SCENT OF THE WORLD

 SCENT OF THE WORLD

 

Mike woke up to the fragrance of the fresh morning air wafting through his open bedroom window. He took a deep breath, letting the pristine air fill his lungs. The aroma of the potted plants and flowers on his balcony filled his nostrils, evoking a sweet feeling. The world around him was hazy: a blur of shadows and light, but his nose was his weapon, his guiding star, sharper than ever.

 

Stretching on his bed, he could decipher the scent of birds chirping outside, each with its unique smell, some earthy, some smutty. Moving into the bathroom, he was greeted by the usual smells: soapy water, toothpaste, shampoo, and the damp smell of the towel hanging there. As he worked up a rich lather, the menthol smell of the shaving cream tingled his nostrils, followed by the sharp sting of his aftershave. He looked forward to this elaborate ritual, feeling the excellent lotion soothe his skin and close his pores, followed by dabs of cologne, the spicy, woody fragrance transporting him back to his adolescent days.

 

In the kitchen, the rich aroma of the freshly brewed coffee gave him an adrenaline rush. He inhaled more deeply, feeling more awake with each sip as he washed the coffee. The sizzling of French toast filled his kitchen, its delectable scent mingling with the buttery smell of melted butter on warm toast. His stomach did a cartwheel in anticipation as he sat down for breakfast, feeling the Times newspaper beside him. He ran his fingers over the Times, its faint ink smell complimenting his morning breakfast.

 

The sound of the giant radio blaring in the background, broadcasting the morning news, but to Mike, the smell of the small Sony pocket transistor was on his mind. This dull metallic smell took him back to his army days, where radio was the only contact with the outside world. He finished his coffee, the bitter solid smell lingering in his mouth as he rinsed his mug in the kitchen sink.

 

As he stepped down the stairs, the smell from the garbage dump beneath his apartment building hit him, sharp and intense. Mike’s nose recoiled in disgust, but he pushed it aside and quickly moved on. Outside the city, they welcomed him with varied smells, each trying to outdo the other. The exhaust from the passing cars mingled with the fragrance of freshly made sweetmeat from a nearby sweet shop. He walked past people on the pavement, their scents telling their stories: perfumes, sweat, detergent, fast food.

 

When he reached his car, the engine’s gasoline smell gave him a strong indicator. His driver, Lawrence, was waiting, the familiar odour of nicotine announcing his presence before he even spoke. Mike slid into the comfortable backseat, the scent of leather greeting him. The ride to his office was a blend of city smells caught through the open car window: smoke, asphalt, and the faint aroma of greenery whenever they passed through the city’s well-planned roads with trees on either side.

 

The office building had its unique smell: an amalgamation of floor phenyl, paper, and a hint of disinfectant and repellants. The elevator was a mix of people: men’s cologne and women’s perfume. As he walked into his workspace, the scent of computers and printers working overtime, their faint whirling sound accompanying the smell of warm plastic and ink.

 

The office cafeteria smelled of coffee and tea from a distance before he even entered it. The scent of different lunches, thalis, salads, sandwiches, snacks, juices, and soups hung in the air- each employee taking their pick. Mike knew about his lunch because of the smell of tomato sauce and the grilled sandwich drifting from the kitchen.

 

As the day slowly rolled on, he retraced his steps back to his car. The city now, in the evening, smelt of coolness. Lawrence’s nicotine-smelling presence was like a warm reassurance. The car ride home was filled with the smells of rush hour traffic, a mixture of gasoline, frustration, sweat, and fatigue.

 

Back in his apartment, the smell of a large mug of frothy drink—Godfather's strong beer—relaxed him. Dinner was simple: the smell of roasted chicken and warm rotis, a heady end to the day. As he slipped on his Jockey boxers and comfortable vests, the smell of fresh linen and bedsheets welcomed him to bed. The soft scent of the table lamp, a faint warmth, accompanied him as he turned it off, his world fading into the comforting embrace of the darkness of the night.

 

Each scent he encountered was like a thread in the tapestry of his day, a guide that led him through the day, painting a vivid picture in his mind more crystal than his eyes ever could.