E-mail to Holiday: The Smells of My Childhood

Holiday,

Smell of my childhood, are you kidding? You are talking to a nostalgic freak. I take refuge in the past anytime I cannot cope with the present. You know, back then the worst thing that can happen to you when you screw up is getting scolded, having to survive prolonged lectures of ethic, good manners, and we-are-working-hard-to-raise-you-is-this-how-you-repay-us? and/or, in worst cases, being grounded. But when I really think about it, it WAS pretty scary as well back then.

When I really put my mind into it, I can still smell my old elementary school classroom; the smell of chalk, blackboard, walls or even the familiar smell of fear when you realized that you forgot to do your homework and the teacher was walking down your isle to check. The contracting stomach; the cold sweat; the whatamigonnados. I remember the scent of newly purchased, newly opened text book. The mouth-wathering smell of orange-scented rubber eraser. The leathery smell of new shoes that I insist on putting on before I went to bed. The smell of freshly ironed white cotton shirt that felt warm when you put it on. The carbol disinfectant of the lavatory.

I remember the sweet, sweet smell of grass carried by the warm afternoon breeze down at the soccer pitch. The sour metal smell of the goalposts; plasticky smell of the net. In fact I still refresh my memory of that smell whenever I get a chance. a couple of months ago when I went home, I visited the old soccer pitch. As there’s nobody playing, I parked my motorcycle and walked to one of the goalposts, steel-grey where the white paint had been. Yeah, it’s still the same smell. I sat down and lit a cigarette. Inhaled deeply, eyes closed. The little kid within me played with flashes of goals scored, tackles made, goals denied, saves made, the post-match lumps and bruises, the victories, the losses.

I remember the smell of hurriedly prepared breakfasts. Tempe goreng, oseng-oseng kacang panjang, telur dadar, kerupuk kolong. I remember the smell of plastic raincoat I hid under as my father took me to school on his motorcycle on rainy days. I remember that in the minuscule universe of plastic raincoat all I can do was looking down at the dark grey asphalt road blurring fast below . I remember guessing where I was and peeked outside to confirm. I remember the smell of rain and the wet playground. I remember the colorful umbrellas in front of the classroom doors. Some poor souls was scolded by their mothers later that day for forgetting to bring their umbrellas back home.

I remember the salty scent of seaborne wind. The taste of sea-water. The smell of its vapor as I tried to dry myself after an hour of conducting the ultimate sin of swimming without adult supervision. I remember the shrimps I used as bait. I remember the Jerukan fish that I once caught; it’s a fish that smells, strangely enough, like lime. Everything about it is sea-smelling. The sand castle, the tiny crabs, the fishing boats scattered in rows across the beach. I remember the foul-smelling salted fish processing site. I remember the thick smell of terasi and petis in my Cina-Bagan friend’s house.

I remember the smell of roasted corn, of pink cotton candy, of bakso, of cheap and hardly fizzy drinks when my parents took my brothers and I to Alun-Alun (some sort of city square) on Saturday nights. Very rare Saturday nights. I remember the Bentoel biru that my father smoked. I remember the ‘gembus’(a donut shaped fried cake made from singkong—only available in Banyumas) vendor near the wayang kulit show.

Yeah, when I’m alone. Late, late at night. I can still smell them.

Yours truly,
Grim