The Scent of Sandalwood - Mariappan Jawaharlal

Amma, my mother, tried to smile as the train pulled away from Egmore Station. One moment, she leaned out the window; the next, she was a blur. And just like that, she was gone.

The station was packed. It was summer in Chennai, and the heat was unbearable. The crowd was thick, sweaty, and noisy, with hawkers yelling, porters running, and train whistles screaming over it all. Amma was headed to a port to board a ship back to Sri Lanka. We had no quiet corner to say goodbye.

We couldn’t speak clearly. The noise swallowed our words. Amma reached for my hand and held it—not tightly, just a steady, patient squeeze. I remember thinking she was trying to communicate something through her grip—maybe comfort, maybe courage, perhaps both.

I stood beside her, pretending to be older than I was. The crowd, heat, and the dust helped me mask my emotions. But Amma must have seen it. My eyes had grown heavy with unshed tears. I saw tears fall quietly from her cheek. She said nothing. Neither did I.

She held my hand silently. I felt her gentle squeeze, speaking through touch. Then she handed me an old cloth bag. I took it without a word. After her train left, I sat alone on a bench and opened the bag. Inside, I found a yellow sari, snacks, and some money—maybe fifty rupees, two or three dollars back then. That undid me.

I cried—not quietly, but with the full, gasping sorrow of a child who has just realized the world is capable of letting go. I cried from Egmore to Meenambakkam train station, loud sobs shaking my thin frame, tears soaking my face, shirt, and soul.

“Amma!” I kept calling. The word escaped from the deepest part of me, raw and trembling, filled with pain and longing. I walked nearly two kilometers to my uncle’s house, still choking on tears. Strangers stopped me and asked what had happened. All I could say was, “My mom left me.”

That moment carved something deep into me. By the time I arrived, I was done crying. My aunt greeted me at the door. I smiled, said something cheerful, and put on the mask of excitement, as if this were just another adventure. That night, I lay on the floor, as was common in many Indian households, on a paai, a handwoven straw mat. To soften it, I folded Amma’s sari and lay on it. It wasn’t just cloth. It became her.

The sari smelled faintly of sandalwood and turmeric, which lived in every corner of our home. Ayya kept small sandalwood blocks and would rub them against a flat stone to make a fine paste, then gently apply it to our foreheads each morning. Amma used turmeric not just for cooking but also for washing her face. These scents were part of our rituals, woven into our days.

To this day, I keep sandalwood in my home. But it wasn’t the smell that helped me sleep. It was what lay beyond it. As I curled against the sari every night, I felt Amma—her presence, warmth, and stories. I heard her voice in my head, telling tales I had memorized by heart. Her sari soaked in my tears, held my grief, and wrapped me in memory. I wasn’t just sleeping on fabric. I was asleep inside the only version of home I had left.

I used that sari every night for years. When it became too worn to sleep on, I folded it gently and used it as a pillow. It still carried the scent of home.

Time passed. The sari thinned; so did my childhood. I became very good at pretending I didn’t need anyone. It turns out, loneliness can make you wildly productive.

In school, I soared. I almost consistently ranked number one in my class. That was the system in India; students were publicly ranked, and parents wore their children’s academic standings like medals. I excelled not just in studies, but in debates, acting, poetry, science fairs, just about everything I touched.

But there was no one to celebrate with. I was all alone. No one to brag about me. No one to take me to a movie or restaurant. No one waiting at the gate to say, “Well done.”

Sometimes, a teacher would smile and pat my back. A classmate might whisper, “You’ll be famous someday.” But at home, the medals, trophies, report cards, and certificates stacked quietly in a cupboard and collected dust.

And somehow, though I had every reason not to, I stayed on course. Well, I did rebel, ran away from home, and lived on the streets. But I got back on track—just a steady path carved through self-discipline and the faint hope that it all meant something. Even now, I’m surprised by that.

Years passed. I made a life. I earned degrees, met the love of my life, built a career, and learned to navigate the world on my own. But I rarely looked back.

Until the day I held my firstborn daughter in my arms.

Katherina was so small, so impossibly perfect. In that moment, I was overwhelmed by a feeling I had no name for: wonder, pride, fierce, aching love, the kind that scrapes your soul raw.

And it hit me.

This is what my parents must have felt when I was born. My father, a simple man from a village, must have held me like this. Must have dreamed big dreams for me. He didn’t say much. He wasn’t taught how. But sending me away must have been the hardest thing he ever did.

I had thought they let go of me. But maybe they were holding on in the only way they knew.

How many nights did they lie awake, wondering how I was? How many times did they wish they could hear my voice? Did Amma cry into her own sari the way I had? How many times did Ayya want to hold me tight, or carry me on his shoulder?

I never told them I loved them or that I was sorry for holding a grudge against them.

My last interaction with Amma was twenty-eight years ago, less than twelve hours before she died. My wife and kids were away, and I was taking an overnight train from Chennai to Madurai, where Amma and I were both born.

She reached for my right hand as I said goodbye. She held it a little too long. I sensed she didn’t want me to leave. She tried to give the same gentle squeeze she always had when I was a boy, but her grip was weak. She was fragile, worn down after giving birth to eleven children and a lifetime of hardship. She couldn’t walk anymore and needed help even to eat.

She wanted to say something. Her voice was so faint, I had to lean close. I knew what she was trying to say: You are inside my eyes, as she had told me a thousand times before. Her eyes welled up as she tried to lift my hand to her lips. I now know how much effort that simple gesture must have cost her.

But I was impatient. I pulled my hand away and rushed off to catch my train, something I’ve regretted ever since. I was a grown man with a family, but I failed again to return a simple act of love.

Early the next morning, I got the news: Amma had died in her sleep.

She died holding that unspoken goodbye.

Looking back, I realize I didn’t have to do anything grand to make my parents happy. I could have taken Amma and Ayya to lunch, taken them on a trip somewhere, held their hands, told a story, or made them laugh. I could have bought a sari for my mother—any sari, even a cheap one. I could have gotten a watch for my father, something he would have treasured. Any of those small things would have meant the world to them.

A few years later, Ayya passed away. I didn’t go to see him. At his deathbed, he looked around the room. He saw my two brothers, then turned his gaze toward the door, hoping to see me. He must have quickly realized I wasn’t coming. And with that, he closed his eyes for the last time.

Sometime after, my brother gave me Ayya’s old watch.

To my parents, wherever you are,

 I miss you.

 I hope you know that now.

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Dr. Jawa is a professor of mechanical engineering and associate vice president for research and sponsored programs. Originally from India, he writes about memory, migration, and family across borders and generations.