Twilit scents of the seasons: Shiuli & chhatim are as evocative of autumn as mogra is of summer

Once the moisture-laden monsoon winds have given way to crisper, cooler air, stepping out in the evening in Kolkata is a treat for everyone's olfactory senses. As the dancing dhakis drum Ma Durga to her Bengal abode and then also herald her return to Mount Kailash a scarce 4 days later, autumnal nights are redolent not only of incense, camphor, sandalwood and coconut coir but also the sweet, spicy perfume of shiuli (parijat or harsingar) and chhatim (alstonia).

In warm climes - like much of India - where the daytime temperatures are not conducive to outdoor leisure, night brings not only respite from the heat but time for rest and relaxation after a day's hard work. And Mother Nature thoughtfully and generously provides a soothing sensory treat for those twilit hours. Even in cityscapes, leafy branches and vines that go unnoticed in the hurly-burly of the day suddenly become unexpected, perfumed arbours once night falls.

Searing summer and overcast monsoon nights in most parts of India play host to the headiest of perfumes from mogra, bel or chameli (jasmine), champa (frangipani) and raat ki rani (also evocatively called hasnahana) to the aptly named rajanigandha (literally, night aroma) and the honeyed madhumalati vine. And, of course, my personal favourite, the gorgeous, globular blooms of the kadamba or kodom tree, one of which is just outside my bedroom window.


The change of wind direction that augurs autumn also brings the different but equally intoxicating aroma of the feathery saffron-stemmed creamy white shiuli and chhatim, which for Bengalis are harbingers of Maa Durga's arrival. Sadly, western botanists and colonial rulers ignored local perceptions of shiuli, calling it Nyctanthes Arbor-Tristis or 'Sad Tree' and chhatim was dubbed Alstonia Scholaris because its wood was used for blackboards and pencils!

But Kalidasa often mentions the scent of the Saptaparni or seven-leaved chhatim tree in Raghuvamsa to evoke autumn, and its aroma is even cited in the Ramayana to herald the same season and underscore Lord Ram's longing for his abducted wife Sita. And Bengalis know that its ancient association with scholarly pursuits (not just classroom equipment) led Rabindranath Tagore to set up the open-air Chhatimtala space on the Visva-Bharati campus in Shantiniketan.

Nocturnal or moonlit pleasure gardens whose fragrant, warm night air enchanted divinity and royalty alike have been around for ages in India. Jyotsna Udyans and Pramododyans feature widely in ancient classical treatises, as the profusion of night flowering shrubs, trees and vines in India offered infinite, seasonal variety for immersive olfactory experiences. No wonder many Indian noses are naturally finely attuned to the scents that nightfall brings as the seasons change.

Even those who made India their home were no exceptions. Babur commissioned a classic charbagh on the left bank of the Yamuna, but his great-great grandson Shahjahan transformed it a century later into Mehtab Bagh or moonlit garden, replete with not only mogra and chameli, but also subtly scented cockscombs to attract nocturnal songbirds. From those perfumed bowers he would longingly gaze at night upon Mumtaz Mahal's glowing white marble mausoleum.

We no longer have moonlit gardens, but Nature still keeps her promise and sends us tantalisingly perfumed messages every season, even in the most built-up spaces. Standing on my balcony wistfully watching Ma Durga, forehead streaked with sindoor, disappear round the bend in the road heading for the Ganga to begin the journey home to her husband, my nose picks up that whiff of shiuli and chhatim. I can't see them, but they are there. Just like Ma Durga Herself.