Mehndi — Mahika Gandla
The scent stays longer than the stain.
Green and earthy, like crushed herbs and the inside of an old book. You could never really describe it, only recognize it. Like mallepulu at dusk. Like the scent of your nannamma’s shawl after she had spent all day in the kitchen.
Nannamma insisted on doing the mehndi herself, even though her wrists had begun to ache more often. She held the cone pinched between her fingers, squeezing slow lines onto your wrist. Her nails are chipped, her skin creased like old leather, but her movements were steady. Certain. Remembered.
You sat cross-legged on the cracked veranda step. The sun was heavy on your shoulders, sweat prickling at your hairline. Overhead, the fan hummed low, stirring the scent of jasmine and masala chai cooling on the windowsill. Cicadas called out, their buzz blending with the scrape of the cone on your skin and the faint rustle of her cīra.
No stencils. No glitter or seashell designs like the ones your classmates picked for weddings. Just her hands — remembering what theirs forgot. A trail of mango leaves coiled into paisleys, a peacock nestled under your wrist bone, tiny half-moons brushed along your fingertips. The paste slid out in dark ribbons, a quiet kind of remembering traced into your skin— a language older than words, carried by her hands alone.
When she finished, she dabbed lemon and sugar water over the drying paste — sticky, cold against your skin—wrapping your wrist in soft cloth stained from years of use. The sticky sweetness held the mehndi in place, promising a deeper, richer stain.
You already knew how the stain would fade:
From deep red to brown,
Brown to orange,
Orange to almost nothing.
The paste hardened into a rough shell, tugging stubbornly at your skin whenever you moved, holding you still for a little longer. Your finger twitched, itching beneath the wrap, but Nannamma’s steady hum matched the rhythm of your pulse and the slow drying of the mehndi.
The stain deepened.
Rusty red.
Then Brown.
Then orange.
Then nothing.
But the scent—the scent remained. It clung to you in places you didn’t expect: the hollow of your elbow, the crease of your wrist. You didn’t mind it. You just noticed it. A quiet echo, still whispering, even after the color had disappeared.
A week later, your flight home.
The airport smelled like recycled air and metal.
The light was flat. Your skin, cool now, had no color left.
School started again. You sat through math, filled in Scantrons, passed by people who’d never seen mango leaves stained onto their skin.
At home Amma stopped mentioning the house.
When she spoke of Nannamma, her voice softened — too careful, as though the memory might break if handled too roughly.
But you didn’t need her to say it.
You already knew. Mehndi always fades.
While folding laundry, a scent rose up from a churidar tucked deep in your suitcase. You pressed the cloth to your face.
There it was.
Green. Earthy. Familiar.
The scent of the veranda. Of her kitchen. Of chai and jasmine. Of her hands cupped gently over yours, steadying them as the cone moved.
You held it there. Let it fill your lungs. It didn’t last long.
Sometimes, the scent finds its way back — quiet and uninvited — riding the heat off of a pan, caught in the folds of a shawl, drifting from the palm of your hand when you’re not expecting it.
The stain is gone.
But the scent stays.
She doesn’t stay.
But somehow, she always returns.
Mahika Gandla is a sophomore from Massachusetts who loves art and anything vintage. When she’s not crafting something otherworldly or hunting for unique vintage finds, she’s spending time with her Doberman and indulging in her sweet tooth. She was previously published in The Weight Journal and is always looking for new ways to blend creativity and learning, she’s eager to see what comes next.