The Odor of Memory
Thilak was nearing fifty. He wore thick spectacles and sported grey stubble. He wasn’t married; he was a compelled bachelor. Now and then he drifted into brief affairs — friends with benefits — but nothing ever matured into marriage. He never quite knew what he wanted in a woman. Sometimes he expected a mother’s warmth. For him, sex was tied to deep emotion and mutual consent; he could live without it and often did, even when solitude pressed in. He had a strange problem with smell. Formalin followed him everywhere. Camphor in a temple, whiskey, even incense — all took on that same chemical edge. Lately it had worsened. Thilak always linked things to scent. A kiss smelled of her mouth; arousal smelled of an armpit. Fresh surgical spirit evoked ambition. Phenyl and wet corridors whispered of hostel loneliness. Dettol signaled pain. Petrichor meant depression. And formalin — formalin belonged to terror. Not ordinary fear, but a silent thing that lodged and stayed. He couldn’t...
