Sandalwood, Biscuits and Grandad.

         Even today I can close my eyes and smell him, it was such a distinctive smell. He always seemed to be clean, pristine, freshly bathed; the faint odor of his favourite Mysore Sandal soap mingled with the unique fragrance of the sacred ash that adorned his forehead, chest and arms in the signature triple stripes of his caste. The aroma of sandalwood is forever enshrined in my memory as his; even his clothes would have that faint fragrance, being stored in a large sandalwood cupboard.

         He was tall, a shade over six feet; for his generation in particular, and for Indians in general, which made him stand out physically in any gathering. By the time I knew him he was nearly bald with just a fringe of white hair, and his insistence on regular ‘haircuts’ used to reduce his numerous grandchildren to helpless giggles.

         He walked tall, literally; his bearing being erect and stiffly correct even when well into his nineties. He had a long stride and I remember accompanying him on his walks as a child; two steps and a skip of mine being equal to one of his strides.

         I would chatter non-stop to him as he walked along, swinging his cane and just tapping the ground with it, using it as accessory long before that term was known in India. He would be mostly silent, either from natural reticence and maybe meandering thoughts; or from the sheer overwhelming flood of words that I released. Occasional indulgent flicks to my ponytails, or a gentle hand on my shoulder would reassure me that the silence was a benign acceptance of my childish prattle.

         We respected him and were a little in awe of him, as is the case with most young children; but the slightest incongruity or hint of absurdity would vastly amuse us. He used to have a set of complete dentures and he never really got accustomed to having them in his mouth. A result, just before he ate; he would extricate the dentures with careful fingers, and place them just to the left of his plate. The idea of anyone removing teeth in order to have a meal was the source of much merriment. Our stifled giggles and elbow jostling to convey cognizance of the joke would eventually lead to a ‘look’ from his austere eyes. We would then subside cowed for a short while, before something else would cause a tide of whispers and nudges.

         One had to be intrepid to sit next to this august figure, but there was an advantage to it too. All the vegetables he deemed too ‘chewy’ for his gums would be deposited in the next plate, extra helpings without pleading for it. Lunch was always gobbled down in a hurry before escaping to the large backyard to wash our hands and exchange ‘Did you see’ and ‘Do you know’ snippets of information.

         He was a voracious reader and his room was lined by tall bookshelves. Indian homes did not have a room set aside as library or study; and his room barely had place for the few bits of furniture in the room. It was a long and large room by any standards but pride of place went to the books. Other than a narrow wooden cot, a small table, and a pedestal fan; the sandal-wood cupboard and a writing desk took up what little space remained.

         The writing desk was made of rose wood, a gleaming burgundy brown; it had four small drawers atop for envelopes, stamps and the other what-have-you of correspondence. A deep shelf was the body, with room for reams of different types of writing paper, creamy deckle-edged ones, a special pristine white with gold edges, and even a faint violet one for condolence messages.

         The desk had two glass jars atop it, memory plays strange tricks as the years pass by and these loom large in my mind whenever I remember him. Even today, the sight of these old-fashioned containers takes me back effortlessly in time.

         The glass jars were the cylindrical ones with glass stoppers as lids, and they were airtight. One contained the ‘butter’ biscuits so typical of the small bakeries of Bangalore. These were locally referred to as just ‘salt’; you walked up to the counter of these ubiquitous little purveyors of baked goods and asked for a half kilo of ‘salt’. The knowledgeable customers were given a look of approval by the dhoti-clad vendor.

         They were about one inch in diameter, about a half inch thick. The bottom was dark in colour, just a shade less than burnt; the top was an even golden brown. The sides were creamy yellow or dark ivory and they would be arranged in herringbone pattern in the jar. My granddad would layer them in, just so, building it right up to the top, so that one could take out each biscuit intact.

         I would gaze at its powdery perfect surface, the even gold top patterned by some random indentations. The baker would prick the surface of the dough to prevent it from rising too much, but I found them as fascinating as the dusting of a few freckles on an otherwise prefect, creamy complexion.

         When I bit into it, a small delicate bite, just nibbling at its edge; the biscuit would crumble onto my tongue and the taste would assault my mind. A hint of butter, a little tang of pepper, and the taste would ebb like a receding wave.

         I can see him when I smell sandalwood and taste those biscuits when I remember him.

Word count:931