Mogra. Jasmine. Chameli. Malli. Bela. Juhi.
This unassuming flower has more names than I can ever keep track of, and I don’t think I ever figured out what this particular species is called.
Not that it matters. The only thing that matters about this flower and all its cousins is its fragrance. On the plant, in a garland, plaited into your hair, or in your soap – the fragrance is something to die for.
I long for the hot summer days, when I can stand in my balcony in the evening, sipping iced tea, enjoying the breeze laden with its fragrance.
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