It arrived like a whisper, soft, unexpected, and deeply familiar. I was walking through a quiet stretch near Ambedkar University in Delhi, the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders. The city air was thick, the kind that clings to clothes and thoughts. And then, briefly, something different drifted in, delicate and earthy. I stopped. The smell was not strong. It did not announce itself. It felt like a memory and waited to be noticed.That faint but unmistakable scent pulled me back to the long summer mornings in my hometown, in Assam. The fragrance wrapped around me – the same way it once filled school grounds just before summer holidays began, and clung to the fingers of teachers who leaned down to accept garlands made of the tiny, cream-coloured flowers.Illustration: Pariplab ChakrabortyIt was Bokul. For a moment, everything turned still. Steam curled up from a nearby tea stall, and somehow that familiar scent drifted itself through it, as if Assam had quietly slipped into Delhi.Back home, Bokul trees (Indian Medlar) meant the beginning of slow mornings. On June 30, the last day before summer vacation, we would walk into the class with Bokul garlands. The flowers were so light they barely registered in our hands. One by one, we would offer them to our teachers, smiling shyly, as the fragrance drifted not so shyly.Then, vacations meant daily morning walks. We would wake before the world, before the sun climbed too high or the crows began calling. Barefoot on damp soil, we would wander through the trees, scanning the ground for fallen flowers. Picking Bokul couldn’t be rushed; it required care, almost reverence. Each flower was small, perfect, fragrant. We would tuck them into the folds of our frocks, the scent clinging to the cotton, following us home into kitchens and verandas where garlands were threaded with whispers and laughter. Years later, as I stood in Delhi holding a paper tea cup beneath a Bokul tree, it was smaller than the ones back home, but the flowers were the same. Some had fallen onto the pavement; I bent down, picked one carefully, and smiled. The fragrance filled my chest. My shoulders loosened. Something inside me exhaled.Sanket, a friend, was with me that day. He noticed the flower in my hand and asked casually, “What is that?” “This is Bokul,” I said, offering it to him. “It grows all over Assam. We used to collect them every summer morning, make garlands, give them to our teachers, and carry the smell on our clothes.” He leaned in to smell it. His expression softened in that brief, unguarded way that follows an unexpected tenderness. “It’s beautiful,” he said. In that moment, it became clear that what I felt was lost had simply been waiting, under a Bokul tree beside a tea stall in Delhi. Migration does this; it teaches the body to recognise home before the mind can explain it. The city noise continued. Cars honked, students chatted, horns echoed in the distance. Yet, for a while time slowed, footsteps became audible, heat settled on skin. And that scent carried me back to Assam. It felt as if the flower was speaking to me. For the first time, Birendra Nath Dutta’s words returned with clarity. “Bohu din Bokulor gundh pua nai, Bohu din Bokulor mala gotha nai.” (It has been days since I smelled Bokul,It has been days since I made Bokul garlands.)These lines had floated through my childhood for as long as memory could reach. My mother would hum softly, while preparing Xandoh or while reading Prantik by the window in the late afternoons, as it played on the radio. I would hum along without understanding.Standing two thousand kilometres away, holding a single Bokul, the meaning finally settled. It was longing. Not only for a flower, but for the rhythm of life we take for granted – slow mornings, unhurried rituals, and beginnings that felt relaxing. That scent unlocked something buried deep within me. Time folded in on itself. It was not only remembrance. It was return – to a place, a season, a feeling. Perhaps this was what my mother felt each time the song played. Perhaps that was why it stayed with us. Now, whenever I pass that corner of the university, I hope the wind shifts again. I hope that Bokul blooms, so that home arrives the way it always has, quietly and without warning. Sukanya Dutta is a researcher, storyteller and curator from Assam working on women-centred ecological practices, indigenous knowledge systems, and living cultural heritage.We’ve grown up hearing that “it’s the small things” that matter. That’s true, of course, but it’s also not – there are Big Things that we know matter, and that we shouldn’t take our eyes, minds or hearts off of. As journalists, we spend most of our time looking at those Big Things, trying to understand them, break them down, and bring them to you.And now we’re looking to you to also think about the small things – the joy that comes from a strangers’ kindness, incidents that leave you feeling warm, an unexpected conversation that made you happy, finding spaces of solidarity. Write to us about your small things at thewiresmallthings@gmail.com in 800 words or less, and we will publish selected submissions. We look forward to reading about your experiences, because even small things can bring big joys.Read the series here.