Evenings are the epitome of emotional transition. When the sun is finally setting on a long summer day, and when hues of orange, pink and gold are playing hide and seek, it usually so happens that a flood of memories and melancholia befalls the mind: the free mind. The mind that yearns for the dawn of new beginnings, but not without the beauty of the past and longing of wondrous times spent well.
There used to be a time when, unlike the quietening evening hours of now, evening brought to life the cool breeze of wakefulness. The house would rise up from its afternoon siesta and the tinkle of pots and pans would liven up the kitchen. The euphoric scent of cardamom being boiled in fresh milk delivered just that morning would infuse with the heavenly scent of black tea leaves.
The teapots would be filled to the brim and trays carrying those tea pots with matching tea cups would travel past dining rooms, past living rooms, past bedrooms and onto the verandahs. There, the tea would come pouring into the tea cups and steam would waft around in swivels, jubilantly celebrating the coming together of folks. As the tea cups got passed around, the scent of black tea and cardamom would eavesdrop on conversations amidst the far cries of ravens heading home, and cricket bats making contact with speedy balls covered in red tape. The ceramic tea cups, expert in their age-old drill, would make slight tinkling sounds as teaspoons made whirlpools of sweetness in the tea, just as gardeners watered the lawns, making the evening atmosphere steam off in a scent of grassy dreams and the soft breath of jasmines.
Amidst this celebration of moments and appreciation of details, the sun would reluctantly set, elongating and prolonging its warm hues of orange, pink and gold until finally, the call to prayer would resound from the plethora of minarets.
It was a communiqué between things and non-things. Those were times spent well.