The Shiuli Magic

 

There is something about Bengal that quietly enters the heart and stays there.

I spent my college days in Durgapur, and somewhere along the way, Bengal became more than a place I lived in. It became part of the way I think, my appreciation of art and aesthetics, and my love for the simple pleasures of life.

From the aromatic chai at the roadside jhoops to hot bread pakodas eaten without much thought, from the endless variety of mishtis to the little food rituals that seem to belong to every corner of Bengal, there is an unmistakable warmth to its everyday pleasures. Nothing needs to be elaborate. A cup of tea, a plate of something fried, a sweet picked up on the way to the hostel, a leisurely conversation that stretches longer than intended. Somehow, Bengal makes room for all of it.

Yet, if there is one thing I will always associate with Bengal, it is the magic of the Shiuli season.

Shiuli, or Parijat, with its tiny white flowers and orange stems, has always felt like the heralding of Pujo to me. The moment those little flowers begin appearing, an entire season seems to arrive with them. One glimpse of Shiuli, and my mind is filled with a montage of Pujo, from the careful painting and intricate detailing of Kali Ma idols to the smell of fresh paint and clay, the bustle around the pandals, the bright sarees appearing everywhere, and friends making plans for pandal hopping. I can almost see the evenings spent wandering from one pandal to another, eating, laughing, talking, and simply being part of the celebration.

And then there are those autumn mornings.

There is something almost cinematic about an autumn night scented with Shiuli and the fragrance lingering in the air.

Many of my friends have told me about their childhood autumn mornings. They would spread towels on the floor before going to sleep, wake up in the morning to find them covered with fallen flowers, and gather them carefully for Puja.

They speak about it with such tenderness that, listening to them, I sometimes feel as though I had been there too. Their memories have somehow become a part of mine. A childhood lived yet again, through someone else's stories.

Some friends have also told me about Tagore's references to Shiuli and the poignancy with which the flower is woven into Bengal's cultural imagination. Perhaps that is what makes Shiuli feel larger than a flower. It carries a season, a landscape, a culture and an entire way of remembering.

I saw Shiuli scattered around my garden today morning.

Every time I see those little white flowers lying on the ground, something in me travels back to simpler times. Times when there seemed to be enough time to notice nature, talk about literature, wander around a campus on an unhurried morning, and have conversations that did not need to lead anywhere.

Maybe we Indians had mastered the art of la dolce far niente much earlier.

We simply never paused long enough to give it a name.

There was a time when doing nothing was not something that had to be earned. A morning could simply be a morning. A walk could be taken without counting steps. A conversation could stretch without anyone checking the time. Beauty could be noticed without being photographed. Memories could be made without immediately being documented.

Perhaps that is what Shiuli brings back for me.

It brings back the feeling of having time.

More time to look outside the window. More time to bask in the sun. More time to walk without purpose, talk without urgency, read without distraction, and simply get lost in the memories of the grand life we have already had the pleasure of living.

And perhaps that is the real magic of Shiuli.

It falls quietly through the night, and by morning, it has filled the world with beautiful thoughts and hope.

 

The 80s Are Back. Sort Of.

Recently, my Instagram feed seems to have been taken over by the 80s.

Everyone is asking AI to show them what they would have looked like in the 80s.

And suddenly, people who weren't even born then are discovering their apparently fabulous 80s hair, dramatic clothes and wonderfully grainy photographs.

The world is getting all nostalgic for a decade they may not have even lived through.

And at this point, I am beginning to wonder if I had an entire 80s life and simply failed to attend.

The funniest thing about this trend is that we are recreating the retro era with poses that never really existed back then.

These bright smiles, relaxed couple poses and perfectly curated grainy photographs look wonderfully 80s. Except I don't remember anyone looking this relaxed in the retro pictures I've seen.

Nobody was trying to look effortless. They simply stood there, slightly embarrassed to be posing, trying not to look vain while also making sure they looked good enough to be photographed.

But what has stayed with me from the many albums I have browsed through over the years is the killer stare.

As if smiling too much or looking too pleased might make them appear vain, so even the slightest curve of a smile was carefully withheld.

And yet, there was so much that went into that one photograph.

The time someone took to get ready. The excitement of knowing a camera was coming. Waiting for the camera from the neighbourhood to arrive. Finding the right light, choosing the right shade.

The photograph may have lasted a few seconds, but there was a whole little event around it.

Talking of photographs reminds me of the one almost every Indian household had after a wedding in the yesteryears. The newly married couple, dressed in their best, sitting or standing together with that shy, coy smile that somehow said everything without saying very much.

May be that is why the Ranabaali photograph of Vijay Deverakonda and Rashmika Mandanna felt so familiar and relatable despite belonging to a very different time. Their restrained expressions, stillness and almost solemn intimacy had the quality of those old photographs. It made even people in their twenties nostalgic, and soon people were recreating the pose, some with filters and some through photoshoots.

It takes a lot for a still photograph to hold that kind of intensity and presence. There is so little to hide behind. No movement, no dialogue, no music. Just two people, a pose and whatever emotion manages to come through.

This is what makes photographs special. Their minimalism can leave emotions completely bare, allowing people to see something, feel something and connect with it.

Photographs do more than preserve how people looked in an era. They preserve something of how people understood the moment. How much they prepared for it. How conscious they were of being seen. How intimacy was expressed without having to perform it.

And perhaps, years from now, someone will look at our photographs and wonder about us too.

They will see the forehead touches, the back hugs, the walking hand in hand, the almost-kisses and those carefully captured “candid” laughs that we have slowly accepted as the standard language of a couple photograph.

They may wonder how we had the time to curate such perfect moments.

They may wonder how so many intimate moments of our time happened to have a camera around to capture them.

And, just as we are recreating photographs from their time today, they may find a few of ours worth recreating too.

And call it oh so 2020s.

#80sNostalgia #Nostalgia #CouplePhotography #OldPhotos #VintagePhotography #IndianNostalgia #IndianWeddings #RelationshipPhotography #PhotographyTrends #ByTheWindow #JananiSrikanth

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A journey called life

Journey.

It is an interesting word.

We usually imagine a journey as something that has a destination. A beginning, a route, a few milestones and eventually, a place we are trying to reach.

Life does not work that way.

There is no fixed destination. 

The route keeps changing. 

People come into our lives and leave them. Some stay for years, some for a season. Some change the course of our lives. Some leave quietly.

Circumstances change. The world around us changes.

And we change with it.

Yet through every beginning, every ending and every transformation, there is one person who remains present through the entire journey: ourselves.

Perhaps that is why the foundation we begin with matters so much.

For me, that foundation was my parents.

Growing up in a home where my choices were not constantly questioned, where my place in my parents’ lives was never in doubt, and where I was allowed to make mistakes, learn, grow and find my own path shaped my life in ways I can never fully put into words.

It gave me something more valuable than certainty.

It gave me the freedom to be myself.

And this Teachers’ Day, when I think of the many teachers and gurus who have guided me through school, college, my master’s degrees and beyond, one person inevitably stands apart.

My mother, Mrs. Rajalakshmi Kannan.

My high school Chemistry teacher.

My teacher in so many other things.

My lifelong guide.

She taught me to believe in myself. To believe in the goodness in the world. To face disappointment and challenges with grace. To spread hope and positivity by living those values rather than simply talking about them.

She set a standard so high that simply trying to live by those ideals makes a person more refined, more gracious and, hopefully, a little more classy.

I have a particularly fond memory of Teachers’ Day from school.

We had a tradition where the 10th standard students would wear sarees and take classes for the day. Each of us would be assigned a teacher whose classes we would handle.

For most teachers, I imagine, it was probably a lovely opportunity to let the students have some fun, manage the class for a day and perhaps enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee in the staff room while the students took over.

My mother had other ideas.

She gave me her lesson plan.

She gave me her syllabus.

And she expected me to actually teach it.

So there I was, in a saree, standing in front of her 8th standard class, teaching aluminium extraction and balancing equations, while she watched from the window.

What stayed with me was not the saree or even the Chemistry.

It was the seriousness with which she trusted me.

She did not give me a simplified version because I was a student. She believed I could take her class, follow her lesson plan and do the job properly.

That confidence stayed with me.

Perhaps that is why I always give my best even when nobody is watching.

When you take something upon yourself, you do it with integrity.

You do it with care and precision.

I think that is one of the most valuable lessons she ever taught me.

Today, I wish she were here.

I wish she could read my books, listen to my thoughts, add her perspective, challenge me, enrich my ideas and perhaps even write her own books.

There is so much I would still like to share with her.

But she is still part of my journey.

In the way I think.

In the values I try to live by.

In the strength with which I face disappointments.

In the hope I try to pass on.

And in the lives of the many students she taught, who went on to accomplish so much.

Some teachers teach a subject.

Some teach us lessons.

And some become part of the person we spend our entire journey becoming.

I was fortunate enough to have one of those.

Happy Teachers’ Day, Amma. ❤️