The Book of Everlasting Things, page 8
“For many years, I used to accompany Vivek to oversee the harvest of our roses. Pattoki is a place unlike any other. Imagine, if you can, an entire village transformed into a sea of pink. You will smell it long before you see it. It’s the ingredients, Samir, the raw materials of a perfume—flowers, herbs, leaves, spices, and twigs—these are what you must acquaint yourself with. Forge with them an everlasting love affair. Begin with the roses. Over two hundred and fifty species of roses grow in the world and from them, the Rosa damascena, the Damascus rose, or, as we call it, damas gulab, the one you will encounter, is the finest. The Queen of Flowers.”
It was the first and perhaps the last time that Samir witnessed a passion for anything perfumistic in his aging grandfather. Of fabrics and family, his stories were endless and emotional. But of fragrance, they fell short at mere duty and obligation. He was a forlorn man, his grandfather. And ever since Samir had known him, he’d felt Som Nath to be a hoarder of the years that had long passed. He sometimes wondered at his grandfather’s need to dwell in the past. How much solace could be found within things that no longer existed, that could not be seen or touched? Then he’d be reminded of perfume, and how he found pleasure in things that seeped into the skin, lingering in sight only for moments before they, too, turned invisible. And all of a sudden, his grandfather’s obsession didn’t seem so unjustified.
“When was the last time you went to Pattoki, Dadu?” He returned to the matter at hand.
Som Nath chuckled. “Actually, it was the year you were born, 1927.”
He got up again and this time walked toward the wooden wardrobe across the room. For a few minutes, he wrestled with a pile of something heavy at the back—books or ledgers, from the sound of rustling pages—ignoring his grandson’s offers to help, waving his hand back to gesture that he could manage. Finally prying out a thick register and carrying it with both hands, he brought it to Samir.
VIJ & SONS, ESTD 1830, LAHORE, the cover read. Samir could make out that this was a ledger from when the family dealt in fabrics. Swatches of silk, satin, lace, brocade, muslin were attached to each page with notes below them. Numbers, measurements, dates, even cities were neatly collated like mementos.
His grandfather’s Book of the Past.
“Woh bhi kya din the,” he mused, still turning the pages with a deliberate slowness, resting his frail, wrinkled hands across a swatch of fabric every now and then. “Those were the days.”
Then he discovered it. Toward the end, between two blank pages, lay a single dehydrated rose. A damas gulab from Pattoki. Samir gasped. Som Nath carefully peeled it off and, for a moment, considered the deep yellow impression it left behind. Having separated the rose from its shadow, he held it out to his grandson. The once vibrant pinkness had faded to a pale blush, some petals now almost completely cream. Light brown veins spread across like filigree, and each edge had dried resolutely into its brittle shape.
“I plucked it from the field during that last visit. And for ten years, it has lived inside these pages,” his grandfather, the unexpected flower-presser, remarked. “Go on then, take it. It now belongs to you.”
Samir took it delicately—the flower as old as him—and cupped it in his hands, for already, the light breeze from outside threatened to crumble it. Curious, he brought it up to his nose and realized that the rose no longer smelled even remotely of a rose, but entirely of paper. It wafted off an old, musty, slightly acidic, almond-like scent, and, much to Samir’s disbelief, bore a trace of vanilla. Could it be? The same smell that had emanated from Firdaus and her father resided within this rose. Placing the pressed flower down, he now lifted the book and thrust his nose right into its open spine. He inhaled, and there it was. He deduced that, somehow, a shared element existed in the natural constitutions of handmade paper and vanilla—one that he was determined to explore further.
* * *
Across the Walled City, in the late hours of the moon-soaked night, the neighborhoods of Delhi Gate receded into stillness. Lights from the houses dimmed, the winter bonfires were put out, and the stray cats curled into furry balls under staircases. In that hour of quiet, the calligrapher presented his gray-eyed begum with a vial of precious perfume. Delighted, she dabbed the ittar onto the pulse points of her body that emitted heat and allowed the fragrance to bloom faster. The perfume kissed her wrists, neck, cleavage, the backs of her knees, as the calligrapher watched in rapture. Eventually, the couple fell asleep, ankles entwined.
But in the same house, in a room overlooking the golden mosque, the young illuminator of manuscripts remained awake. By the light of a single oil lamp, she held a stick of charcoal over a blank sheet of paper. It had been weeks, yet he was still imprinted in her memory. She didn’t understand why he had remained there, but every now and then, she found herself wondering if they would meet again. The boy in the ittar shop.
The language of words had never belonged to her; that domain was entirely her father’s, and one that she would have to learn as the years progressed. Unlike other children her age, she remained comfortable in silence, relying on ink and paper to render her thoughts. But this boy had made her act out of character, emboldened and resolute in a way that she couldn’t understand. She closed her eyes and pictured him. His hands had looked soft, unlike her own, which endured the daily contact with ink and soap; his hair had been neatly combed back, his face was speckled with light beauty marks, and his ears pointed outward, comically large. These impressions had become difficult to forget, but what had been most striking was the way in which they had held each other’s gaze.
Opening her eyes, she concentrated on the blank page, fastening her grip on the charcoal stick. She began with the eyes, drawing wisps of black like the veins of a leaf, then the pupils, the eyelashes, and soon, a face began to emerge. Eyes, lips, a jawline, a nose, the nose.
10
The Soul of the Rose
It was still dark when Vivek and Samir left for Pattoki in the tanga they’d hired for the day. The Walled City was barely awake as they rode through its narrow alleys. Samir rubbed his tired eyes and suppressed a yawn as his uncle, seemingly wide-awake, directed their horse out onto the main road they would follow until their destination. Only after they’d been on the road for nearly forty-five minutes did the sun rise completely, painting the day golden.
City ultimately gave way to open land—fields of wheat, corn, fruit trees, jasmine—and finally, whispers of the rose emerged. Samir smelled it before he saw it, just as his grandfather had said. He knew it was coming up ahead, Pattoki, where the earth and air were both swathed in rosy blush. An entire village transforming into a sea of pink. From a distance, as they approached the abundant fields, a thin dark man walked toward them, silhouetted by the day’s suddenly bright light. He motioned toward a clearing where they could park the tanga.
“That is Bir Singh,” Vivek told Samir. “He’s spent his whole life in this rose field and has knowledge greater than anyone else here, perhaps even us. He understands every facet of the damas gulab and its habitat, from seed to oil. These fields serve as employment for many members of his family, and in fact, most of Pattoki is engaged with the world of flowers in some way or another.”
Like our family, Samir thought.
“Vij sahib, namaste. Aaiye, come this way…” Bir Singh greeted them with folded hands and led the uncle-nephew duo to the heart of the field. Vivek walked ahead, but Samir followed slowly, enchanted by the sights around him. His grandfather was right, the world had suddenly bloomed into a spectrum of pinks, and he took his time strolling through, luxuriating in the landscape. Short walls of roses surrounded him. The field was cultivated in rows, and each row was peppered with pink. In the plains, the rose bloomed from March to April and had to be picked before sunrise—lest the rays of the sun wither their scent—and distilled the same day.
Men, with heads and bodies covered to protect themselves from the heat, picked the mature flowers. At times, their hands moved with such swiftness through the bush that all Samir could discern were colors and textures in motion. He watched, transfixed, as calloused brown fingers progressed through the bushes, picking open-faced petals and waxy sepals, careful to avoid leaves and thorns, and dropping them into the open sacks tied to their waists and necks. Their movements seemed to be synchronized to a low humming. A picker’s song, rhythmic and involuntary, floated throughout the field.
The face of the rose was large, soft, flat, and open, and the pickers grabbed it from the top, often holding more than one rose in both palms before dropping them into the sack. The rouge of the damas gulab was the lightest of light pinks, unlike the darker, more commonly found desi gulab, and caught one’s eye as it peeked out playfully from the woven jute. As Samir watched the pickers at work, he was reminded of his uncle at the ittar shop, grabbing vials off of shelves with both hands to present them to customers.
For the next two hours, they walked around the rose field, observing the men at work, studying the soil, and, of course, smelling. Each time Samir inhaled the air around him, he felt intoxicated. He couldn’t wait to tell his grandfather all about their day and, as a souvenir, picked a large rose to take back to him. Translucent and lightweight, it looked almost like the flowers constructed with tissue-thin paper.
By mid-morning, the pair was on their way back to Lahore, large bundles of damas gulab weighed and tied carefully in layers of jute sack and cloth, to avoid any penetration of harsh sunlight. The entire cargo was then further covered with a tarp and tied down with rope, in a way that would cause least damage to the flowers. Luggage and passengers aboard, the tanga drove out of the pink-hued village and back to its cacophonic city.
* * *
Vivek and Samir arrived back in Anarkali Bazaar to find them waiting outside the ittar shop—Ousmann, Aarif, and Jameel, who operated the distillery above. Samir had spoken to them before, but never as intimately as the afternoon that was about to unfold. They would give him his first lesson in the ancient process of distillation. Pajamas and kurtas rolled up past their knees and elbows, the turbans on their heads tightened, the three men quickly carried the fragrant cargo up the side staircase. And for the first time, Samir was allowed to follow. He walked up slowly, observing how dark the walls were. Like an inverse composition of land and sky, the upper walls had become soot-charred and smoky black, feathering downward to the original light blue paint.
In the open-air distillery, Jameel held a bundle of pale pink in his arms and brought it close to one of the copper pots called a degh, which could hold up to eighty kilograms of rose petals. Several deghs were lined up in a row, placed a few feet above the ground on wood and dung-fire ovens as makeshift furnaces. On the floor of the distillery were several piles of chopped wood. Jameel tipped the sack at the edge of the degh and let Aarif remove the cover and gently nudge the contents in. A river of roses spilled into the open mouth of the vessel.
“Daalo daalo, poora daalo, come on, fill it to the top,” Ousmann instructed in his husky voice. He was the most experienced of the three; his father had once been Khushboo Lal’s chief distiller, and Ousmann had inherited many of his skills. Samir watched as petals fluttered out onto the ground and around the degh until it was full. Jameel and Aarif swept the contents in together, using both hands and feet for balance.
Distillation was a bodily process. It demanded use of the limbs, the mind, and, most importantly, the nose. The three men moved around the distillery in methodical, practiced movements, like dancers. Their muscles flexed each time they lifted the heavy sacks, and beads of sweat trailed down their suntanned arms.
After transferring the flowers, they poured small amounts of cold water over the petals and shut the degh. To ensure that no steam or liquid escaped at all, Aarif brought a heap of clay, wet and coiled up like a three-inch-wide snake, and, mixing it in with fluffs of soft cotton, he uncoiled it onto the edges of the closed pot, like a seal. Dumm, this process was called, and it was repeated for each degh, until no more roses remained. A fire was then lit and the mixture boiled for five to six hours.
Soon a smoky, charred smell began to float up to the sky, alerting the inhabitants of Anarkali that a concoction was brewing. It stung Samir’s eyes, but everyone else stood still. Blinking repeatedly, he, too, tried to remain composed. If he wanted to exist in the world of delicate fragrances, then he would have to become accustomed to the tempestuous ways in which they were distilled.
Ousmann wiped his face with a cloth, sweat already having drenched through his vest and shirt. He pointed to the empty jute sacks. “Samir beta, it takes approximately four tonnes of roses to produce one kilogram of pure rose ittar. But time remains essential in all aspects of perfumery, and perhaps all aspects of life. Time is critical,” he emphasized, as if drilling the motto into Samir, and then sat on his haunches, motioning the boy to come closer.
“Look.” Ousmann’s hands moved along the distilling apparatus. “This is the degh-bhapka process.” And then, turning around, he called out to Vivek, who was observing from a distance, “Vij sahib, ennu angrezi vich ki kehnde eh?”
“Hydro-distillation,” came the prompt response.
“Aah, that. Hydro dist … lisht…” He trailed off vaguely, waving his hands in the air. “Now, look, we put all our ingredients into the degh and light a fire underneath. The hot steam releases the essential oils of whatever is in there, in this case the damas gulab. But the contents could be flowers, leaves, herbs, spices, woods, barks, or even seeds, and sometimes everything together. The vapor of the distilled matter rises, condenses, and flows from the degh, through this attached hollow bamboo pipe called a chonga, into a smaller receiver vessel called a bhapka. This bhapka receiver, as you can see, is placed in a trough of cool water.” Ousmann pointed out each element.
Samir made note of the distilling apparatus—two containers, one hot, the other cool, connected through a hollow pipe—exceedingly simple yet remarkably effective in extracting, absolutely, the essence of ingredients.
“And the rope?” He gestured to the jute that tightly covered the bamboo pipes.
“Ah, good, very good.” Ousmann was pleased with this observation, “The ropes are made of wild jute and grass and serve as insulators to the pipes. The distiller’s job—dighaa, that is what we are called—is a complex one, for he must always remain vigilant. A dighaa must know exactly how long to heat the degh for, because if his attention wavers and it overheats, then the resulting scent will be too smoky and all the ingredients will have been wasted. You see this process is thousands of years old, and over generations, its practice has become like second nature to us. Yeh bunyadi kala hai, this is a foundational art.”
Ousmann now pointed to the bhapka. “Traditionally, sandalwood oil is mixed into the vapor, which emerges from the bamboo pipes as the core of all ittars. Sandalwood acts as a fixative or carrier oil, a receptacle for aromas that are still in an extremely fragile state. It fixes the scent of these flowers and herbs, allows them to last longer.”
“Like a canvas?” Samir offered.
“Exactly. It holds all the smells without imposing itself or interfering in any way. Now, when the receiver is filled completely, the dighaa rubs a wet cloth around it for a temporary pause, and then the full receiver is replaced with an empty one to continue the process. The cold water is also changed. This is repeated until the distillation is complete. Sometimes, it’s only five days long, and other times, it can last up to a whole month.”
“And then the ittar is ready?” Samir asked.
Ousmann laughed. “Not quite, not quite. This liquid is strained and filtered, and then set aside in kuppis for maceration. The mammoth kuppi flasks made of camel leather soak up any excess moisture from the mixture, leaving only the purest oil behind. This last step can last for weeks, months, or even years. In the case of the rose, we can distill the petals into an ittar on a base of sandalwood, or use other methods to extract an even more concentrated essence of the flower. An absolute.” He held out his hand and opened all the fingers slowly and magically, like a blooming rose. “That is the soul of the rose, ruh-e-gulab.”
Samir exhaled loudly and stared at him, wide-eyed. “How long does it take to learn all this, Ousmann chacha?” he asked, running his hand along the dry mud caked on the cooling trough.
“Beta ji, yeh sab tajurbe ka kaam hai, this entire process comes with experience. There are no thermometers to gauge the temperature, no manuals to instruct on the thickness of clay on the deghs, no teacher standing by to tell the difference between a good batch of ittar and a foul one. It all just comes with time and settles in like muscle memory. Sab waqt ke saath samajh aa jayega, you will learn it with time. I promise.”
He ruffled the child’s hair lovingly and then held his face up. “My grandfather taught the art of distillation to my father, who further taught it to me.” He paused. “You see, this world of ittar is so fragile and elusive that unless we preserve it and pass it down to the next generation, it will crumble. One day, we might even forget this ancient art. Memorize it, Samir, be its treasurer. Be its keeper, its khazin.”
11
The Syntax of Smell
A few days after the distillation of the rose began, Vivek brought Samir to the atelier to trace the history of the enchanting flower and its scent. Since it was too soon for this season’s harvest, they sat with last year’s rose, making it the first ingredient Samir would learn about in depth. Firdaus’s unique rose scent snaked through his memory as he approached the three containers placed on the table. The first was a vial of thin, clear ittar gulab, or rose oil; the second was the concentrated ruh-e-gulab, or rose absolute, thicker and deeper in color; and the third was a long glass beaker with a swan-shaped neck that held gulabjal, or rosewater, obtained as a by-product of the distillation process. Rosewater could be used to wash the face, heal scars, moisten the eyes, or refresh the mind.
