I love Delhi. Love her despite her flaws and excesses. I may bemoan her scorching summers and icy winters, but there are two seasons when my frustration melts away—spring and autumn.
The reason for my changed temperament is this beauty:
Parijat, or Night-blooming Jasmine, deserves no less a title than the Queen of the Night.
Its heady scent works like a spell, pulling me into the world bygone, one that feels both ancient and familiar. It’s as if the fragrance carries stories from generations past, and once you it reaches you, any resistance is futile. You are claimed by its nostalgia, its charm, its fragrance.
Though the tree blooms from July through December, it is during autumn that its fragrance truly takes over, intoxicating everyone around it. In fact, if there is ever any research done on the tree’s impact on people’s behavior, we will get strong evidence to back my hypothesis up.
In Bengal, the Parijat, known there as Shiuli, is more than just a flower. Mythology has it that even the Gods couldn’t resist its heady fragrance during Samudra Manthan.
Since the flower blooms at night, you get to see the flowers scattered on the ground in the morning in a bed of delicate white petals tipped with orange
It adorns the rituals of Durga Pujo as the harbinger of Sharadiya Utsav. The flowers woven into garlands or offered to the goddess.
For me, these Parijat blossoms aren’t just flowers. They are time capsules, carrying pieces of my childhood, greeting me with every autumn breeze.
Fingers in symphony 