She felt exactly like me.
Another half that I didn’t quite find anywhere else.
Neither at my place nor at Grandma’s.
I remember coming back home after school and instantly giving her a call.
And chat for hours.
We would roam every morning on the school ground.
Talk about the atrocities our mothers committed on us.
Once she told of how her mother had declined to stitch her shirt’s button and had asked her instead to stitch it herself.
We spoke about this for a couple of days consecutively.
I narrated similar stories of how I felt that my mom hated me too.
This went on like for years.
And then it stopped.
I think it was the change of our class sections.
We didn’t call each other no more.
I lost her.
With that, I lost a part of me.
We separated like people do.
And we moved on.
This picture reminds me of my first trips with her.
Our school trip to Jaipur.
We had lost the keys to our hotel room.
I was so terrified.
We both were.
We went through the fear together.
The only time I’ve shared it with someone.
On our way back home, I felt different. As if I was losing something.
Maybe she too felt the same.
She asked me to stay back at her place.
I never knew why.
And we lost it again.
This photograph is the last tangible memory of our friendship. I’m going to keep it so safe. And so will she.
I’ve discovered that memoirs are a great way to pay tributes to our feelings, and people associated with it.
Haven’t we all had friendships like these?