The Smell

"Do you smell that?"; the woman crinkled her nose and drew a sharp breath. 

I didn't. But I knew it came from the attic. I knew it could smell like anything. Someone had told me he smelled a combination of cardamom and mosquito repellent. For someone else, it smelt of old books and naphthalene balls. To another, it smelt like summer rains and coming home, whatever that meant. I couldn't say what it was to this one. But it was all the same to me. 

"Has the rain stopped?" She rose from the settee and glided across the room to one of the windows and peeped out. She was pretty, this one. And rich. I could tell from her outfit and her branded purse. None of that mattered of course. 

"Still no sign of the tow car!" she tut-tutted and glanced at the clock. She was impatient too, this one. I went back to my newspaper, scanning the relevant columns. She paced around the room, looking down at her cell phone, willing it to come to life, but to no avail. 

This house was at least thirty miles from anything you could call civilization. My humble abode was a dilapidated one storey building with a roof and an attic. Nestled among trees, it was pretty inconspicuous. No one travelling down the high road really noticed it. Unless their car broke down nearby and phone went dead. Unless they were forced to look around for help. And these people came knocking on my door. Some of them looked lost and confused, some impatient and overbearing and others purely distressed or hesitant, with phones unresponsive and a tyre flat. And then, some politely, and others not so much, asked me if they could come in and perhaps use my phone? I always welcomed them in and made them comfortable in my living room. There was no tv or computer, but I did have a phone. They sat down and I offered them tea. Some accepted and some refused. And all of them used my phone. I kept the mechanic's number handy. 

Some were downright polite; the people who walked in. Some were rude and condescending. Some smiled and made conversation. Others stayed quiet. Some wanted to use the washroom. But all of them detected a smell. It always came from the attic. For some it was pleasant, and for others, not so much. But it always reminded them of something. I had read somewhere that 60% of human memory is triggered by smells. I am no expert on smells myself, but I could say I have observed some unique behaviour in this very room. Some were friendlier than the others. I was okay with them. The curious ones were bad. They had questions about everything. But I absolutely hated the emotional ones. I remember one strange little man was certain he smelled his mother's perfume from childhood. I remember his face, all contorted with pain, eyes watery. I could barely contain him till the tow truck arrived. Well, I did not hate him that much a week therefrom. Not that it mattered, of course. 

"It's almost been an hour, isn't it?" I jolted back to reality. This is what age does to you. You tend to lose yourself, spin yarns and miss out on the present. 

"Do you really not smell it? It's pretty strong! Is it coming from upstairs?" She sniffed. I shuffled in my seat. 

"What smell?"; I inquired nonchalantly. I can't I was particularly interested in the answer. 

The woman stopped fidgeting and looked at me directly. Her eyes were nothing extraordinary, but her stare was one of those that pierced your being, laying your secrets bare. My heart skipped a bit.

"I can smell baby powder and piss."; She said quietly, without blinking, "exactly how he smelled when I first took him in my arms. Before they took him away from me"; She finally looked away. I could sense she had tears in her eyes and a tremor in her voice. There was a momentary lull, when I could almost hear us breathing. And then she turned to me once again, "How come you don't smell anything? It's so strong" She quipped. She was a little aggressive. This one. 

I sighed. Right then, I heard a heavy vehicle pull up outside. "The tow truck is here!" I said brightly.

She collected herself and gathered her things. I rose from my chair to bid her farewell.

"Thank you, Ms...?" I cut her short with a cheerful "My pleasure, really. I live here all alone and some company is nice." I offered her my best smile. The truck driver honked twice. An impatient man, that one. May be some day, I will invite him in for a cuppa, I thought. 

"You did not tell me your name." I managed to put in, as she turned to leave. "Suchi Gupta", she smiled. The driver honked again, and off she went. 

I wanted to tell her, but I could not. I was born with a congenital defect in my olfactory nerve. I had no sense of smell whatsoever. And obviously, I could not tell her that a week from now, if I scanned the relevant columns in the newspaper, I would read her obituary. Like I always did. For every person who has ever knocked on my door looking for help, after their car broke down and phone went dead. I think it was the smell.

But it did not matter.