Shreya had begun to weave herself into Arjun's dreams more often than he cared to admit. It was then that a memory suddenly surfaced, vivid and unbidden.
On the morning he was to return to duty, there had come a soft knock at his door. The moment he opened it, he found Shreya standing there. She looked so achingly lovely that, against his will, his gaze lingered upon her. Time itself seemed to pause; all sounds around him fell silent.
There was a simplicity in her smile that slipped straight into the heart. Her eyes held a serenity so profound that anyone who looked into them felt themselves gently dissolving. He knew he should not stare, yet his mind was caught in some invisible enchantment.
Without reason or hesitation, he simply stood there, drinking her in.That morning, after offering prayers at the nearby temple, Shreya had returned home radiant with quiet joy. The white saree adorned with saffron floral motifs made her glow like the flame of a sacred aarti. The vermilion tilak on her forehead, placed with devotion by the temple priest, enhanced the luminous beauty of her face. In that instant, there was something divine about her—a perfect embodiment of devotion and gentleness merged into one.
Her thick, dark, curly hair cascaded around her face like monsoon clouds drifting across an evening sky. Through those tumbling locks, her face peeked out—pure, tender, bathed in moonlight, and filled with an unspoken magnetism. Arjun's eyes remained fixed on her, as though the moment had frozen in place.
Feeling his unwavering gaze, Shreya's breath caught for a fleeting second. A faint blush crept up to her ears. In shy embarrassment, she lowered her lashes and, without a word, placed the prasad into his open palm. As she did so, their fingers brushed—light as the touch of breeze upon a leaf, setting off a soft rustle within.
Unable to speak while he continued to stare so openly, she could not even tell him it was her birthday. For the first time, a strange tremor had risen in her heart. Overwhelmed, she did not linger. Turning away, she hurried to the sanctuary of her room.
Later, when it was time for him to leave for duty, Arjun had not even managed a proper goodbye. He felt a sharp irritation at his own awkwardness. Who knew what she must think of him now?
Perhaps she even doubted his conduct. Whatever had happened, he regretted it deeply. He was angry with himself for his lack of grace—he hadn't even asked her to sit.
"Some people say the fragrance of the Harsingar flower is the very scent of Sharad, the autumn season." There is an exquisite delicacy and a hint of love hidden in those words. When these flowers scatter upon the earth, a sweet, intoxicating aroma dissolves into the air—one that lingers like an incomplete caress, reminiscent of an old, half-forgotten love.
On autumn mornings, when dew drops rest upon the petals of Harsingar, it feels as if nature has adorned the earth with her gentlest touch. Its perfume floats in the breeze—slowly, silently, without clamor—like a lover's name whispered only within the heart.
Sometimes love itself is like the Harsingar: it blooms with the first ray of morning light, only to fall by the time the day advances. Yet its fragrance remains long after, woven into breaths and memories, peering through that secret window of the mind where an old season still lingers.
It is said that in Sharad, the sky is at its purest—perhaps because love, too, feels most true in this season: without pretense, pure and tranquil. Like the Harsingar, which, even after falling, leaves behind its sweetness, just as love, even after parting, preserves its lingering tenderness.
Some people associate the scent of Harsingar with the essence of autumn. Dr. Suresh Pant once wrote, "I don't know why, but it seems to carry the arrogance of aristocracy—the pride of having been born during the churning of the ocean alongside the gods. The conceit of blooming in Indra's garden. What a strange virginity this is! Bloom quietly at midnight, and scatter by dawn, so that no mortal hand may touch what was meant for the gods alone."
This tree is a symbol of both joy and sorrow: joy for its beauty, and sorrow because its flowers fall so soon.Today, dressed in a shimmering white-and-saffron saree, she looked exactly like a Parijat flower—equally enchanting, equally sweet. That same delicate fragrance had seemed to fill the air of his room that morning.
The Parijat is considered the flower of the gods, born in heaven and beloved by the deities. It blooms at night and by morning sheds its blossoms upon the earth, where they are still regarded as sacred and offered to the Lord.
Looking at Shreya, one could forgive a hundred lies. Her innocent laughter and the graceful mastery of her speech were enough to captivate anyone. Yet in her eyes there always lingered a subtle sadness, which she skillfully concealed behind her smile.
Shreya, too, carried the quiet pride of aristocracy. That was why she had always considered Arjun beneath her. In every word she spoke, every gesture she made, there gleamed a strange self-assurance. Her refined taste in clothes, her measured conversation, and the cultivated smile that never left her face—all suggested that life had nurtured her with great affection and care.
She had married Arjun—a simple, average-looking young man who had joined the army as an Agniveer. Deep within Shreya, a wave of quiet rejection had always stirred.
She often thought, "I studied physiotherapy. I work in a hospital, improving people's lives. And he is just a soldier—who knows where he will be posted after four years?" Truth be told, there was no match between them.
Arjun felt the same divide. In her presence, he saw himself through a lens of inferiority. He knew that between them lay not only an emotional distance, but an invisible wall of class and breeding—one he feared could never be breached.
© Copyright Pushpa Chaturvedi
All rights of publication reserved.