The Book of Everlasting Things by Aanchal Malhotra

Author:Aanchal Malhotra
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flatiron Books

* * *

Ordinarily, there would have been a letter.

Written on lined paper, it would have expressed the deepest desires of a besotted heart. It would have included something more special than the regular weekly notes, like a sher or a ghazal—this was a birthday letter, after all. It would have been folded in half, tucked into an envelope, and slipped discreetly into her hand, or deposited into the basket under her window, to be drawn up and read. Most importantly, in careful Urdu alphabets, the envelope would have borne her name. From Samir’s heart to his lips to the page, Firdaus Khan.

But a year and a half had passed, and not a single letter had arrived. Today, on her twentieth birthday, Firdaus opened the box of old letters and stared at their crisp corners, arranged in neat rows. Unread since his disappearance. Tucked beside them was the gold filigree bottle of ittar, which she removed and placed on the ground. Paying no attention to its glimmer, she shuffled through the letters, lingering over one from spring 1947.

Then in a hurried motion, she opened the envelope.

“Firdaus, I wish to be as profound as a poet or ornate like a painter”—she remembered this letter, remembered it well—“but I am only a perfumer, and my medium is invisible. It disappears into the air within seconds, disperses onto the skin like balm. And yet, to arrive at the creation of perfume, one requires the inspiration of something, someone permanent. Do you rememb—”

“Begum?” a voice called out before knocking on the closed door.

She shoved the letter back into its envelope and slid the box under the bed just as Fahad walked into the room. Finding her seated on the cold floor in birthday finery, her husband laughed and sat down beside her. She pulled her shawl tighter around her body and covered her naked head.

“What are you doing?” His eyes then landed on the ornate gold object. “What is this?”

Firdaus inhaled sharply.

“Aapko yeh pasand hai?” Fahad was surprised, for his wife never wore perfume. “Do you like ittar?”

“It–it’s very old…” Firdaus began nervously, reaching out to take it from his hand. But before she could, he uncorked it, dispersing the tuberose aroma across the entire room.

Fahad closed his eyes and smiled. He looked so serene, just like Samir used to when he inhaled something of insurmountable beauty. Her husband swayed gently, just like Samir used to. Bringing the bottle up to his nose, he inhaled again, a deep and cavernous breath, just like Samir used to. Firdaus stared, paralyzed by the similarities, her pistachio eyes following Fahad’s every move.

She continued to stare, but felt her body soften, its posture no longer defensive and uptight. The grasp over her shawl loosened, and the thick fabric fell down softly around her shoulders. “What does it smell like?”

Smiling at his wife, Fahad offered, quite unlike his reserved self, to apply some to her skin. She declined, but asked again, “What does it smell like to you?”

She listened to Fahad describe the floral aroma in words more similar to Samir than she could have ever imagined.

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