It’s funny how senses play a trick on you or remind you of times long past.
For example, there’s a perfume that one of my high-school girlfriends use to wear (and I’m implying that I had more than one girlfriend during my senior years), which every once in a while I smell it on someone and suddenly I’m taken back to the time when I was 17.
Then there’s the smell of Sunlight dish-washing soap that reminds me of our first few days in Canada. I remember living in a “Vancouver-Special” apartment building (3-4 storey building that looks like a matchbox with absolutely no character; thankfully, they stopped building those in the 70s). I remember coming home one day from school and the apartment being filled with the aroma of Sunlight; ever since then, I associate the smell with the sweet smell of my new home.
And then there are those moments that you want to forget but never can, albeit it’s pushed to as far back in my head as possible. I remember our first meeting with our immigration officer in Vancouver in 1988, who was “helping” us with our settlement as landed immigrants. I remember this kind man asking me for my occupation. Given that I didn’t speak English, I simply stared at him with a blank look until I heard my dad tell him that I was a “student”.
Shortly after, my dad and the officer began to converse and I remember asking my dad what was said. “The officer mentioned that he was very happy that he had been assigned to our family and that he didn’t have to deal with the recently arrived Indians as very few of them spoke proper English and that, due to no fault of their own, they smelled… it must be something they eat”.
Many years later, I’m still troubled by those comments and every once in a while it sends shivers down my spine. This morning was one of those days. I was standing at the bus stop and a young man was standing in front me that had a sweet smell of Indian cooking and spices; and I was suddenly taken back in time, right down to the room where we met the immigration officer for the very first time.
Thanks for reading,
Armin
PS. I’m now blessed with the sweet smell of Indian spices, home-made roti, fresh sabji and other wonderful smells of South-East Asia, thanks to my extended family.
Related blogs: Racism is just "peachy"!
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| Black Cumin Plant (picture: courtesy of Google Image) |
For example, there’s a perfume that one of my high-school girlfriends use to wear (and I’m implying that I had more than one girlfriend during my senior years), which every once in a while I smell it on someone and suddenly I’m taken back to the time when I was 17.
Then there’s the smell of Sunlight dish-washing soap that reminds me of our first few days in Canada. I remember living in a “Vancouver-Special” apartment building (3-4 storey building that looks like a matchbox with absolutely no character; thankfully, they stopped building those in the 70s). I remember coming home one day from school and the apartment being filled with the aroma of Sunlight; ever since then, I associate the smell with the sweet smell of my new home.
And then there are those moments that you want to forget but never can, albeit it’s pushed to as far back in my head as possible. I remember our first meeting with our immigration officer in Vancouver in 1988, who was “helping” us with our settlement as landed immigrants. I remember this kind man asking me for my occupation. Given that I didn’t speak English, I simply stared at him with a blank look until I heard my dad tell him that I was a “student”.
Shortly after, my dad and the officer began to converse and I remember asking my dad what was said. “The officer mentioned that he was very happy that he had been assigned to our family and that he didn’t have to deal with the recently arrived Indians as very few of them spoke proper English and that, due to no fault of their own, they smelled… it must be something they eat”.
Many years later, I’m still troubled by those comments and every once in a while it sends shivers down my spine. This morning was one of those days. I was standing at the bus stop and a young man was standing in front me that had a sweet smell of Indian cooking and spices; and I was suddenly taken back in time, right down to the room where we met the immigration officer for the very first time.
Thanks for reading,
Armin
PS. I’m now blessed with the sweet smell of Indian spices, home-made roti, fresh sabji and other wonderful smells of South-East Asia, thanks to my extended family.
Related blogs: Racism is just "peachy"!
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