Click. Clack.

Scene A: The School Corridor

Rain pattered unapologetically and unceasingly outside. The typical hum of student chatter, amplified in hopes of an early dispersal, echoing from every classroom, hall, and field in the vicinity.

For once, no one was in a hurry to be anywhere. Teachers seemed less prone to arbitrary hallway lectures, and students seemed to care less about being on time for their next class.

Smudged kohl, a creased cotton kurti, and the weight of dangly silver earrings in my pocket – not exactly against the rules, but definitely something I wouldn’t dare wear in front of the first-period teacher who was all but ready to dress-code students.

It wasn’t a particularly extraordinary outfit – but for some reason, I felt incandescent wearing it.

Scene B: The Girls Washroom

Ah, the Girls Washroom – the hub of all gossip, mirror selfies with snuck in phones, and borrowed lip balm.

I stood, fixing rain-tangled hair with my fingers, silver rings only making it worse – and a gorgeous senior with silver hoops and a glimmer in her eyes stood next to me, applying a rosy tint to her lips.

“By the way,” she said matter-of-factly, turning the faucet on, “your kurta looks amazing.”

A Pride & Prejudice soundtrack swelled in my mind as I thanked her and walked out of the restroom with hair that was now far more tangled, and an indomitable smile tugging at my lips.

Note to self: Compliment strangers more often. It feels wonderfully uncalculated, and can be the highlight of someone’s day.

Scene C: Between Rows and Rows of Buses

The backpack somehow heavier than it was in the morning, I wandered between rows and rows of buses exhaling fumes as if they were, too, tired from a long day.

I wove between crowds of boisterous and rain-soaked children, hopping across puddles of muddy water. My eyes landed on someone familiar: a 7th grade teacher with sunny-yellow glasses.

“You look extra pretty today!” she called out, waving once before disappearing into the sea of staff umbrellas and school bags.

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Epilogue / Postscript

Seniors at the back, complaining and chatting garrulously. The sound of a tiffin being opened, followed by the smell of sandwiches and chips, and the collective “I want some!”.

Then, the juniors at the very front. A boy, barely tall enough to reach his seat, solemnly mumbling about red cars and dinosaurs, because of course, the two are very intimately related.

I sat somewhere in the middle, rain-damp clothes clinging to skin, wondering why the human memory is so peculiar:

Weeks after that Friday, I sit in my room, wondering why I can precisely remember the absentminded words of a senior in the restroom, but not the Chemistry lesson I studied just yesterday.

Until the next monsoon memoir…

Yours truly,
Divi