The Book of Everlasting Things, page 3
* * *
At the end of the 1915 monsoon season, one year after Vivek had left, Leela went to visit her family in rural Punjab. Though she had been sent as a young girl to a convent school in the city, her family had always remained in the village, tending to their farmlands. She traveled escorted in a tanga, hoping to return to Lahore in two weeks’ time. But during her stay, it rained all day and all night, filling her childhood village with mosquitoes and disease. When she finally returned to the city, she felt a hot fever seize her body. Alarmed, on the first night, she soaked the end of her sari in cold water and wiped her face and arms, hoping to cool the fever down. Over the next week, she remained in her room, no longer able to accompany her husband to work. Leela grew considerably weaker, but did not allow anyone to be around her, apart from bringing food or water, for fear of contamination. A panicked Som Nath wrote to Vivek, though he knew a response would not arrive anytime soon. On the tenth day, when he entered Leela’s room with a glass of haldi doodh, she was gone, leaving a body covered in inflammations. The illness had consumed her.
Together with Mohan, Som Nath performed Leela’s last rites. On the banks of the river Ravi, she was consigned to fire and smoke. Three hundred kilograms of ignited sandalwood, inside which was tucked the body of a beloved—washed, cleansed, and shrouded. Father and son waited for six long hours until the creamy smell of sandalwood that Leela had borne on her person entwined with the raw earthiness of the sandalwood pyre. Using a stick, Som Nath’s trembling hands struck his deceased wife’s skull with a startling crack—the only way to release her soul. Mohan watched in silence, unable to comprehend how abruptly his mother had departed from the world. When all was over, the aroma of sandalwood was replaced by odorless ash.
Leela’s body had been reduced completely to embers, save one blackened, wood-like bone. Her death had been so swift, too swift, and yet here was a bone that refused to burn. Som Nath picked up the charred bone and pressed it discreetly into his palm. Briefly, he wondered which of Leela’s bones it was—the collar jutting out from beneath her cotton blouses, that last rib visible through the sheer fabrics of her summer saris, the ankle upon which sat the silver payals he loved so much. Which part of her did he now possess? The priest handed him the ashes. Once those were immersed into the holy waters of the Ravi, Leela disappeared completely.
A heartbroken Som Nath wrote to Vivek about what had transpired, but no letter came. For months, he continued to write to the foreign address, but no letter ever came. Then a sinking thought crossed his mind. What if his son, too, had perished?
Alongside familial suffering, business had also suffered. During wartime, restrictions grew on imports, and with the advent of the Swadeshi movement, demand for foreign cloth diminished rapidly. Hindustanis wanted local homespun khaadi, which the Vijs had never sold, and without the luxurious silks they’d once imported from Central Asia and the Far East, British patrons also dwindled. Mohan had turned seventeen and single-handedly took care of whatever little business remained. Meanwhile, fifty-year-old Som Nath succumbed to his sorrows. Since there was no word in his vocabulary to denote a parent who had lost a child, he accepted the other role life had meted out to him—widower. By 1916, as the war had reached its halfway mark, Som Nath was convinced he had lost half his family.
When the war ended two years later, far fewer men returned home. From time to time, Som Nath would leaf through the Francisi newspapers and discover a world of violence unfamiliar to him, a world that had claimed his son. In moments of desperation, he’d want to shred the newsprint to bits, but nostalgia prevented him, for in the pockets of grainy black and white were the last landscapes his older son had walked.
Silence descended upon the cloth merchant and his younger son. While Som Nath became overwhelmed with sadness, Mohan assumed the role of parent, caregiver, and homemaker, and continued to open the shop every day, more out of habit than because doing so brought in much money. With hardly any customers, their wealth dwindled, and he knew they wouldn’t remain afloat for much longer. Some days, sitting by the wooden jharokha window, the boy would survey the large two-story house and wonder how long it would be before this physical trace of ancestry would have to be abandoned.
It was on a Friday in late August 1920 that someone knocked on the narrow side entrance of Vij Bhawan. Mohan opened the door to a slim, clean-shaven man wearing brown pants and a white shirt with suspenders. In his arms were a large suitcase, a small leather case, and a woolen coat. Mohan looked on, puzzled, until from his shirt pocket, the man extracted a brown notebook with the words VIJ & SONS, ESTD 1830, LAHORE embossed on the cover.
4
The Affliction
The story of what had happened to Vivek Vij in the foreign land was never divulged, though upon his return, Som Nath’s spirits lifted considerably. But the Vivek who had left Lahore was not the same man who had returned, for he refused to talk at all—about the war, about his time in vilayat, even about his returning. There was no sign of his uniform, his demeanor had become guarded and reticent, and his features angular, almost unrecognizable from the warm, full-bearded face he’d left with in 1914. The only thing Son Nath truly recognized was the large mole on his son’s right cheekbone, which had thankfully remained unchanged. On his first Diwali home in six years, when the entire neighborhood was bursting celebratory firecrackers and singing festive songs, Vivek remained confined to his room, palms stiffly shutting his ears to the noise and fire outside, face buried in his chest. When Mohan found him this way, he had neither the words nor the courage to comfort his brother.
Some evenings, Som Nath would sit next to Vivek on the four-poster bed. Using Leela as a bridge, he’d try to find a way back to his son. He would recount how much she had missed him, how she had placed his photograph by her bedside, how certain she was that he would return. He would offer him memories of sandalwood and mangoes and guavas. And all these Vivek would quietly accept, but he would not utter a word. Eventually, Som Nath deduced that encounters in battle, much like those with death, hardened the heart, for the war seemed to have rendered his son impassive.
* * *
Then one morning, as the sky was marbled in shades of blue and burned orange, Vivek sat cross-legged on the floor of his room. Outside the window, the neem tree swayed noisily, but he paid no heed. Before him lay the brown leather case he’d carried back from vilayat, covered in dust and cobwebs from being stored under the bed. Three months had passed since his return to Lahore, but the case had not once been opened. Sometimes he would bring it out and gingerly run his fingers across the weathered surface, or play with the clasp, yet he was unable to summon the courage to confront its contents. This case was not only the reason for his return, but also the reason for his silence.
The previous evening, Vivek had found a sepia photograph of a smiling couple, tucked into a book. The woman had doe eyes and an oval face, her hair styled into a bun, and the man had a dark mole on his right cheekbone. It had unsettled him, and he’d been unable to sleep all night, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wrestling with his thoughts, repeatedly retrieving the photograph, caressing the smiling faces, and then placing it back into the book. But the discovery had stirred something in Vivek, something resolute, adamant, like ancient sand from the bottommost layer of the ocean. By dawn, he’d made his decision. It was time.
Using his hands, he wiped the dust off the surface of the case and, with a deep breath, unclasped it to reveal several rows of small glass bottles with wooden corks, secured in place by thick leather straps and thin wooden boards. Vivek’s face relaxed as he placed his hands over the bottles. Each one had a label with a different name, number, chemical formula, and description. Running his fingers over them, he extracted a vial of pale yellow liquid and uncorked it. Then bringing it up to his impatient nose, he closed his eyes. Inhale. Whiskey, iris flower, peaches, subtle notes of patchouli, grapefruit, bergamot. Exhale. He opened his eyes, and again lifted it to his nose. Inhale. Musk, wood, leather. Exhale. Placing the soft cork back into the mouth of the vial, he sighed.
“Veer ji,” a voice called out from the half-opened door. Elder brother, Mohan still called him, just like when he was little. “Eh sab ki hai? What are these bottles?”
Since his return to Lahore, Vivek would sit by the wooden windows and stare at the world outside, he would water the tulsi Leela had planted in the center of the courtyard, he would ritualistically light the incense sticks each morning, he would watch quietly as his father and brother tallied up the losses of their fading business, but he would never talk. It was as if the war had claimed his voice. But on that morning, he motioned for his brother to come sit beside him.
“Ambrette,” he said, enunciating the word slowly, his accent flattening and rolling the foreign r, unable to reproduce its ordinarily throaty sound. “Mushk dana, it is called here. A very important base note.” Vivek’s eyes glimmered and he held out the bottle.
“Base note?” Mohan began, confusedly, and then shook his head into silence.
Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t heard his brother’s voice in years, or perhaps it was the absurdity of smelling vials of colored liquid, but the scene brought a smile to Mohan’s face. He asked not a single question—not a why or how or where from—but simply held the bottle and smelled as he’d been instructed.
“Mushk dana,” he repeated, concentrating, “smells like skin or animal hide.” He scrunched his nose. Vivek nodded in agreement.
* * *
That day at Vij Bhawan, satins and silks gave way to fragrances and essential oils. One year had passed since Khushboo Lal left to go back to his native Kannauj in the United Provinces, and Vivek decided that it was time a new ittar shop be opened in the bazaar.
Som Nath quietly followed his son’s lead, grateful to have Vivek show an interest in something, even if it was something as unfamiliar as ittar. What did his son know about perfumery? How could a soldier understand scent? Why had he asked what Khushboo Lal had been distilling all those years ago in his letters? Questions multiplied in Som Nath’s mind, but upon seeing the passion in his son’s eyes and, most of all, the keenness in his demeanor, all doubt was cast aside. If this is what his son truly wanted to do, then the family had nothing to lose by trying. After all, everything that could have been lost had already been lost, he told himself, thinking of Leela.
For a few months, they temporarily closed the shop and disposed of any remaining textile stock. While Som Nath and Mohan built new shelves and counters inside, and an atelier in the back, Vivek began an expedition. If he were to open a perfumery, he would need a treasury of smells. Leaving the pair at work in Lahore, he traveled across the country to source ingredients, and the first person he sought out was Khushboo Lal. Spending weeks with him in Kannauj, he learned the art and mechanics of distillation in order to set up a unit in Lahore. He brought over earthy mitti ittar from Kannauj, nutty kewra from Orissa, and leathery saffron from Pampore. With the resuming of international trade, he arranged for the import of foreign ingredients, rare and unheard of in Hindustan. He compared the sweet roses of Turkey and Bulgaria to the exquisite local Hasayan rose from the Central Provinces and the Damask rose from Pattoki. He obtained not the flower but the intensely green, slightly cucumbery leaves of the violet plant from France. He procured Mediterranean orange blossom and Italian bergamot.
As expected, the sudden closing and extensive renovation of the shop sparked gossip among the other shopkeepers of the bazaar, who would sometimes peek through the newspaper-covered windows. The Sikh couple who lived above the shop had passed away, and since no new tenant occupied the space yet, Vivek promptly bought it, tore down the interior walls and roof, fortified its floor, and set up his distillery, leaving only the original carved wooden balconies at the front as they were. Needless to say, this perplexed fellow shopkeepers even more, as they watched construction materials being carried in and out of the mysterious site.
Vivek then searched for the distillers who had once created Khushboo Lal’s scented empire—the masters of aromatic extraction who had learned the art from their forefathers. Three such men, Ousmann, Aarif, and Jameel, he employed to construct and work the six distillation units. They built their world using bricks, wood, copper, bamboo, clay, and rope. To enliven it, they added fire, water, and air. Finally, to infuse it with soul, they offered fragrant flowers and roots, herbs and grasses, woods and soils. Within months, this unused space became an operating perfumery, smoke ascending to the sky, and traces of rose, jasmine, or lemongrass often wafting down the staircase and cascading onto the road.
* * *
In the years following the war, Anarkali Bazaar blossomed to such new heights that by the 1920s, it emerged as the most magnificent marketplace in all of North India. The nobility arrived in their horse-drawn carriages, local women imitated the English style and fashion, while street bards sang qissas of the vanishing modesty of the times, and people from the farthest corners of the Punjab traveled to the bazaar to shop for specialty wares.
It was here, in the sprawling urban center of commerce that had fashioned the fortunes of his family for decades, that Vivek Nath Vij set up a perfumery. A house of fragrance, an ittar-kadā. And like his ancestors, he, too, on the first day of its opening, proudly hung up a black-and-white sign at the entryway, the only difference being the vocation it stated: ITTAR KADĀ, VIJ & SONS, ESTD 1921, LAHORE.
5
The Perfumer’s Apprentice
In 1937, after his initiation at the river Ravi, ten-year-old Samir began his apprenticeship at the ittar shop. He was in grade four at a boys’ school in a large haveli at Wachowali, not far from his maternal grandparents’ home. A section of the building was set apart for older Sanskrit scholars, and every morning the teachers led the students in prayer. Most boys in Samir’s grade were Hindu or Sikh, with the exception of a few Muslims. Classes were held outdoors on reed mats, and in the winter, they’d move to the rooftops, where it was warmest.
Waiting for the school day to end, Samir sat impatiently, tapping his fingers on his wooden takhti, which served as a writing board. Master ji was laying great emphasis on the English language, which had been introduced into their lessons that very year. Prithvi, Sunder, Baljeet, Zahir, and Ashok all repeated the words after him, giggling as they rounded their o’s and extended the ends of their sentences like they’d heard the British sahibs do. Samir, too, mouthed the words distractedly, but as soon as the bell rang, he zipped out of the courtyard, takhti in hand, and ran all the way home. Sitting with Som Nath, he scarfed down his lunch and then rode his bicycle out of Shahalmi Gate to Anarkali Bazaar for his first day of work.
* * *
That afternoon, Savitri clicked a photograph of Mohan, Vivek, and Samir outside the shop, commemorating the occasion. Two brothers and a perfumistic child, she thought, smiling. Once developed and framed, the black-and-white image would hang proudly on the wall behind the cash counter. Samir might have been the heir to this sacred world of scent, but he had hardly been granted any formal intimacy with it until now. Even the first few months of his apprenticeship would extend only to the shop, not the distillery above or the atelier at the back, for a position at the altar of delights, even as a spectator or a student, had to be earned.
Every member of the household was engaged, in some way, within the family’s fragrant foundation. From his uncle, Samir would inherit the skills of composition. From his mother, the daughter of a hakim, a traditional physician, he learned the medicinal properties of certain oils and ointments. And from his father, he came to understand the working of a business.
Young Samir had waltzed into the shop that day carrying a distinct feeling of self-importance, which quickly deflated when he learned that his task for the foreseeable future was only to run errands and become acquainted with every nook of the shop. His uncle’s warmth quickly melted away as he handed Samir a rag and sent him off to dust the many, many bottles arranged along the many, many shelves. With a sigh, the boy trudged to the back.
The ittar-kadā housed hundreds of different fragrances and oils. One wall was fitted with sturdy shelves upon which sat row after row of identical dark glass bottles. Round-bodied and wide-necked with wooden corks, they were tinted to protect the delicate ingredients inside, and each one still bore the original handwritten Urdu label. Running his index finger across these dusty, peeling labels, Samir took in the order of display and the varying quantities of liquid the bottles held. Carefully climbing onto a wooden ladder, he started from the topmost shelf and made his way across, committing each name to memory. Even though the task was trivial and tedious, his closeness to the magical contents of each bottle inspired him to labor on. And for the length of the autumn season, as the perfumery above them distilled the rich subcontinental rose, the sweet smell draping itself like a tapestry on the air, the lean ten-year-old carefully lifted bottle after bottle, peering at its label, silently mouthing the words, cleaning the spot where it once sat, and then placing it back, just as carefully.
