Fragrance of Sandal Wood

 

The monsoon in Pune had turned every street into a silver river, but inside her Erandwane apartment, sixty-three year old Asha Pathak felt nothing, but arid drought. Her chest tightened each morning as if an invisible hand squeezed her heart. The coffee pot on the stove—once the herald of dawn—now sat cold. Memories of laughter and righteous debates over Sanskrit shlokas had eroded into echoes. Six years after her husband’s death, Asha’s intelligence, once her brightest flame, flickered under the weight of exhaustion and loneliness. 

Asha paced the narrow living room, tracing grains of the Shahabadi floor tiles. Each step whispered reminders of her son’s farewell hug at the airport, of the day she defended her doctoral thesis at Cambridge, of the time she convinced a class of sceptical students that the metaphors in the Bhagavad Gita weren’t archaic riddles but living truths. Now, every archived memory felt like a relic behind glass— seen but untouchable, unreachable.

A knock at the door jolted her back to the present. Rutuja stood in the corridor, soaked by rain, clutching an umbrella and a canvas tote. Her once-pencil-thin arms had filled out with strength, and her eyes—dark pools of vulnerability—now glimmered with quiet resolve. After her husband’s untimely death two years ago, Rutuja had retreated into graphic design assignments, illustrating corporate logos while her own creativity lay dormant. But in the past year, she’d transformed grief into art: fractured mirrors assembled into mosaic murals, paint splatters that mapped the course of tears and breakthroughs.

“I thought you might like these,” Rutuja said, lifting a sketchbook wrapped in marigold petals. “Ideas for Ganeshotsav invitations. I could use your Sanskrit expertise to add some verses.”

Asha’s throat tightened. She hadn’t taught in months. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered, touching the petals. 

Rutuja stepped inside, setting the sketchbook on the coffee table. “And I brought masala tea. Freshly ground ginger and cardamom.”

Steam curled around her fingers. “I remember how you used to compare poetry to spice—each word a flavour.”

Asha sighed, sinking onto the sofa. “I don’t even taste my own life anymore.”

Rutuja perched beside her. “I know the void,” she said softly. “When Pradeep passed away, I felt erased—like someone had scrubbed the colour from my skin.”

She opened the sketchbook to reveal a mural in progress: a woman’s silhouette filled with blossoming lotuses. “I painted this for myself. Every petal represents a moment I decided to try again.”

Asha studied the petals—each delicate yet resilient. “You found your way back through paint.”

Rutuja nodded. “And you can find your way back through song or poetry. There’s a music therapy workshop in Koregaon Park—three sessions. No performance, just exploration. We could go together.”

Despair coiled in Asha’s stomach. She remembered the night she’d played Raag Bhairavi for her husband, his deep hum answering her delicate notes. The memory ached like an open wound. “I haven’t sung since he…” Her voice broke.

Rutuja wrapped an arm around her. “He would want you to sing. You once told me that pain, like friction on sandalwood, reveals its fragrance. Let’s test that theory.”

Over the next two days, Rutuja took charge: she emailed Asha summaries of studies on music and neuroplasticity, delivered homemade jaggery laddoos to keep her energy up, and read aloud Asha’s favorite poems by Mirabai. Each small gesture was a lifeline. 

 x

When they stepped into the Koregaon Park studio, it felt like entering another world. Pastel walls cradled framed couplets from Kabir; potted ferns nodded in the corner. Rutuja inhaled deeply. “Feels like a haven,” she murmured.

The instructor, Ayan Chatterji, a man with dishevelled hair in his mid-fifties, greeted them with a sitar strapped over his shoulder. “Welcome,” he said. “Music is memory, emotion, and sometimes medicine. Today, we simply listen to our own stories.”

In the circle, a schoolteacher described humming lullabies to calm her restless daughter. A startup founder spoke of using rap verses to conquer his imposter syndrome. When Ayan handed Asha the small conch shell, she closed her eyes, feeling every heartbeat crater in her chest.

“I taught Sanskrit at Fergusson,” Asha began, voice trembling yet deliberate. “I once organized the first intercollegiate recitation fest. Students stood on stage, reciting verses that spoke of duty and devotion. My husband and I judged them under the banyan tree, sipping masala tea —arguing over whether Sita’s vow was strength or submission.” 

She paused, tasting both the accolades and the ache. “After he died, I silenced that tree. I silenced my own voice.”

Ayan nodded, returning the shell. “Thank you. Now, let’s give your voice a safe space to unfold.”

His exercise in call-and-response started with a simple Raag Yaman motif. Asha’s first echoes were tentative—like stepping into cold water. But Rutuja’s gentle harmonium accompaniment steadied her. By the third repetition, Asha felt warmth bloom in her chest, as if the notes were unlocking something inside her.

During a break, Rutuja shared her own evolution: how she’d founded a small collective of women artists to exhibit their stories, how after a no show first show, her fifth gallery show sold out and restored her belief in community. Asha listened, struck by the parallel of two lives reshaped by personal loss and art.

In the metaphor exercise, each participant compared their grief to an element. Rutuja described herself as a phoenix, ashes around her but wings still untested. When it was Asha’s turn, she closed her eyes and saw the silent halls of her empty home.

“My despair is like a monsoon cloud over Pune—heavy with rain yet refusing to pour. It casts a shadow over everything, but beneath, life thrums.” Her words felt like unearthing a buried treasure—painful, yet precious. “I’ve been afraid to let it rain.”

Ayan smiled. “Then let’s open the floodgates.”

Over the three sessions, Asha’s despair remained but softened its edges. She joined Rutuja in late-night calls planning collaborative events: a Ganeshotsav poetry recital with graphic-illustrated couplets, a community mural in Erandwane. In group improvisations, she wove Sanskrit shlokas into gentle lilting melodies. Kavya, a young violinist, asked about Alaap techniques. Amar, a retiring IT consultant, sought advice on finding purpose in retirement. Asha offered them both: technical clarity from years of teaching, and the vulnerability of her own grief.

Rutuja blossomed too. Watching Asha regain her voice, reignited Rutuja’s passion for art and mentorship. She designed invitations decorated with Asha’s favourite metaphors—sandalwood swirls, monsoon droplets—bridging text and image. When Ayan invited Rutuja to co-host a future workshop on art and music therapy, she accepted with a confidence she hadn’t known since college.

On the final day, the group composed a short piece: Rutuja laid down a sitar motif like a river’s murmur; Amar tapped gentle beats; Kavya’s violin soared. Asha’s spirits were lifted. She experienced no load on her shoulders. When it was her turn, Asha sang Bhagyada Laxmi Baramma.

The room fell silent before bursting into applause. Asha’s lips smiled, her eyes glistened—tears of release, not despair.

Back in Erandwane, the skies had cleared. Asha lit sandalwood incense in her puja room, inhaling its heady warmth. She dusted her husband’s CD player and went into a trance with Bhimsen Joshi’s rendering of Khamaaj, nodding at each note steady, each breath certain. She imagined the rain clouds finally giving way, each drop a revival.

Later that evening, Rutuja arrived with two cups of rose masala chai and a freshly sketched mural proposal for the community centre. They spread it on the balcony table overlooking wet lanes and string lights. Asha traced the lotus petals in Rutuja’s design.

“I never thought I’d feel this alive again,” Asha confessed, her smile catching on the breeze.

Rutuja smiled, her braid glinting under the fairy lights. “And I never thought I’d find my purpose by walking beside you.”

They sat in comfortable silence, the air filled with sandalwood, rain’s afterglow, and the promise of melodies yet to be sung.

In their shared grief and creative rebirth, two women had discovered that even the deepest darkness could yield a fragrant dawn. From shattered silence, they had stitched verses of resilience, each word a petal unfolding in the light.