The classroom buzzed with the usual post-lunch chatter. The overhead fans whirred rhythmically, slicing through the heat like clockwork hands marking another ordinary school day. Tushar unzipped his lunch bag, only to find a neatly folded paper tucked between the foil of his chapatis.
He looked around. Amrita, seated two benches ahead, was pretending to be deeply invested in her textbook. Her long braid swayed slightly as she turned a page, but the corners of her lips betrayed her – a smirk barely concealed.
Tushar opened the note.
"You forgot your poem notebook again. Don't worry, I told Mrs. Menon it was with me. You owe me one mango candy."
He shook his head, a grin tugging at his face. Her handwriting was unmistakable – small, slanted, always rushing forward like her. He glanced at the blackboard but saw nothing of what the teacher was saying. All he could see was the quiet mischief in her eyes.
At recess, he walked over to her desk. "One mango candy is a steep price for a lie," he said, handing her the candy anyway.
Amrita shrugged. "Truth is expensive too. But you wouldn't understand—you forgot your notebook again."
They shared a laugh, that easy kind that only belonged to children with nothing to lose yet. But something in that moment settled—like a peg driven into the ground to mark the start of a trail. A quiet promise.
The days grew longer, and so did their exchanges. When Tushar lost his father's old watch, Amrita spent hours helping him retrace every step from the school gate to their classroom. When Amrita was scolded for not bringing her math homework, Tushar slipped his copy under her name the next day. They never called it "helping," just understood it as something that friends did.
One day, the principal walked into their classroom and announced an inter-school debate competition. Volunteers were to raise their hands. Tushar's remained firmly on the desk. Public speaking was a terrifying thought.
Amrita nudged him. "You should do it."
"I'd rather wrestle a bear," he muttered.
She rolled her eyes. "You argue with me all the time. Why not turn it into something useful?"
He didn't raise his hand.
That evening, he found a folded note in his schoolbag.
"You might not believe in yourself yet. But I do. That's a start, isn't it?"
The next day, he stood on stage. Hands cold, knees shaking, but words flowing—haltingly at first, then stronger. His eyes scanned the back of the auditorium until he saw her. She was mouthing the words of his opening line. He didn't need notes. He had Amrita.
When the applause came, it was a warm wave. Not just from the audience—but from something deep inside him.
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Moral: True friendship gives us the courage to become more than we believe we are.