Journeying through fragrance

Can anything intangible, unlike a tangible tombstone, be everlasting? Yes. For no matter where we come from in the world — the feelings of loss (in the entire spectrum of the word), the hugely adaptable nature of the human condition, the curiosity for our own history, and the desire to be loved are everlasting. But unlike a tombstone, memory has a volition of its own. So how can memory be the muse, and a dependable one at that? Is the function of memory to heal, to reconcile, or to fester the wound? How do tangible objects — keys, pillow cases, records, letters, memorabilia, pens, broken watches and pots and pans — connect us to the intangible memories, joys and sorrows and silences?

Is it a survivor’s tool-kit, or the sealed vault which may never be opened in the normal course?

While everyone has memories about the events and rites of passage in their personal lives – of unrequited love, and unfulfilled ambitions – there is a collective memory of cataclysmic events, like the Partition which is firmly etched in the memory of a generation: in this case the generation to which the writers’ grandparents belonged. And so, the recall and recollection while they were still around to record their own memories stirred Aanchal Malhotra, the co-founder of the Museum of Material History on Partition, as well as a trained historian and literature student, to take up this ‘fictional family history’ after having written two nonfiction books: Remnants of a Separation and In the Language of Remembering. Incidentally, the Hindi translation of the latter, Yadon Ke Bikhre Moti, translated by Brigadier Kanwal Nain Pandit won the VoW award last year for the finest Hindi translation.

Most reviewers have called ‘The Book of Everlasting Things’ the story of Lahore, of calligraphy, of the olfactory senses and of unrequited love and, of course, Partition. The genre of Partition stories is vast, and growing. From Saadat Hassan Manto to Khushwant Singh to Yash pal to Fikr Taunsvi (Bhatia), Nanak Singh, Amrita Pritam, Manreet Sodhi Someshwar, there the need and the willingness to engage on why and what happened during those fateful months from March to October of 1947 in Punjab, with Lahore as the vortex, continues to engage attention. Often the protagonists were landlords, barristers, officers, army men, workers, poets, filmmakers, teachers, entrepreneurs and bankers, and some feisty women who defied the norms of patriarchy and broke new ground in asserting themselves, and writing their histories.

But this is much more than that. This is a tale of resurrecting a kaleidoscope of memories, for memory – both in the singular and the plural – has a way of breaking all barriers. When it reappears, it has often invested itself with its own hues, its own smells and its own unique story. In this novel, the protagonist Vivek Vij is an army deserter with an almost divine olfactory sense. He perfects the art of perfumery at Grasse, close to the battle theatre in France: a skill which he brought back to India and bestowed on his nephew Samir Vij who took after him in more ways than one. Samir is keen to recreate the ‘ittars’ which fascinated his Tayaji – especially because to Vivek, he was more than a son – his own puttar). This leads him to retrace the footsteps of Vivek and takes him to Grasse (in France) where amidst the war, he found solace and love in fields of flowers and fell in love with Ambrette, whom he lost in childbirth, and then there was little option but to return to his family in Lahore, and change the business from silks and textiles to that of ‘ittar’.

The words of Vivek were the lodestar for Samir all his life: “all perfumes are in some way, inspired by people. They become homages, dedications and tributes. In fact, a perfume without memory is like a body without a soul. One cannot create a perfume for a place, that dialogue is unsustainable...a perfume is always created for people in general, or a person in particular ... and our memories, our histories, our desires, our fears and even our interactions are like any other ingredient – a prized flower, a rare spice, a fine herb – and we must use them just the same.”

Intermeshed with this discourse on the art of perfumery is also the story of soldiers who were sent off to a Firangi war which has never really been told, except in citations, medals and mention-in-despatches. No mention at all of those who were cannon fodder or died unknown, and of those who lost touch with their paltans, and a studied omerta of silence for those who just got so fed up that they broke rank and deserted. The book is the story of World War 1, a war in which a million soldiers from Punjab fought for their Emperor in a land beyond the seven seas. “So much water separates us. more than that of fifty Ravis put together …it was the ocean, vast and wondrous, ungovernable and powerful, You will see it one day too…Samir, you will see the ocean. Kos and kos of nothing but salty water… liquid map all the way from Hindustan to France, which is where I first smelt ambrette, mushk dana, the base note of my Alif perfume”.

At a very basic level, the novel is a family story that reveals the history of two people — Samir and Firdaus. Samir is a Hindu who becomes Indian at Partition, and Firdaus a Muslim who becomes a Pakistani. Wrenched asunder between what they want and what they must do by the binds of duty, sutured together by forces of family and fate, they need to figure out what memories they must hang on to and what memories they must bury forever. While the story of Samir evokes pathos, for he had to move out after the fire which set his house ablaze, what of Firdaus, who coped with life through silence, consciously breaking off with her father whom she loved so much, for she felt that he should have intervened to save Samir and held him back for her. She rebuilds her life, but even though she remains ‘secure’ in her marriage, which was comforting and safe, Lahore was no longer the city of joy, where as a nine-year-old, she had locked her eyes with the ten-year-old scion of the Vij family, which connected the world of olfactory senses to that of calligraphy.

Because Aanchal learnt so much about the events of the days that had gone by, from her grandparents, she has created an intergenerational connect between the grandchildren of the main characters Samir Vij and Firdaus Khan. Firdaus had named her grandson Samir, and he came searching for the Samir on whom he had been named, and finally tracked him to Paris where he was staying with his granddaughter Anouk Adams. As they mourn and celebrate the lives of their grandparents, there is also the possibility of another two young people coming together, inspired by the Khazin-e-Firdaus (the keeper of paradise), the ultimate tribute of the senior Samir to the one and only Firdaus!

“Of all our senses, smell is the most fragile. It is the least understood, and also most secretive.” “It has an extraordinary power to exhume memory, transport us to different places, and even keep us connected to those no longer around.”

The writer superannuated as the Director of the LBSNAA after 36 years in the IAS, and is currently a historian and policy analyst.