If one movie has ever quietly reached into the human heart, stripped it bare, and taught us what love, loss, and existence truly mean — it is October.
Directed by Shujit Sircar and written by Juhi Chaturvedi, October isn’t a love story. It’s a life story. It doesn’t rush, it doesn’t demand your attention — it waits. Like the silent blooming of the Shiuli flower, it unfolds in moments so gentle, so ordinary, that you only realize their weight after they’ve already passed.
It is the story of Dan and Shiuli, two souls who barely knew each other, yet became eternally intertwined by fate, by grief, and by something far greater than romance — a quiet, selfless kind of love.
The Unlikely Bloom
Dan, played by Varun Dhawan, is restless, careless, and a little lost. He is every 20-something who doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, living life one shift at a time, irritated by routine and unimpressed by meaning. Shiuli (Banita Sandhu), on the other hand, is calm, focused, and quietly passionate — her name itself means night-blooming jasmine, a flower that blossoms in the darkness and falls before dawn.
Their worlds barely touch. They are colleagues, acquaintances — not lovers, not even friends. And yet, life finds a way to connect them through a fragile thread of tragedy.
When Shiuli meets with an accident and slips into a coma, something shifts in Dan. The boy who couldn’t care less about work or people suddenly finds himself caring more than anyone else. He begins to visit her every day, not out of guilt or duty, but out of something inexplicable — a pull of the heart that cannot be named.
The Fragrance of Selflessness
In a world where love is measured in attention, validation, and constant exchange, October gives us something heartbreakingly pure — love without expectation.
Dan doesn’t love Shiuli because she can love him back.
He loves her because she exists.
His affection isn’t loud or performative. It’s quiet, awkward, and painfully human. He changes her sheets, brings her flowers, talks to her unconscious body like she’s listening. And in those unspoken moments, we see something extraordinary — a man growing up through grief, discovering compassion not as an act, but as a way of being.
Every visit, every silence, every breath in that sterile hospital room becomes a prayer.
Not for recovery, not for closure — but for meaning.
The Shiuli Metaphor — Life, Love, and Impermanence
Juhi Chaturvedi’s writing gives October its soul through the metaphor of the Shiuli flower — delicate, short-lived, yet eternally fragrant. The flower blooms briefly, falls by night, and fades by morning. And yet, its presence lingers — soft, sweet, and unforgettable.
Shiuli, the girl, is exactly that. She comes into Dan’s life unexpectedly, stays for a moment, and then leaves — but her presence changes him forever.
There’s something almost sacred about this symmetry — between the flower and the girl, between blooming and dying, between love and letting go.
It teaches us the simplest, hardest truth:
Life doesn’t need to be long to be meaningful.
Love doesn’t need to be mutual to be real.
The Stillness of Grief
Most films rush to fill silence. October builds its world with it.
The camera lingers on empty corridors, the whirring of machines, the rustling of trees. There are no dramatic monologues, no grand confessions — only the quiet weight of existing beside someone who no longer can.
And in that stillness, October becomes devastatingly real.
Grief in this movie isn’t shown through tears or breakdowns. It’s shown through small, wordless actions — the way Dan waits, the way Shiuli’s family holds onto hope, the way the Shiuli flowers fall quietly in the background, marking time’s passing.
It reminds us that love and loss are not opposites. They are siblings, forever entangled, each giving the other meaning.
When the World Moved, Dan Stayed
While the world around him moves on — colleagues change, life resumes — Dan stays.
He doesn’t move forward because some part of him knows that moving on is overrated.
In a society obsessed with progress, October shows the courage it takes to simply stay still — to sit with pain, to honor it, and to let it teach you.
Dan’s journey isn’t about heroism. It’s about presence. About learning that sometimes love doesn’t demand results; it only demands that you show up — even when it hurts, even when it’s hopeless.
That’s what makes Dan unforgettable.
He doesn’t save Shiuli. But he saves the meaning of love itself.
The Bittersweet Ending
When Shiuli finally leaves this world, the screen doesn’t cry — it exhales.
Because October isn’t about tragedy; it’s about transformation.
Dan doesn’t collapse into despair. He walks outside and looks at the Shiuli tree, where white blossoms quietly fall to the ground. He gathers them, holds them gently — and smiles.
The grief doesn’t leave him. But it becomes something else — gratitude.
The kind that comes from realizing that even a short, unfinished life can change another completely.
Shiuli’s life was brief, but its fragrance lingers in Dan — and in us.
The Eternal October
October is not just a film; it’s a feeling that arrives like autumn — soft, melancholic, and fleeting. It’s a reminder that everything we love is temporary, and that’s exactly what makes it beautiful.
It whispers that the most important relationships are not built on words, labels, or time, but on quiet gestures and pure intentions.
It shows us that sometimes love is not about getting someone — it’s about becoming someone through them.
Shiuli’s life, much like her name, bloomed for a while and then fell. But the scent of her existence lingers — on the pillow she once slept on, in the man she transformed, and in the hearts of everyone who has ever loved and lost without saying a word.
Thank You, October
Thank you, Shujit Sircar and Juhi Chaturvedi, for reminding us that love doesn’t need a label to be eternal. Thank you for Dan — who showed us that even the most careless hearts can learn tenderness.
And thank you for Shiuli — who taught us that beauty lies not in permanence, but in presence.
Because love, in the end, isn’t about how long it lasts.
It’s about how deeply it changes us — even when it ends.
In a world obsessed with happily ever afters, October reminds us that sometimes, the most beautiful love stories are the ones that end too soon — leaving behind not people, but perfume.