The Wafting Scent of the Afternoon

Yesterday, my house help had fallen sick, leaving me to balance the Mikado of domestic logistics while chasing the green ticks of a normal busy Wednesday. I tiptoed across my calendar like someone performing slow-motion Tai Chi—strategic, focused, and painfully aware that any wrong move could send the whole day toppling over. I haven’t felt that level of concentration since I played Minesweeper with the ferocity of a child desperately trying to impress her father.

But of course, I keep forgetting—this is Namma Bengaluru.

I left home at 3:15 pm sharp to pick up my son, dodging Slack bullets despite bravely setting my status to Away. If you know Bangalore, you know we are an intellectually evolved species. We believe in minimalism—especially when it comes to traffic signals. We also have unshakeable faith in all kinds of turns, our favourite being the U-Turn. To reach my son’s bus stop on the main road, I need a U-Turn. To return home after picking him up—another U-Turn.Think of it as a spiritual loop. A karmic circle. A Bangalorean rite of passage.

Now, competing for U-Turn rights with Vibgyor buses, water tankers, and mid-day farm vehicles (don’t ask why Bengaluru needs farm vehicles at 3 pm—my only theory is the farm-to-table salad kits have become very literal) feels like wrestling Yokozuna.

Somewhere in the middle of U-Turn #1, I checked the NeoTrack app. To my horror, my son’s bus was still at the school gate. Meanwhile, the parents' WhatsApp group resembled a newsroom on election night. Before I could decipher anything, a BBMP alert popped up: due to V.V.I.P. movement on Old Airport Road–Kundalahalli, traffic might be “slightly congested.”

Of course. Why wouldn't it be?And why didn’t I already know?

Well, I blame Trump—who had my undivided attention for the past hour, first running late for Davos and then potentially declaring emotional war on Greenland.

Truly, so much can happen in a day.

As I simmered under the very sun I crave on other days, stuck in motionless traffic, wondering what my next game move should be—he appeared.

God’s own messenger.

A big wide grin, sky-green shirt, and in his hands, white pearls floating above slender green stems. The flower seller at our junction—the man who unfailingly offers me roses every day as I unfailingly decline, while silently wondering who on earth buys flowers while dodging traffic.

He approached my window. And for the first time, I rolled it down—just a little, just to my shoulders—and smiled back. Today, I noticed he carried three bunches: a bright medley of yellows and magentas, classic reds, and a humble bunch of Rajnigandhas.

His grin widened.

And with the flair of a seasoned astrologer reading my aura, he didn’t offer the colourful bunches. He simply extended the most elegant option—the slender, poised Rajnigandhas—towards me.

Even from my seat, the perfume reached me. And instantly, I was transported. I could smell my childhood in those sticks.

The light turned green. The orchestra of honking resumed. I nodded, rolled up the windows, and began preparing for the U-Turn.

Rajnigandha (or Nishigandha) is woven deep into the Bengali emotional landscape. It is the flower of duality: It decorates wedding gates, bridal braids while also accompanying goodbyes and condolences at funerals.

Few flowers live such a double life.

Few flowers are invited to both celebrations and silences.

In Bengali homes, the fragrance of Rajnigandha isn’t just a smell—it’s a memory trigger. It’s the soft white undercurrent of our lives. Pure, simple, graceful, and unassuming. Never flashy. Never overwhelming. It enters a room like a whisper, but it lingers like a truth you’ve always known.

I’ve been reading The Vegetarian by Han Kang, a book about our primal ties with nature (I’ll write about this brilliantly terrifying book once I truly recover from it). Maybe that’s why my thoughts kept overlapping, merging, and dissolving into this one scent—this calming, haunting, unmistakably nostalgic fragrance.

I picked up my son eventually—after U-Turn #2—and crawled home about 1.5 hours later.But the Rajnigandhas?They stayed with me long after.