These smells I know of.

There's a certain way a book smells. Its not nice, or something you'll remember once its encased in your high and mighty bookcase. Its almost invisible, lurking behind certain pages you'd normally skim, skip even. You'll smell it, only if you want to (which I'm guessing in most cases you wouldn't). Therein lies its charm. Its self-assured, satisfactory, elusive(?) charm. If you notice long enough, you'd know each author has their own smell. I smell Chingri Maachher Malaikaari in an old Sidney Sheldon, boiling with secrets and sauces that make it bestselling. A Roald Dahl smells of a Kookie Jar fudge brownie, peppered with words, which otherwise would be limp, but in this delectable concoction become beautiful. A Mahfouz smells of cinnamons--the one spice I haven't yet fully understood.

There's Zadie Smith who smells like Andhraite cuisine--so spicy that you'd want to tear it apart to figure out the myriad senses that go into its preparation, yet so wholesome and satisfying that you can't help a generous second helping. Amitav Ghosh plays with your senses--like a good Thai Red Curry which smells fishy, yet not, tangy, yet not. But stringed with ingredients that strike at the right place. The place called home.

Then there's Ian McEwan who smells like a four-tiered wedding cake, a Crème brûlée ....so pretty you're afraid it might crumble, so delicate you're almost afraid you're damaging it.

Samit Basu is good, old-fashioned Biriyani-- tingling new tastebuds everytime, producing unique and utterly compelling sensations. Reminds me sometimes of Chopsuey---put in all known, mundane ingredients, yet produce something remarkably original.

These smells.
These books.
These writers.

They just know.

They just know how to.