I wish someone would bottle up the scent of the earth. Yes, scent. Not fragrance. Raw scent. Period.
Petrichor, they call it. The gasp of the parched earth as the first drops of rain caress it.
They say that if you are anaemic, you are more acutely aware of the scent of the earth. I was at one time. All it took was a drop on the parched earth to send me into a crazy whirlpool of lust for the earth. Now I am healthier and unquenchably thirsty.
The scent of the earth is primal, raw, unrefined, evoking a basic instinct that calls out to your most primordial emotions. It catches you unaware, knocking you out of breath, before you start taking in that steamy scent in big ravenous gulps. A tantalizing prelude to the deluge that is bound to follow.
Much like the song Shararanthal Thiri Thaannu Mukhilin Kudilil. At least, I think so.
Have you heard the song without the visuals? I would rather, you turned a blind eye to the visuals. Like most old songs, the scenes are worth ignoring though I must say Jayabharathi has her own appeal. But let us forget about that for now and focus on the song per se and what it does to you.
And no, I don’t mean the words, though I agree they too have their own sensuous appeal. The beat, the rhythm. That’s what I mean.
It’s the blood in your veins that responds to that song. Your pulse resonates to the rhythm of it and you can smell the earth and taste its sweat. The awakenings of a thousand lives comes to rest at your fingertips and you want to lose yourself in some bottomless ocean that swirls insanely around you. Musky, sensuous, lusty.
And the voice… Ah, The Voice! But let’s not get distracted here.
My love affair with the song began when I was probably about 10. I didn’t know it then. I just liked the sound of it. We are going stronger.
And every time I smell the earth, I hear the song and my blood quietly responds to it. Till I get on a lone boat and float away to lose myself in the deep blue sea.