The Smell

Dominic M Sangma

There is a smell in the room, very distinct yet he can’t figure it out where does it emanate from. It reminds him of so many things: the smell of the wet clothes that have been forgotten to put on the line for days, the smell of the damp room in monsoon, the smell of the dinghy hospital corridors, the smell of the rotting rice in the cooker that has not been cleaned for days, the smell wafting out from trash bin every time he opened it to throw garbage, the smell of the menstrual blood of the girl that recently lied next to him, the smell that emitted from the mouth of his uncle that died in front of him recently from stomach ulcer —  yet he can’t specifically relate it to anything. It comes and goes, he sniffs through the air, sniffs through his things, but it escapes his nose before he could name its source. He sniffs his own body yet he could not pinpoint its origin. He burns the scented candle, sprays the freshener,  and for sometime the smell seems to vanish, yet before long it wafts through his nostril.  It starts to irritate him and almost leads him to madness when he suddenly realizes that the smell emanates from within. And it is the smell of his decaying soul.