Chapter Two: Quiet Movement of Friendship

The morning sun filtered through the neem trees that lined the school compound, casting dappled shadows over the ground as students poured out of the classrooms like rivers into the courtyard. It was recess—twenty minutes of unstructured, chaotic freedom. Shouts echoed from the playground, cricket balls sailed into the sky, and the clatter of tiffin boxes opening filled the air with the smells of idlis, parathas, and fried snacks.

Amrita sat cross-legged on the corner bench near the banyan tree, her stainless-steel tiffin box resting on her lap. She pulled off the lid and stared at the two chapatis and a small portion of dry aloo bhaji. She chewed slowly, her eyes scanning the crowd. Her friends were off playing hopscotch near the sandpit, but today, she didn't feel like joining them. Her eyes drifted toward the far end of the courtyard where a boy sat alone on the cement steps near the library—Tushar.

His tiffin was unopened beside him, and he was sketching something in a small notebook, pencil gripped tight in his slender fingers. Every now and then, he'd look up and squint into the distance, as if the idea he was drawing lived somewhere between the leaves and the light.

Amrita picked up her tiffin and walked toward him without thinking too hard. There was a quiet purpose in her steps, the same way one moves toward a sleeping cat or a sunset—careful not to disturb, but not afraid to get close either.

"Hi," she said, standing just in front of him.

Tushar looked up, startled. His pencil froze mid-line.

"You didn't eat," she pointed out, sitting down beside him before he could answer.

He looked at his tiffin, then at her. "Not hungry."

"That's a lie," she said, matter-of-factly. "Nobody's not hungry at recess."

He hesitated. "I don't like eating alone."

Amrita nodded, as if this made perfect sense. "Then don't. Eat with me."

He glanced at her tiffin. "You're almost done."

"I can share."

Without waiting for a response, she opened the lid again and offered him a piece of chapati. Tushar blinked, unsure what to do. Sharing food wasn't something he was used to—it felt too personal, too generous.

Still, he reached out and took the piece, his fingers brushing against hers for a brief moment. He took a small bite and chewed slowly, like someone tasting food for the first time.

"What are you drawing?" she asked, peering into the notebook.

He turned it toward her. It was a pencil sketch of the school courtyard, but from an unusual angle—he had drawn it as if looking from the top branch of the banyan tree. Children were tiny figures, their faces indistinct but their movements captured in fine lines.

"That's amazing," she whispered.

"It's just practice," he mumbled.

"No, really," she said. "You made our school look like a secret place."

Tushar smiled faintly. "That's what I like. Finding secret angles."

"I like your angle," she said honestly. "Do you draw every day?"

He nodded. "Mostly. It helps me think."

"Think about what?"

He paused. "Everything. Stuff that doesn't make sense. Stuff I want to say but don't know how."

Amrita was quiet for a while, digesting both food and words.

"I talk too much sometimes," she admitted. "My mother says I don't stop for breath."

Tushar laughed. It was the first time she heard him really laugh—not the quiet chuckle from the bus, but a small, open-hearted laugh that came from surprise.

"I like that," he said. "You talk so I don't have to."

She grinned. "Maybe we balance each other."

They sat like that, in the quiet corner of the school, sharing food and space and something else that didn't have a name yet. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The friendship between them moved like wind between trees—gentle, steady, almost invisible, but always there.

As the bell rang, they packed their tiffins. Tushar closed his sketchbook carefully, like it was a treasure chest. They walked back toward class together, their steps falling in sync.

"Want to sit together again tomorrow?" he asked.

Amrita turned to him. "Always."

Over the next few weeks, the rhythm continued. Every morning, Amrita would board the bus and find Tushar already there, saving the window seat for her. She began bringing extra food to school—an extra puri, a piece of sweet, sometimes even a samosa—pretending it was accidental.

Tushar, in return, began sketching things for her. One day, it was her laughing under the school tap; another time, it was her sitting cross-legged under the banyan tree. He gave her the drawings without ceremony, and she folded each one neatly and tucked them into the pages of her notebook, like pressed flowers.

One Thursday, as clouds gathered above and the wind grew heavier, a teacher called Amrita aside. Her father had met with a small accident at the mill—nothing life-threatening, but he had twisted his back and would be off work for a few weeks. She was told her mother would pick her up early.

Amrita felt the news like a sudden stone in her stomach. They already struggled with money. Missing even a week's wages could mean no milk, no electricity.

She stood near the school gate, her eyes glassy. When Tushar walked out and saw her waiting alone, he didn't ask questions. He just walked up and stood beside her.

After a long pause, she looked at him and said, "Everything feels wrong today."

He nodded. "Want to draw it?"

She blinked. "Draw what?"

"Whatever feels wrong."

She hesitated, then slowly nodded.

He pulled out his sketchbook and handed her the pencil.

Her hands were unsure. Her lines were messy. She wasn't an artist. But she drew a cloud, a small house, and a stick figure standing under a tree. Then she drew a second figure beside it.

Tushar looked at it and said, "That's us."

Amrita didn't reply, but her smile said everything.

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Moral of the Chapter:

Friendship doesn't always need grand gestures or loud words—it grows quietly, in shared silences, small acts of kindness, and the understanding that someone is willing to simply sit beside you, no matter what.