My daughter stomps away as I deny her a spritz for the farewell her class is hosting today for the twelfth graders. She looks gorgeous, a diva in my teal tissue saree and her halterneck blouse, a starkly contrasting silver, sourced from Myntra, as my own isn’t breathable for her. My white choker snug on her collar bones, as if designed for her neck. She doesn’t let me do her hair and leaves it open, calling it chic, tucked with two hairclips that don’t do their job well. My silver clutch matches her attire.
But this asset, I touch the bottle to my heart, belongs only to me. A hands-me-down by Maa, not the bottle but the knowledge—my teenager won’t grasp it. Not yet. Not until she’s in love and scared of trespassers.
Baba left Maa when I was young, not even nine; my birthday was seven days away. She was Baba’s colleague, a Sanskrit teacher, if I remember correctly. Maa never talked about her. These things though, these rumors that are sometimes facts have feet of their own; they find people they aren’t supposed to. Children, relatives, neighbors. Maa unwrapped a special gift on my wedding night and said, it anchors men to their homes. The only time she met Maa, she laughed that Maa never perfumed herself properly. And whispered a brand’s name.
I return the bottle to its rightful spot. This knowledge hasn’t failed me. It won’t deceive my daughter.
When it’s time, I’ll gift her the same one. I know she likes lilac.
Rashmi Agrawal lives in India and writes at sunlit spots in her house. She’s querying her debut thriller. When not writing, she practices yoga and takes offense when anyone calls audiobooks fake reading. Her words are available in Bending Genres, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Scrawl Place, and others. Socials: @thrivingwordss.
This stayed with me long after I finished reading. I loved how the perfume became a symbol of memory, longing, and generational inheritance rather than just an object. The emotional depth packed into such a short piece is remarkable. Beautifully written 👏
ReplyDeleteI loved the way this small thought and story starts with a bottle of perfume and ends with it. You have beautifully captured small details of what different generations adore as time passss by. This thought ends on such a sweet confidence and assurance that sooner, this twelth grader will be turn into mature being to see the bottle of perfume more than just an essence. Wonderfully written.
ReplyDeleteSo much to love here but this small line 'She doesn’t let me do her hair and leaves it open, calling it chic, tucked with two hairclips that don’t do their job well.' can't be missed.
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