India, July 22 -- My nani's home always smelled of champa and mogra. The flowers weren't just in her garden - they lived in her hair oil, her cupboards, and the folds of her saris. The scent clung to lazy summer afternoons spent shelling peas on the verandah, the slow, rhythmic winter oil massages, and to the quiet devotion of her evening pujas, where incense mingled with sandalwood paste, ghee, and the soft flicker of diyas. Her home was steeped in these fragrances - sacred, tender, unforgettable.

My mother's house smells of oudh and affection. A deep, smoky richness that feels like a warm shawl wrapped around your shoulders. Every evening, she lights a thin stick of oudh incense - a small, private ritual that feels like a quiet prayer....