciless’ ones possess. But those who remember must weigh things heavily. Memories do not come with a leash. To remember is to keep a piece of someone else safe within yourself. It is to keep them alive. To remember is to be alive.

People remember for many reasons. They remember through the sweet and bitter events or accidents they shared. Some memories are like still riverbanks; some are like crashing waves. Perhaps we remember people by their deeds, or by the impact they left upon us. Her question wasn't just a question; it was an exam in which I was destined to fail. It was a knock on the door, reminding me of the helplessness of living bound to a social existence.

I remained silent. Perhaps my silence became the answer she sought.

“Do you know how I remember people ?” she asked, stacking another question upon the growing silence.

I felt like a butterfly tangled in a spider’s web. Looking into her transparent eyes, I began to drift toward the shores of guesswork. I sensed her answer would be heavier than the question itself. She was like that—heavy. Or perhaps not heavy, but full. It felt as though her traumas were slowly numbing the sensitivities within her.

Those who are emptying out from the inside often appear the fullest from the outside.

“I remember people by their scent,” she said. As she spoke, a glow washed over her face, expressing many things at once. Even if her emotions were fading, her senses were still very much alive.

I had read long ago that the sense of smell is the first to awaken after birth. Perhaps that is why a newborn recognizes its mother so easily.

My nostrils twitched. In my mind, the smell of damp earth, the fragrance of fallen Parijat, and the scent of death burning on a pyre all swirled together. To have a scent, one must fall, one must get soaked, or one must burn. The smell of sweat while sitting on my father's shoulders and the scent of milk while lying in my mother's lap had flowed into my veins along with my blood. I realized then that scent doesn't just travel through the air; it flows like a liquid.

Does a person have a scent? What kind of shroud does a human fragrance wear? Seeing the question on my face, words poured from her: “Have you ever noticed ? Every person's scent is different.”

I had never scrutinized people that way—those who walk around layered in perfumes. From her, I learned that a person’s scent isn't just smelled; it is felt.

“People's faces and fates might match, but their scents never do.” Her face remained a flat mask.

It is said that scent plays a massive role in triggering memory. As we age, our sense of smell weakens, and the memories held by the brain gradually fade into oblivion. Perhaps memory is scent. I believe we don't go into death empty-handed. We carry the scents we gathered throughout our lives with us.

The brain guards memories. The heart handles emotions. But I did not know which gland stored these scents.

“I like your scent,” she said. I searched my mind. I looked deep into my heart. Perhaps the mind and heart are the storehouses for these human fragrances. I didn't know if my body gave off a fragrance or a stench. I was like a musk deer, unable to recognize my own scent.

“And your scent ?” I asked. My question swept the dark clouds across her face. Before those clouds could burst, she countered with a question: “Do you know the smell that comes when you open a room in an abandoned house that has been shut for years ?”

The smell stirred in my nostrils. The smell of dampness. The smell of something rotting. Was she decaying inside ?

Perhaps it was the scent of loneliness and melancholy. The scent of a wound that had left an indelible scar. I didn't know who she was before we met. I never tried to know her past. To me, she was like a cloud in the sky, changing shape and direction every moment. She was ill. Something was growing inside her. It felt as if I wasn't loving a sick person, but the sickness itself—a sickness that was slowly igniting within me too.

I couldn't tell: was she living, or just acting out the role of being alive ?

To me, birds soaring in the sky never seem truly free. Rather, the feathers that break away and float in the air seem free. Leaves hanging from a branch never seem truly alive; it is the leaves that detach and touch the earth that seem to truly live. Sometimes, to be alive, one must fall. Perhaps she, too, was falling from something—or someone. That was why she looked so alive.

Sometimes it felt like I was the one who made her sick. The disease wasn't in her; it was in me. She was wearing away because of me. Perhaps I had become Suyogbir and she… Sakambari. It was my touch that made her fall from her orbit. The poison within me made her weak.

We drifted apart silently, the way dreams leave us upon waking. When she left, she handed me a letter that simply said: “It was perhaps just a coincidence that we, walking different paths toward our own destinations, grew tired at the same time and sat under the same tree to rest. My tiredness vanished sooner than yours, so I have moved on. Perhaps you traveled a much longer way; you are still tired. Please, rest.”

Perhaps she was in a hurry to get somewhere. Or perhaps my scent had made her weary. Maybe she had stopped liking my scent altogether. There was a fragrance in that letter—one my nose couldn't catch, but my brain still can. Perhaps it wasn't her scent, but the scent of our parting. Like people, every event must have its own smell. I don't know what part of the world she is breathing in now, but I can say she is resting under some other tree. The sickness within her is dead. Perhaps she has forgotten my scent.

Or perhaps she is burning somewhere, and I am here, smoldering like smoke.

The past isn't just made of companionship and separation. It isn't just woven with scars and marks. It isn't just the aching of memories. The past is not just a trauma; it is also a balm. To be someone's past is a beautiful thing. I have become her past. At least I have the good fortune of being a part of her history.

Perhaps, like people, the day and night have scents. Every hour of time, every tear, and every smile has a scent. Every emotion and every relationship has a fragrance. Everything does. The atmosphere is filled more with scent than with air. Today, when I suddenly opened the long-closed door of the past, a stale smell emerged, bringing her back into my mind as a memory. Had I forgotten her ? Today, I remembered her because of a scent. Have I also started remembering people by their fragrance ? Did she pass her scent onto me before she left ? Perhaps this scent clinging to my body isn't hers, but mine. The scent of my past. The scent of my trauma.

It could be that she didn't leave her scent behind, but rather helped me discover my own essence before departing.

I realized: just as the sky must pour rain for the earth to reveal its fragrance, someone else must be present for us to truly realize our own existence.

Ritesh Grg is a writer based in Nepal. He writes essays, fiction, and screenplays. His work often explores memory, culture, and personal experiences. He has written for newspapers, online platforms, as well as for film and theatre.