Of Fragrant Paths - Manisha Kulkarni-Ashtikar

You know me well enough by now. You know that my heart finds its home in the wild woods, among the leaves and flowers, the trees and vines. The title, the first few lines… you’ve grown adept at guessing where my stories will lead. The great poet-saint Tukaram once said, “The trees, the creepers, the denizens of the forest are our kith and kin,” and so it is in my own home. In my courtyard and the little space behind my house, a garden of my kin has blossomed. For every tree, every vine I have planted, I have chronicled a lifetime of memories in my heart—of their birth, their childhood, their first bloom, their joys and sorrows. Today, I bring you the story of Jasmine and the Frangipani from my courtyard. Or is it a story? Perhaps it is a lament. Don’t stop reading at the word ‘lament’. I know that in this age, few hearts are tender enough to bear the weight of another’s sorrow. A story entertains, but a lament? A lament makes you wonder… if someone will ever pause to read your own. And yet, history is witness that every great story was first born from a place of great pain. So, call it what you will, but I know this: any soul with a little green left in it will love to read on. The Chameli… jasmine. A delicate, beautiful flower that unfolds upon a creeping vine. Its pink buds blossom in the evenings, revealing petals of the purest white. Its fragrance is a sweet spell that bewitches the soul, drawing you closer. A flower you could recognise by its scent alone. How could anyone not love it? I certainly did. And I dreamt that my own courtyard would one day be filled with its divine perfume. When we built our house, I had purposely left half the land open, a sanctuary for these green companions. I loved adding new members to our family, and their childish rustling in my new life as a wife brought me a quiet, profound joy. And so, I brought home a jasmine cutting. I planted it in the open space behind the house. It was the monsoon season, and it took root at once, sending forth new leaves. It grew tall, climbing higher and higher, and before I knew it, the vine was in its full glory. At night, it looked as though the constellations had descended from the sky to rest upon its leaves. The entire house would be enveloped in its fragrance, a sacred aroma that filled the prayer room. Plucking the freshly bloomed flowers and weaving them into a , a fragrant garland for my hair, became my new ritual. It was time-consuming, yes, but the joy of the task can only be known by the one who does it. The jasmine that could perfume even a lifeless thread! When I wore the in my hair, I would feel an unfounded sense of beauty wash over me. The simple jasmine was my makeup artist, enhancing my simple form. At school, my colleagues would say, “You look lovely! But with all the housework… this exhausting commute… how do you find the time to make a ?” “I make time for the things I love,” was always my reply. Their praise was a balm, a single compliment that could wash away all my fatigue. And sometimes, when I could steal a few more moments, I would make garlands for them too, sharing that simple happiness. And then, there would be more praise! …But my mother-in-law was always wary. “The scent of jasmine attracts snakes,” she would say, insisting they would coil themselves around the vine. I never knew why, but she had a deep-seated fear of them. I ignored her words and planted the jasmine anyway. She was quiet then, but when the vine began to flower, she started a relentless campaign, a single song she sang day and night: “Tear down that vine.” Knowing I would never do it, she entrusted the task to her son and fell silent. Perhaps it is natural to fear for one’s life so intensely in old age. Our young blood is fearless, heedless of consequences. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, her son finally cut down the vine. I felt as if the blow had landed on me. The sorrow was immense, but I had other green children in the garden who needed my love. Seeing them sway joyfully in the courtyard helped my heart turn green again. Time moved on. The play of sun and shadow continued. The unending stream of life flowed on. The jasmine in the courtyard vanished, and soon after, following a brief illness, so did the mother-in-law who gave our house its soul. Both vines, the one that perfumed the yard and the one that graced our home, disappeared into the abyss of time. In those days, I began to see snakes everywhere, in my dreams and in my waking hours. Snakes… coiling around my happiness… snakes, ready to strike! I thought to myself, I could bring another jasmine cutting and it would take root, but how does one bring back the people who are gone? Just as I was settling into my life, shedding the skin of a newlywed, this unexpected blow struck me. On the surface, everything seemed normal, but a deep loneliness had taken root inside. My mother-in-law was gone, but it felt as if, in her passing, she had blessed me with the gift of new life, a new beginning. My job, at least, was a solace. My mind could lose itself among the students at school, and the commute offered glimpses of the nature outside. That was my single ray of hope. For years, the desire to do anything new, to decorate the house or cultivate the garden, vanished. But a woman must learn to recover from her grief and put her house back in order. And so, new paths of vitality prepared themselves to welcome me once more. I began to walk them, taking gentle steps forward, building a new world as I gazed at the infant in my arms. My neighbour, Savita, was a blossoming vine herself. She too loved the touch of green. It was her sincere wish that every courtyard be as fragrant as her own; she seemed to have taken a vow to spread greenery. By her door grew every kind of creeper—Mogra, Jai, Jui! And among them, a jasmine swayed, beckoning to me each time I passed. Savita gave me a cutting. This time, I decided to plant it at the front, near the compound wall, so it could climb onto the terrace. I worried it might not take, but when you pour your heart into something, it is destined to succeed. So too did this little stem don a green saree. It adorned itself with leaves, it blossomed, it flourished. It began to spread its starlight in my courtyard, and the dormant trunk of my own heart began to sprout new leaves. My soul began to bloom in the perfume of jasmine. During those days, some repair work was underway at our house. The compound wall was also being renovated, and painters were at work. People constantly walked past the jasmine. Every day before leaving for school, I would warn them, “Please don’t step on the jasmine vine. Don’t leave any materials near it.” But their focus was on the construction. In the process of their work, they were completely oblivious to what was being crushed under their feet. It is the way of people, isn’t it? In the pursuit of a great task, we fail to notice the small, precious things that slip through our fingers. Wounded by the constant blows, the jasmine began to hurt. Its leaves started to wither. I held onto the hope that it would heal in a few days, but the wound was at its very root. It never recovered. It turned black as soot and withered away. My second jasmine had met its end. My heart felt just as scorched. To watch your child die before your very eyes… no, no… It’s unthinkable. No one should meet such an end in the prime of their life. Both times, the jasmine I planted had flourished, but our companionship was cut short. Did my home not agree with the jasmine? Or was there no creativity, no life-giving force in my own hands? But then, how did it take root in the first place? Was its life destined to be short? The pain of losing someone in their youth is a pain that the one who leaves never knows. This jasmine I had loved so dearly was only a momentary companion. And yet, I cherished the memories of its brief, glorious bloom. Time has a way of inflicting wounds, but time is also the only medicine. For the moment, I put aside the thought of planting another jasmine. But I couldn't bear to see the empty patch of earth it had left behind, so barren and desolate. Across from our house stood a white Frangipani tree. One night, a fierce wind broke off some of its branches. The next morning, I took one of those fallen branches and planted it in that space. It was like a question in an exam: . My choice of the Chafa, the Frangipani, proved to be the right one. The soil, still holding the memory of the jasmine’s scent, had been consecrated. It made the path easier for the Frangipani that was to follow. How many of us do that? The one who traverses a difficult path, full of pits and thorns, should ideally clear the way for the one who comes after. But often, they don't. They know, and yet they walk on. But this silent vine understood. And so, the Frangipani took root without delay. Its leaves, slender at the stem and heart-shaped at the tip, framed the beautiful clusters of white flowers. And these too were fragrant blossoms. If the jasmine flowers were stars descended to earth, the Frangipani flowers were like white gold bursting forth from a cotton pod. They seemed to smile at me, blooming with a fresh zest, despite knowing they would soon be offered and become part of yesterday’s garland. Seeing the Frangipani, how could I not remember the famous poems? One that speaks of secrets held close: And another, which sings of a silent yearning: Two different poems, but their essence is the same. Must everything be spoken aloud? Some things should be kept like pearls in the oyster shell of the heart. Whether the world understands or not, we have gathered those beautiful moments. Our hands are full. A discerning soul will search for the depths of the heart on its own. There is a profound strength in silence. This Frangipani calls to me from a place deep within, and my own soul answers. Is it the Frangipani, or the Jasmine? The Jasmine, or the Frangipani? Seeing the Frangipani reminds me of the Jasmine, but what does the vessel matter? The soul within, the one that perfumes the world, is the same. The conflict in my mind dissolves. It feels as though the Jasmine has merged with the Frangipani, become one with it. Duality dissolves, and a sense of oneness awakens. At the foot of the Frangipani, the Jasmine found its salvation. And I think this is what life should be. We should all find such a salvation for someone, a purpose for our birth. These flowers, with their fleeting lives, offer their entire existence at the feet of others. While we are always trying to fill our own hands, we must learn to fill the hands of others. May everyone experience the joy of giving. In the company of these trees and vines, such fragrant thoughts drift through my mind. And now, after reading the story of my Frangipani and my Jasmine, if similar thoughts are stirring in your mind, let them roam free. Let something beautiful bloom from them. ( This article is the translated version of the original article सुगंधी वाटा written by Manisha Kulkarni Ashtikar published in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 )