Yesterday, it rained.
And as the first drop kissed the earth, the air filled with that familiar, soul-stirring scent. Petrichor, they call it – but to me, it has always smelled like childhood, like home, like memory.

That scent – so universal, yet so deeply personal.
It always takes me back to Kannauj – a small town in Uttar Pradesh, known not for its size, but for its soul.
The Perfume Capital of India.

One of the few places in the world that doesn’t just bottle fragrance – it bottles memory.
Yes, Kannauj makes a perfume called “Maati”, crafted using centuries-old deg-bhapka technique to capture the petrichor – the scent of the first rain on parched earth.

In childhood, when our bus or train would begin to slow down near Kannauj, men walking along the coaches, would be selling perfumes – Shamama, Gulab, Khus, Jafraan, Maati…

In a world of paraffin-based, synthetic perfumes, Kannauj still believes in the poetry of attar (ittr) – traditional, oil-based perfumes.
For me, this city isn’t just geography.

It’s my nani’s home.
It’s summer holidays, Lal Pede, Sitaram ke samose, big swing on Gular tree (Indian Fig tree) near the house, railway tracks, and waving at countless trains from the veranda.
It’s going to school on a Tanga (yes, drawn by a horse, that one)!
It’s wood-fired rotis slathered with ghee, earthy-scented dal, and finger-licking delicious sabzi.
It’s the joy, love, and endless pampering.

While nani is no more (God bless her soul), somehow, every time it rains,
A little part of Kannauj returns.
And I smile, just like I did when someone waved back from a train.