Damn My Sensitive Nose

There is a toss up you make when you breathe in India. Nose – smell it, get it stuck in your nose, your lungs; mouth – taste it, chew it, want to vomit. Each particular smell and each particular person has their preference. I, for instance, would much rather taste rotting vegetables than raw sewage. *shrug*

There are these amazing moments where you can’t believe that anything ever smelled bad in this country. I wondered through the Tibetan market yesterday, getting my hands covered in dust and dirt, getting the word “ancient” under my fingernails. And I walked out of this one little shop, my favourite, “Dolma 19” (the little Tibetan lady is so old I’m sure she has the history of the world written inside the wrinkles of her face) … and there was this smell. I know it’s dorky, but you’ve all peeled an orange. And you know that smell that you get on your fingertips, when you get orange under your nails and your fingers are a little sticky? It was like that. Just drifting through the air, this amazing, 3rd grade snack smell.

Of course, among the diesel and rotting vegetables and sewage and feet, it didn’t last for long. But it was there, however brief and beautiful and strange.