A fresh take on a classic Chanel scent opens up a memory portal for this Vogue editor

The way I look at it, people in Mumbai fall into two camps—those who romanticise the monsoon and those who despise its immobilising effects. I belong firmly to the latter. On one such grey Saturday afternoon, as the rain relentlessly battered my window, my mother and I resolved to make the most of our precipitation-induced confinement by tackling the long-postponed task of cleaning out the wardrobes. My maternal grandmother had passed away from leukaemia two years ago and we had been deferring the duty of sorting through her belongings for reasons only the heart can understand.

After hauling the dusty suitcases down from the attic, we began to unpack them, the off-loading causing small naphthalene balls to fall out and scatter in every direction. Gingerly, we took out the contents within: muslin storage bags with my nani’s most cherished possessions, her saris: Kanjivarams, tussar silk, cotton silk, Banarasi, chiffon, tissue and delicate lace. As I picked one up, faint traces of a familiar scent wafted through the air—her treasured Chanel N°5.

Some of my most vivid childhood recollections are entangled with this iconic scent, its elegance and poise mirroring that of my nani’s. She adored me. I was her first grandchild and my toddlerhood was spent being spoiled rotten. She would make my favourite chocolates from scratch (a heady mix of condensed milk and Hershey’s cacao powder), secretly slip me envelopes of money and ensure I wore only tailor-made dresses from fabrics she painstakingly selected. My every tantrum was catered to and every whim fulfilled.

Looking back, the memories of the summer vacations I spent in the house my mother grew up in are amongst my most cherished. As I grew into adulthood, our perspectives began to diverge and we didn’t see eye to eye on many things. Even though the love between us never wavered, my nani was complex, much like her favourite scent. A paragon of tradition, she insisted on doing things the ‘right way’, while I embodied rebellion. Our disagreements were frequent. I struggled to understand her need for decorum and generosity towards even those who would never reciprocate. And she couldn’t accept my blatant, vocal disregard for things I didn’t agree with. Our approaches to life were worlds apart. At the time, I didn’t understand it, but hers was a legacy of kindness and grace. I, on the other hand, was still discovering my path.