Dusk Tales

As I hang the freshly washed, damp clothes to dry, something about the evening takes me back to the lush green grounds on which stood a stage and a few lights- rehearsals of annual functions. The hustle-bustle backstage in a curtain-created green room. The long lines for abhorrent hideous make-up that turned everybody's lips a luscious blood red, sex irrespective. The multi-tasking teachers who would pin up costumes to prevent faux pas, do head counts of cast, yell at mischief mongers with third eye vision, gossip with colleagues about other colleagues etc. The last minute stage back-drop disaster management. The munching of dry noodles, chips, gulping of sneaked in bottles of cold-drinks; yes, for many souls it was a picnic, much to the distress of teachers. The constant shushing. The several rounds of truth-dare and dumb-charades while the torturous speeches continued endlessly. All this is sorely missed and more.

The sun sets with a whiff of forthcoming winter. Certain smells always linger and take one to a distant memory; a memory that cannot be relived but felt with a similar intensity. Actually, its not just the olfactory sense that is capable of such feats; there are many things that can rekindle remembrances. The brain is an intriguing organ.