ALL RIGHT RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR
18/04/2025
Old books smell like rain.
Photographs like regret.
Closets like childhood.
We rarely talk about the smells of memory. But they’re the ones that cut deepest.
The handkerchief your father used to tuck into his shirt—
The bedsheet your grandmother washed in river water—
The room spray your sister used before her wedding—
They stay.
Even when people leave, even when walls are repainted, even when languages change—scent remembers.
So next time something smells like something, pause.
You’re not imagining it.
Memory has its own nose.
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA
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