Aroomatherapy

Inessential oils

My favourite white floral scent is jasmine — while growing up we had 3 different varieties in our garden but the shrubs I loved the most were at my grandmother’s house. We had the “usual” bulby ones (Madurai Malli) , the night-blooming creepers that had a trellised wall built especially for them and very striking and then the reddish tinged ones with a sharp needly appearance. The ones I could never get enough of are mogra — these really dark leaved shrubs with the very occasional bud that knew how to bloom with aplomb — they would just be demure one day and then overnight they’d explode into unfurled awesomeness — taut, fragrant and utterly tantalising. They were always the target for flower-thieves and my grandmother and great-grandmother domesticated a stray-dog simply to scare them away though Blackie did nothing outside of eat with us at night and roam free. The trellised wall was built within the garden for the vines because the flower thieves would take away any that grew on the compound wall.

Our roses in Madras were rather blousy but it was in Ooty that I met so many magnificent rose species that I loved. For one summer I avoided an ice-cream parlor I totally adored because I was seen picking an irresistible peach rose — a movie-star rose — in spite of the sign warning against such botanical vandalism “Do NOT PLUCK FLOWERS”. I can see that gardener now — tan and inexplicably wearing a sweater vest every day no matter how relatively cold or warm it was — he threatened to tell the owners of the garden who were my parents’ friends. He had muddy black boots and that livid look on his face scared me to my bones. He was called “Gardner”. I didn’t dare tell my parents who are rather hide-bound in matters of discipline and lay awake worrying about how this theft would be exposed. I had another friend who was the lookout (and clearly a shabby one) for my flower-heist and she would carelessly suggest we go to the ice-cream parlor until I would widen my eyes to shush her into secrecy. It was a great sacrifice but snapping that flawless flower was not trivial. To make matters worse, I smuggled some water in a glass and hid it in the back where next to a heater it wilted even faster. I felt so horrible I took it to a temple as an offering even though it’s verboten to offer our gods flowers that have already been smelled. Triple-distilled guilt.

When we were invited to a party at my parents’ friend’s house I faked illness but was taken anyway and had to drink a very salty soup and stay away from the yummy food because of my faux-malaise. Gardner to my total astonishment was totally charming to me because I guess summer was coming to a close and he was angling for tips and he asked why I didn’t come to see sweet peas he had grown that would match my dress. It was my first conscious experience of class differences. As the ruler of his garden where I followed him asking about the sun and water requirements of all the flowers he was the undisputed ruler and we were gnats to be ordered around. But when I was wearing a pretty party frock and holding each of my parents hands feigning weakness but really in abject terror of being exposed as a floral criminal — then I was his boss’ league to be kowtowed. I wish I had had the fine sensitive soul of Socialist who was distraught at the downgrade of Gardner to the gardener but my relief was exhilarating — I could finally have ice-cream again! (I did feel the guilt later on while I went through my Fabian Socialist phase but not that afternoon when it felt pretty nice to be a plutocrat.)

Anyway this nostalgia should indicate how serious I’ve always been about smelling flowers. I resisted for many years the reductive notion of essential oils — which jasmine was this essentially? and which rose species precisely? But after the bruising experience of hiding that movie-star rose near the heater I don’t buy fresh flowers from the deli in the winter. And I feel room freshening sprays feel so synthesized. Armed with the knowledge of essential oils from my Urban Zen class I went in search of an oil called Valor — this is Spruce , rosewood , blue tansy and frankincense in a base of coconut oil. What is blue tansy? It is Moroccon chamomile. I didn’t find Valor in the mothershippiestore — Whole Foods and I decided to get jasmine as an ode to my childhood and since you can’t get jasmine at the deli.

Jasmine essential oil — is actually not an essential oil — it’s an absolute or an essence. What pray is the difference? Absoutes are concentrated, highly aromatic, oily mixtures extracted from plants. Whereas essential oils can typically be produced through steam distillation, absolutes require the use of solvent extraction techniques or more traditionally, through enfleurage. Enfleurage! That word was so exciting to discover when I Googled surreptitiously at Whole Foods wondering why on earth I needed to get Jasmine as a suspension in jojoba oil. In solidarity I got the Rose absolute as well leaving aside the Otto which is the pure stuff.

Here are what the aromas are meant to render to my room and derivative state of mind — Jasmine relaxes, soothes, uplifts, and enhances self-confidence. Jasmine is beneficial for the skin. It has been used throughout history for romance and attraction and for balancing the feminine energy of the body.

Rose has a beautiful, strong floral and sweet fragrance that is intoxicating and highly romantic. It helps bring balance and harmony with stimulating and uplifting properties that create a sense of well-being and self-confidence.

I got Jasmine thus for the purported purpose of this blog and Rose for Gardner. I don’t know where he is but he introduced me to real roses and for that I am ever grateful.