Member-only story
Parasite and the smell of poverty
[Spoiler alert: Do not read if you haven’t watched the film].
Years ago, my grandmother handed a bar of soap to the cleaning lady at our home, as she was leaving after work. The lady smiled smugly as she took the soap, being reminded of the odour she brought into the home. My grandmother hoped the soap would resolve the situation, but the solution was short-lived. She and her unique smell were inseparable.
Humans have unique ways of storing memories, and our sensations are the strongest triggers to bring alive the past. When I think of our cleaning lady now, I can clearly picture her in synthetic sarees, their borders crinkled by dirt. The glass bingles would jingle on her bony arms, golden hoops dangling in her ear lobes that sag like a rooster’s wattle. She took swift steps in blue and white rubber chappals, the heels worn out by the pressures of walking. She knew where the dustpans and mops were, and how to navigate the home. As she cleaned room after room, we would light incense sticks to diffuse the mixture of the smells emanating from them. A strange mix of dirty floor water, a damp mop and her sweat.
None of us ever had the heart to tell her that she carried a strange smell, and the elders just assumed she wasn’t hygienic enough to recognise. If only she took a bath every day, this problem would cease to exist. Hence the idea…
