Across the border.

I have only some hazy memories of my childhood before I turned 6. I guess ,that's where from almost everyone's memory of childhood starts getting a bit distinct. I had found my first friend when I was six. Her name was Parvati. She was from Nepal. I knew nothing about Parvati except that she was my friend and she lived in a tiny house with a single room where they cooked, sat and slept. However I loved her warm and cosy house.

I was always in awe of her because she was so strong, was brave , responsible  and told me many wonderful stories and facts that no one would ever believe.
She had a round beautiful face with that constant curve of smile exactly fitting between the ends of her lower lip and dimple on one side. She standing out with her different facial feature than others around us including me , would always keep me amazed and privileged to flaunt her in front of my family saying, look , I have a friend from another country. I would always ask her stupid questions like , whether all people back there in Nepal looked like her , do they really dress as shown in books, and how did she cross the border when she came to India , did she fly or she took a train . On all of these , she would fetch a chance to tell me more of her made up stories and keep me listening to her like an amused kid listening to their grandmother , convinced and curious for more. She was the reason why for a very long time I used to take 'crossing the border' very literally. She had told me that she came to india by just jumping across the border. Seven was this queer.

Parvati had always my back. We used to play together and she made me laugh so much. We went to a nearby government school together where my aunt was a teacher. We did not have desks and benches there. We had to bring our own mats from home. I never brought one. Parvati used to bring one for me. The mat was made of several little pieces of cloths with embroideries done over it with threads and first letter of her name was stiched in the middle which interestingly was first letter of my name too. Parvati had taken up many such responsibilities for me because I was dumb and meek as a child. She never asked me to become bold and responsible. She rather made it clear that I had her. I believe , if I still had Parvati , she would have been my go-to friend.

I often wonder how childhood doesn't obey the rules and ethics of friendship yet builds the strongest one ever. I remember when I and Parvati had our first legitimate fight which went so far that she took back her mat I was sitting on. I had got her absolutely nothing of mine so after a lot of contemplation over the satisfaction of that green ego, I asked her to give the school bag back my mother had given her. Unlike me she didn't even frown and gave that to me. I brought that home. Now, the thing is , my family loved Parvati so much and at times they believed her more than they believed me. They started asking me questions once they saw me walking in with that bag so brazenly. However , I was ready for few angry eyes but that rage coming from everyone was something very unexpected. Especially from my grand mother who rebuked me how insensitive it was on my part to take that stuff back from such a poor girl. She reminded me of all those small and big favors Parvati had done for me. After those taunts for the rest of the day till I went to sleep, the very next morning I was made to apologise to Parvati. She was given back her bag with all due respect. Through that whole process of apology, we very well pretended of being cool with each other where in fact fight still hadn't settled between us and thanks to my family , now there was utter awkwardness between us too. We were sent to school together but we both couldn't wait to part our ways after reaching school and make new friends. However, it didn't last even for a week and we rebonded. And this time , not by saying sorry.

Maybe it was for good. Involvement of family, a little awakening to the fact. May be not. May be not because sometimes between the knowledge of right and wrong of a thing, the altogether essence of that thing changes. The sanctity of friendship between two seven year olds didn't even know about charity , gratefulness and the act of returning a favor. Before that day I knew that Parvati had my bag because I had her mat, that Parvati likes my bag and I like her mat. But after that day things changed abruptly when I started looking at her as a poor girl whose father worked as a watchman in a nearby college and they were a big family for such a small income. I did not know what poverty means. And it is safe to say that , not the lack of experience but my age was the only factor here. Because,  clearly Parvati didn't know it either.

Day by day I became more giving towards her than sharing with her and I started feeling thankful to her everytime she helped me until the day she left for Nepal. And this time for good.
At seven you hardly know about separation. Your world is small and you always see people coming back to you when they leave. March 7 , 2003, Parvati had got down , in front of my house , from a four-wheeler , blue in color, I vividly remember . She hugged me so tight and apologised for leaving right before my birthday. I asked her when she would come back. To which she replied , she would come as soon as her father called them to return to India. It didn't look like a promise but it was full of hopes. We kept waving goodbyes till I left sight of that blue four-wheeler and I kept waiting for her father to call her back until I got to know what going for good means, which took time.

While leaving , she had asked a picture of me. My grandfather had quickly taken out a passport sized photograph from his files and handed that to her with two extra copies of that in case she lost one. When I asked for hers , she said in an apologetic tone that she never got her picture clicked. I was not at all bothered then because the last time I saw her , I didn't know I was seeing her for the last time. And this hurts now.

Parvati and I would never see each other again. Probably , never. We won't be each other's 4 am friends. We won't text or call each other daily, frequently or hardly ever. We won't tag each other in pictures and memes. But I keep her in my heart. I miss her like , I mention and tag her in mental pictures of my childhood , when I talk to my friends , to myself. I could write several things in her oath ; of what she did for me and all that. But the thing is none of those things make me miss her. I miss the way she talked , the way I laughed around her and the way I could be absolutely myself when I was with her.

It is hard to forget someone who touched our soul so articulately and it is funny how we feel that touch only when we grow old enough to understand what 'touching of soul' actually means.

Few people leave much earlier than they were expected and we don't even get to complain but I guess this is how life goes on. So, while I wish where ever she is , she remains the happiest human I have ever known ,I get to use this dialogue from Kota Factory , ' Dosti koi revision thodi hai, jo karni hi hai '.