…to be wrapped and cradled in an enchanting scent upon your skin is a magic all on its own…―
I have the smell of India in my hair. I’m unwilling to wash it out. It’s warm and intoxicating. It’s a musky dry smell of sun-baked clay, of dusty books, of sandalwood and a hint of rose. There are remnants too of mouth-watering street food with notes of coriander and tamarind. A touch of smoke from wood fires and the breeze of mountain air linger still.
Oh India, I wore you on my skin and in my hair for, but a moment and you have infiltrated my senses and lodge now firmly in my memory. I am infused with you. Swathed thus I will draw upon these cues to ferry me back to you, until I walk again on your surface and among your people.