Through Shivani's Eyes

Shivani took a bite of one of the cookies Ajay had brought for her. It tasted of roasted coconut and dried fruits, a flavour that felt familiar. Wasn't that the same taste as the Nankhatai her mother used to bake every Sunday? She recalled the delicious aroma that filled the kitchen, drawing her in like a magnet. 

Suddenly, she began to remember the Sundays when most of the officers stationed in the forest region would visit their house for evening tea, accompanied by their families. Her father would sit at the centre, initiating the conversation, and they would discuss a wide range of topics—politics, war, and poetry. It sometimes startled her to realize that she actually enjoyed the smell of cigarette smoke during those gatherings, as her father’s colleagues smoked in the hall. The sound of people chatting, mingled with the sound of rain, mixed with the murmur of the leaves brushing against the concrete cement wall of their bungalow- those were the days!

Those were the Sundays she waited the whole week for. She remembered the car horns that brought a streak of excitement in her, while the cars of the guests were being parked at their driveway. But the most prominent thing she remembered out of all the events was Dolly aunty. Her hair smelt of some floral shampoo, which, in those times, was the most favourite perfume for Shivani. What was it? Lavender? The tinkle of her bangles when she picked up the cup to sip her coffee, and complimented her mother about what a good baker she was- she remembered the warmth of her sweet voice. Sometimes they used to play the record player. She remembered Mohammad Rafi's songs being played most of the time. The men would chat amongst themselves, and the women mostly gossiped. But she never heard Dolly aunty participate in their gossip; rather, she would be humming along with the songs playing in the background. 

The little Shivani's topmost wish was to see Dolly Aunty. What was she like? Was she like the Fairy tale princesses her mother used to read to her? Or was she like the glamorous heroines of those times? Like Sharmila Tagore or Tanuja? She would not know that.

All those memories flocked to the surface nowadays, whenever a smell or taste reminded her of those days- the best days of her life, in that forest bungalow, which she could never see with her physical eyes, but the eyes inside her had captured all the details of every moment she had spent there.