Scenes from my childhood.…
I’m sitting cross-legged in my grandmother’s puja room. Her gods sit enthroned, their faces aglow in the light of the brass oil lamp. Chants mingle with the sound of the conch shell and the tinkle of the brass bell. Offerings of fresh fruit, sweets, coconuts, betel leaves, fresh flowers are laid out in brass thalis. And among them rises a thin trail of sandalwood-scented smoke from the agarbattis.
Its evening and I’m watching my grandfather as he meditates—eyes closed, silent, motionless, rudraksha beads in his hand. No gleaming brass here, no laden offerings of sweets. Just a few fresh flowers and agarbattis in a simple stand.
I’m following my mother as she walks through the rooms at dusk, in the ritual eponymously called sandhya. A silent prayer on her lips and a few sticks of mogra-scented agarbatti in her hand, which leave a trail of peace and benediction behind her.
Diverse rituals which existed in perfect harmony, all linked by the fragrant fumes of the agarbatti.
The magic within
I was fascinated by the agarbatti. There was nothing in its outward appearance to suggest the magic within. Why, for instance, did the momentary flare as it was lit die down yet never go off? I would gaze spellbound as the glowing ember at its head worked its way down, slowly consuming its tall, stick-thin body. Dead ash drooping, yet clinging on, till it fell off in a heap of shapeless soot. And more fascinating still, the sinuous waves of the rising smoke.
the trail of smoke
The plume of smoke rose straight at first, then swirled and dispersed. The grey wisps rose up in fantastic patterns—curling, curving, mingling, before vanishing into nothingness. Never could I predict their path—each followed its own—guided perhaps by its whims or by destiny. Or perhaps at the mercy of every breath of air, or a gust of breeze. Sometimes, I would surreptitiously reach out to grasp the almost-solid column as it rose, but the smoke would curl around my fingers—a playful and insubstantial will-o’-the-wisp!
The perfumed world of incense
From vast temple halls of worship to the tiny nook occupied by the household deity, incense has carried man’s prayer to his gods for thousands of years. Across regions, religions, and civilisations; its magic has endured. In its many forms—shapeless lumps, paper, sticks, cones or as complex spirals, its fragrance has served many purposes—practical, mystical, medicinal and even aphrodisiac! From the Biblical myrrh and frankincense, the floral rose and jasmine, the popular sandalwood and precious agarwood; incense has perfumed the lives of the living, the sleep of the dead and spirits of our ancestors.
A protective smoke screen
My childhood days are long gone, but my fascination with the agarbatti continues. I have taken to lighting a citronella stick every morning as I sit in my balcony—to repel the mosquitoes that brought us down with crippling chikungunya last autumn. A different purpose, a different fragrance, but the rising spirals of smoke still hold me in their thrall.
A life well-lived
Perhaps there is something in the agarbatti that is conducive to contemplation—for I begin to see it as the parable of our own lives.
The measured length of our lives. The flame of life, once kindled, burning its way down slowly and inexorably towards the end.
The gentle, serene glow that sustains itself, not affected by the tempests that snuff out the brighter candle flame. No flare-ups, no burn-outs—a life lived in quiet dignity, knowing one’s worth yet never claiming the spotlight.
The ability to let go of the dead past. To free ourselves of the burden of old regrets that weigh down our shoulders and bend our backs.
Never to judge ourselves or others by outward appearances. It is the qualities that we hold within us that define us. The calming influence of lavender, the healing goodness of camphor. The true purpose of our existence may be to enrich other lives by letting the changing winds take our fragrance where it will. To soothe like sandalwood, or to protect like citronella. Or perhaps, just to perfume the lives of others by our mere presence!
The final chapter
And thus we reach the end of our lives. The flame of life is extinguished and our mortal bodies lie in a heap of ash. And like the smoke rising from the dying agarbatti, so perhaps do our souls. Hovering together initially, frightened and lost, fearful of what awaits. But the gentle wave of an unseen hand fans them apart, each to follow its own destiny. To rise, merge and finally become one with the universe.