Petrichor: The Moments

“Whenever it rains, and its earthy scent -- the petrichor -- hits my senses, memories come flashing and I go back in time.” - Shon Mehta

I was around seven to eight years old that time. My maternal grandparents lived in a small hill station. It was a sleepy town,  where people woke up late in the morning and went to bed early. The town was founded in medieval times as a fort, and the school, the police station, and government offices were all housed in old, imposing buildings built in those times.

The town had two gardens, upper and lower -- the upper garden was well planned with beautiful flowers and shrubs, while lower garden was full of wild growth.  There were two lakes, upper and lower -- the upper lake had a temple nearby, while lower lake had a mosque. And there were two roads, upper and lower -- the upper road went around the town and was ideal for a leisurely walk, while the lower road spiraled around the hill to the valley below.

I used to visit my grandparents' house there every few weeks with my mother. We always alighted from the bus at the stop in the valley, as it was quicker to walk up the lower road than come down all the way from the depot on the upper road.

I fondly remember such a visit. It had been raining, and the road was slippery. The uphill walk made us heave with every step we took. As we reached the house, we could smell the freshly blossomed Bakul. The wall around the house was made of round stones, which had taken a deep green color due to the accumulated moss, and gleamed brightly in the rains. In the thick mist that enveloped the road, one could barely see the dark, wooden gate in the corner.

As always, my grandfather was standing at the gate, eagerly waiting for us.  Smiling, he led us straight inside the house. Wood was burning in the fireplace, and the house was warm and cosy, a welcome change from the cold outside. As soon as I had freshened up, and ate the snacks grandmother had kept aside for us, grandfather called me back outside. "Let us go," he said.

It had started raining again. We walked through the rain carrying a large sturdy black umbrella made by a local craftsman, and reached the butcher's shop without getting a single raindrop on us.

The butcher's shop, much like everything else in the town, was located in a historical building made of black sandstone. The butcher was a friendly man with a big smile on his face. As we waited, he asked me some simple arithmetic questions, which I answered without much effort. Duly impressed, he praised me for my smartness. Meanwhile, grandfather instructed me on how to ask for the best meat cuts. I repeated those instructions to the butcher. The butcher nodded in approval, and again congratulated my grandfather on having such a smart granddaughter. The eight year old me walked out of the butcher's shop with a beaming face.

Back at home, I noticed my mother and grandmother sitting near the charcoal brazier roasting corn ears and talking softly. Curious, I joined them. They were talking about the man-eater leopard recently spotted in the area. "Will the leopard attack us?" I asked, trembling at the thought. "Not at our house," said my grandmother. "We are right in the middle of the town. But on the outskirts of the fort, many people have seen it. One can never know." Sensing my discomfort, they dropped the topic and switched to discussing someone's relationship problems.

Feeling bored, I went back to the courtyard, where my elder brother was playing with marbles. Beside him, there was a tin box full of marbles he had won from other kids. I tried to pick few marbles from the box. But before I could, he looked at me through the corner of his eyes, quickly pulled the box closer, and went back to his game.

My grandfather, standing a few steps away, was instructing the woodcutter to properly cut the tree which had fallen during a recent storm. The woodcutter was quietly doing as told. I joined my grandfather, and when he stepped inside for a few minutes, spelt out a few instructions of my own. The woodcutter looked at me nastily. "Girl," he growled, "don't meddle in my work. Go there and sit quietly in the corner." So I sat in the corner watching him work.

A few minutes later, grandmother called me inside. The house was now filled with aroma of freshly prepared mutton broth. But before I could make it to the kitchen, grandmother made me wear a monkey cap and an oversized sweater, and applied some eucalyptus oil on my nose for good measure. Keeps the cold away, she said. But in the process, she had transformed me into elderly-looking eight year old. I sulked, but she cheered me up by giving some warm broth. "Eat more," she chided. "Look how thin you are, people must be thinking that we don't give you anything to eat!"

After I finished my broth, I ran to the backyard. The backyard was filled with fragrance of magnolia. I hid myself in the triangular lair made up of trunks of three mango trees. Surely, if I stayed there nobody would ever find me. I would do penance like the ancient ascetics, and attain a super power. I spent some time wondering what all I would do with my super power, but abandonded my idea when it started to get dark. I looked at the lanterns being lit in the houses down in the valley. The sound of last bus departing from the town was fading at a distance, and the crickets were slowly starting to chirp. I headed back to the house.

Grandmother was looking for me. As soon as she saw me, she told me to quickly get some fresh coconut from the grocer down the road. It was dark outside, as the street lights were not working yet after the storm a few days back. I ran to the store as fast as I could. The shop keeper asked me about when we had arrived, and enquired after our health. Then he gave me a large coconut for three rupees, and told me to inform my grandfather that he had reduced the price of the coconut by two rupees, just for us.

I grabbed the coconut and hurried towards the house through the pitch darkness. Suddenly, I heard drums beating at a distance. This was the local temple sounding the alarm for people to get inside their houses. I ran back to the house, terrified at the thought of being attacked by the prowling leopard. At dinner, everybody was tired so we ate in complete silence, listening to the crickets merrily chirping outside.

Next morning, I woke up to loud voices from outside the house. It was a local fisherman bargaining with my grandfather. As always, the fisherman had brought the morning's fresh catch from the lower lake. His basket was full of crabs, anchovies, and a variety of other fish. The fisherman was a regular, and we knew him well. His one eye was permanently closed, which scared and amused me at a same time. Every time I asked, he told a different story about his eye.  Sometimes, he told that he lost his eye while saving a local boy from the lake. Sometimes, he told that a fish had attacked him. Sometimes, it was a severe illness that had cost him his eye. Everytime he came to the house, I kept staring at his eye, despite my mother frowning at my behaviour.

"Hurry up," my mother called. "Grandmother has prepared your favorite breakfast." It was misal, a flavourful concoction of sprouted moth beans served with a variety of crispies.

After a heavy breakfast, I joined my grandfather for his daily walk. I walked with him in a silence, enjoying the greenery and fresh morning air. On our way, we stood on the edge of the fort's bastion, enjoying the breathtaking view of the small farms and villages in the valley below.

"Can you imagine," said grandfather, "our ancestors stood right here and protected the fort." He had told me the tales of our ancestors' bravery several times. I kept quiet, unable to figure what to say.

We then reached the town library. Grandfather told me that I could sit there while he completes his errands.

The tiny library had a large collection of childrens' books. The librarian was a young, fashionable lady with long dark hair and always wore vibrantly colored saris. She enthusiastically gave me a stack of small books. "These are new books," she told me, "you are the first one to read them." I have always loved the smell of new books. I took deep breath, and started reading. I read and read. Most of the books were about magical things, few were fairy tales, and a few were about the local myths.

Once I finished reading all the books, I went to the main hall of the library looking for grandfather. He wasn't back yet, so I sat there pretending to read finance and sports magazines, while sneakily observing and imitating the other people around me.

A few minutes later, I spotted my grandfather outside. As I ran over to him, he handed me a toffee. He also had one. I knew he ate the toffee to suppress the smell of cigarette he had just smoked, hoping that my grandmother wouldn't notice.

When we reached home, mother was waiting for me to accompany her to the weekly bazaar. I always looked forward to visiting the bazaar. It was held in the central ground, right in the middle of the town, every sunday. People from all nearby villages flocked the bazaar.

The bazaar was in full swing -- crowded, and extremely noisy. Larger sellers, most of them visiting from other towns, had setup shops in tents, while small local sellers were sitting under their umbrellas. So many things were for sale -- several varieties of rice, lentils, fruits, colors, spices, butter, dry fish, utensils, clothes, bangles, and what not. Sellers were allotted spaces based on what they were selling. Rice sellers were in one corner, fruit sellers in another, and so on.

We walked straight to the rice sellers. There were quite a few of them. We walked past them slowly, until my mother suddenly stopped. She had noticed something.

"Is this Ambemohar?" she asked the seller. Ambemohar is an exotic species of fragrant rice. The name literally means rice that smells like a mango blossom.

The seller nodded. Mother picked up a few grains and rubbed them in her palm.

"This looks like Ambemohar," she said. "But it is not the real thing."

An elderly lady, sitting a few steps away with her umbrella, was listening to the conversation with much interest.

"I have Ambemohar," she declared, pulling out a small bag. Mother walked towards her, took out some grains from the bag and rubbed them in her palm.  Curious, I also took pinch of the rice, rubbed and smelled the grains. They indeed smelled delicious.

"How much for this?" asked mother, satisfied with the quality.

"Ten rupees per mapta," replied the lady. Mapta was the measuring pot which locals used instead of the regular weighing scale.

"You are asking too much." said mother.

"Its pure rice," she said, taking out her mapta. "Not like the others. How much do you want to buy?"

"I can buy all," mother replied. "But your rate is high, and you don't even have a weighing scale."

"Don't worry," countered the lady. "With mapta, you will get more rice."

Mother kept pondering. The elderly lady sensed her hesitation.

"I walked two hours from my village to come here. This was harvested for our family. I am selling it because I need money for my grandson, who has fallen ill. Please buy it so that I can reach home before sunset. I will give it for nine rupees a mapta."

Mother didn't bargain after that. We bought the rice, and as we started walking to the exit, we noticed my brother sitting with the butter sellers.

He had a small bowl of butter of his own for sale. Apparently, he had persuaded grandmother to let him be a seller for the day, just for fun.

"Can I sit with him?" It sounded like fun. Mother agreed, and asked my brother to take care of me.

I joined my brother as a co-seller of the butter bowl, and decided to split whatever money we get equally. We waited and waited but not a single buyer came by. I was feeling hungry, and felt like eating the butter. I looked at brother, and from his face I gathered that he had similar thoughts.

"Cover the bowl so it doesn't gather the dirt," said the butter seller next to us, a large pumpkin leaf in his hand. "Here, take this."

I took the leaf and covered the butter bowl.

"For how much you are selling?" asked the butter seller.

"Whatever they ask." I replied.

"Do not sell too low," said the butter seller, "or you will make all of us sell cheap." The tone of his voice made it clear that he meant business.

"Are you threatening the kids?" spoke a thundering voice.

It was one of our elderly relatives, my grandfather's cousin. Due to his large moustache and an army background, he was popularly known as "Moustache Colonel."

"What are you both doing here?" he asked us in the same thundering voice.

Brother didn't speak, so I replied. "We are selling butter."

"Why?" he asked. "Is your grandfather running out of money and forcing you kids to work?" He laughed loudly, feeling happy at his own joke.

"No, our grandfather doesn't need money," my brother replied, trying to defend our grandfather. "He didn't force us either. This was my idea, I want to be a seller."

"How much are you selling for?" asked the Moustache Colonel.

"Give whatever you can," replied brother.

"Brother is just being polite," I intervened. "It is five rupees for half bowl, and nine rupees for the whole."

I had overheard the price from other sellers just a few minutes back.

"So costly!" the Moustache Colonel exclaimed. "You crafty devils, you are trying to rob me out of all my money."

I was scared. I had heard stories about the colonel shooting people whenever he gets angry. But the colonel gave out his signature laugh and handed us the money for the whole bowl. We handed over the bowl, and quickly wrapped up our business. When we reached home, we got a lot of praise for our entrepreneurship from everyone.

After a lunch of crab curry and griddle fried anchovies, I took a long nap. When I got up, grandmother asked me to go the house-help emiee’s house to check on her. "Go and see why she hasn't come to work since yesterday," she said. She also handed me bottle of Adulsa brew, a home-made cough remedy. "Give this to her mother. She is not keeping well."

I loved visiting Eimee's house. It was a tiny cottage on the slope by the lower lake, near the mosque. She lived there with her siblings and mother.

When I reached Eimee house, she was outside cleaning the dishes.

"Grandmother has asked you to come to work immediately," I told her.

"I will," she smiled, "but first you come inside the house. It is about to rain."

I handed Eimee the bottle my grandmother had given me, and went inside. It was just a room, full of people. Her mother was lying in the far corner, coughing occasionally in her sleep.

It started to rain outside.

"Would you like to have a tea?" Eimee asked. "It will keep you warm."

I nodded happily. This was one of the reasons I loved visiting Eimee's house. Nobody else ever offered me tea.

"Why didn't you come to work yesterday?" I asked.

"Some guests were here to see me," said Eimee, blushing slightly.

That meant that she was getting married.

"But aren't you married already?" I asked.

"I was, yes," she said, casually. "My husband ran away six months back, and married another woman."

As I sipped my tea, Eimee and her siblings kept smiling at me. I realized that their faces were extremely similar, as if made using the same mould.

The rain stopped in a few minutes, and as I got up to leave, Eimee's mother walked towards me slowly.

"Show me your hand," she said. I extended my hand, wondering what could be the reason.

She slipped a rainbow-colored spring bangle into my wrist.

"Suits your hand," she said with a smile.

"But I don't have money to buy," I protested. I loved the bangle, though.

"Its a gift," she said, patting my hand softly. "Its no problem."

I felt nice, but didn't say much. I and Eimee together walked back to my grandparents' house.

"What took you so long?" asked mother. "We were getting worried." She sounded angry.

"Madam, it is my fault," said Eimee, hurriedly, before I could respond. "She wanted to come back immediately, but I forced her to wait for me."

I looked at Eimee with gratitude for saving me from mother's anger, she smiled back at me.

Later in the evening, mother told me to pack my bag.

"Why?" I resisted. "There is still time."

"We have to leave early tomorrow morning."

"Already? Let us stay more," I cried. "Please!"

"I can't," she said. "And you have school too. We will come back in a few weeks."

"You allow brother to miss school and stay here."

"He studies on his own, and tops his class," said mother. "Will you be able to do that?"

I had no answer. I felt sad, and started sobbing.

Seeing me cry, grandfather came over, sat by my side, and tried to cheer me up by telling a funny story. Grandmother went into the kitchen and brought me some jaggery-coconut rice, my favorite dessert, that she had prepared specially for me. Brother silently reached into his box, and handed me a beautiful green marble.

Next morning, we left the house at dawn. During the travel, I kept thinking about my next visit back there.

So many years have passed. My grandparents are no more, and the town and the house has changed beyond recognition. I haven't visited the town in ages. But when I look at the world we live in today, I wonder whether those times were indeed simpler, or is it me who was naive back then.

Whatever it may be, but I will always be grateful for the memories the petrichor brings back. After all, when we think of our life story, we don't think of the years, nor the  days, we think of such precious moments which make life a life.

Shon Mehta is an author and philosopher known for creating the Jivavarta Universe, a grounded sociopolitical world used to explore human resilience, social dynamics, and moral philosophy. Her novels and parables have transitioned from literary fiction into foundational academic material used in educational curricula across several countries. Through her analytical work, she examines the complex social structures and leadership archetypes that shape our reality.