Interim
When it hits me, a single moment plays itself on repeat in my mind.
It is of a memory more distant than the sky itself, except on the days when the sky lowers itself so close to the ground we have to crouch under the remaining furniture and sit very still; in our reptilian brain if we don't move, we don't get spotted.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel. In the vivid recollection of a memory, the details of which I suspect are false, because I only have a photo of said moment which has all but faded away completely, a five-year-old me can be seen crying, all snot bubbles and tear streaks, as my father holds his thumb between his index and middle finger and hangs his hand near my face.
"Got your nose!" he says.
That's what I've been told he said; I was too young to remember. But I was supposedly understandably upset at the potential loss of my nose, even when I was breathing salty, sunbaked air through it.
But he really did get my nose, or according to how genetics work, I got his; we both had the same nose, with a deep incision at the bridge and a slanted slope leading to a near perfect button tip. His nostrils flared up the same way mine does when he laughed too hard, and the tip of his nose twitched when he was trying to discern a particular smell, as does mine.
In his several years of working as a leather technician, his sense of smell had been altered to the point that he couldn't stand the smell of anything but that of leather in his very last days. The trait of being able to sense and discern known and unknown aromas was hereditary, and while my brothers didn't have as sharp a nose as mine, I had shown signs of being acutely aware of everything around me in the way they smelled. My father lived vicariously through me, taking me out on walks for me to smell freshly baked bread, the lemongrass on our porch, the dust in the city which smelled different from the dust of my hometown.
My father passed away in peace, and for the longest time afterwards he was spoken of in words riddled with whimsy and sullied by jealousy; which was luxurious in a lot of ways, because people who died back then still received a proper burial, and because we can't usually afford whimsy.
Whimsy is the mockery of the able, and it could be observed even when things were less irregular. Whimsy was in the way children walking back from school would capture grasshoppers in glass jars, and the fate of the creatures were theirs to decide, they would perhaps be thrown out once the children were bored, or if the insects were forgotten about they'd die and dry up inside of the jars.
Whimsy was in the windows of cars rolled half down and an illusion of a choice given to the children hammering on like rain on the metal body of the vehicle; if one kid slapped the other, they might be given money. Just might.
Sometimes they were blessed with a silver shower of changes thrown out without regard, and as the children would huddle on the dirt and mud, the car would be long gone. Some were less willing to pay for the show, and as soon as the children would remove their pressed limbs from those of the car to perform whatever task was asked of them, the car would speed away, leaving the children shouting and cussing at it.
And right now, whimsy was in abundance.
Somewhere far from the valleys and mountains and counties of this country which no longer had a name, as countries in wars often lose theirs to tomfoolery–a bunch of people were making the choices that determined whether young Labib would grow up without his left leg, whether the friendly cobbler down the street who has been saving money to go see his family would find more than their charred remains, whether the neighbourhood strays would have the hands feeding them or if they'd be forced to feed on the owners of the hands.
In my mind, if there is an explosion nearby, it probably means some General's wife burnt his lunch. If we were spared for another day, perhaps some leader's wife had satisfied him in bed. If we received news that several cities to the north had been burnt to a crisp, well, some important person's lover probably eloped with their younger sibling. Or maybe the General, the Leader, and the other important person simply sat for tea and decided a region should be bombed, laughing over checkers and praising the delicious pastry someone's chef made with layers of pistachio and cream in between.
My father, who got my make-believe nose lodged between his index and middle finger, who looked like a bear with his thick bushy eyebrows and a face full of beard, who guffawed and snorted more when he meant to laugh, used to love the pistachio-laden dessert my mother would make. After she'd lay down the layers of pastry, she would spread melted butter with the artistry of a painter with his palette knife, then she'd disperse toasted pistachios on top. I'd already have smelled the impending sweetness in the air, crept out of bed to not wake my sister or my brothers, more out of my disinterest to share the crisp corner pieces of the sweet than for the quality of their sleep. I'd climb halfway up my father's knee when he'd pinch me up by the collar of my dress, like our cat Mehrima transported her kittens by the skin of their neck. Nuzzled against my father, I'd doze off yet again.
When the elderly Ice-cream man with a weak voice and wispy white hair had his arrival bells stolen, the ones he'd shake overhead like a maraca to call upon the hungry, greedy children, I'd be one of the first responders to identify the sweet artificial smell of the fruit syrups wafting through the air and tickling the insides of my nostrils, and it would send me into an uncontrolled sprint, followed closely by my siblings.
Soon the other children caught on and whenever they saw us running, they followed, and the few faster ones would always beat us to the van. So I'd conspired with my sister to run aimlessly for a few times to get them off our tails. It worked.
My mother didn't particularly care for this peculiar genetic trait passed down to random members in my father's side of the family, and as my father would quiz me on the identity of random objects based on smell alone she'd just smile and go about her own task. My mother kept up this outlook till the day we all went out to dinner, and we'd already placed our orders. I was oscillating slightly, completely possessed by the aromas of cooked meat and spices, of flatbread over the flame. The dull, heavy smell of gasoline seeped in slowly, and my mother did believe me this time; by the time we all scrambled out of the place trying to explain that there might be an accident, the kitchen exploded and the brightness blinded us momentarily.
That was the first time in my life I'd smelled charred meat. I could tell it was different from the kind you're supposed to eat, and my mother had to hold me as I threw up violently on the side of the street.
Fuelled by my father's admiration and my own curiosity, I'd loved my nose. I'd loved how it looked like my father's but was two sizes smaller entirely; I'd loved how it would allow me to experience so many things without even opening my eyes. I took pride in my ability to enjoy the sharpness of the winter mist, the light, delicate fragrance of rosewater my mother made, the lingering scent of my father's perfume on his coat long after he was gone.
And then one day, it didn't feel like a blessing anymore.
The smell of people decomposing under the rubble that used to be their homes, the metallic scent of blood, and the brazen smell of gunpowder soon overtook that of flowers and food. I'd tried blocking my nostrils by shoving balled up pieces of clothes into them, I'd tried holding on to shards of a broken fragrance bottle, but none of it worked.
Now, as the smells of crushed almonds hit me, my mind is taken over quickly by a repetitive memory of my father and me.
I gasp for air, but all I smell are almonds, and they don't smell like my mother's hair oil or my sister's lotion. My eyes burn and fill with tears, my father keeps saying "Got your nose! Got your nose! Got your nose!" in my head, and I try to not think about the time we'd been taught that a component in the explosive C4 smells faintly like almonds.
I can't tell if there is a life after, and just in case there isn't, I try to hold on the very last time I see my father, even if it's in my head. I stand very still and before the first of many explosions start, the familiar smell of my father's beard eviscerates that of almonds.
Upoma Aziz is a writer writing significantly less than she should. Send her constructive criticism at upoma.aziz@gmail.com.
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