BLUE

We weren’t the kind of friends who checked in every day or knew every detail of each other’s lives. But she was my best friend, my oldest, my very first. She was the one I addressed all my school letter-writing assignments to. We had our own little rhythm: we’d usually catch up around our birthdays, exchanging sticker packs, smiley faces, cartoons, whatever we could find. Even if we hadn’t spoken for an entire year, I could always count on her call on my birthday.

Her favourite colour was blue, light blue, like the jacket she wore all through school. That jacket is how I first noticed her, and strangely, it’s still how I remember her. She sat in front of me in that jacket during our entrance exam. I remember watching her say “thank you” to the teacher when she received the question paper. It hadn’t even occurred to me to do the same, but when my turn came, I said it too, learning from her before I even knew her. Funny, in that first moment, she taught me something. Later, we admitted we’d both noticed each other that day, and never in a million years would have imagined becoming friends.

We were never close in the conventional sense, different classes, different friends, but somehow, we always found our way back to each other. Especially on Friendship Day: while I’d buy normal rings or bands for others, we always chose special ones for each other, ones we wouldn’t buy for anyone else. But whenever we did end up in the same class, it felt nice, except for this quiet competition between us that always lived just below the surface. Both of us were creative souls. Whatever competition we entered, one of us would win, sometimes both. Sometimes I was ahead, sometimes she was.

I remember one art competition so vividly. They handed us a sheet with a tree printed on it, and we had to imagine and draw the rest of the scene. I thought I was so clever, I turned it into a wishing tree, with little notes tied to its branches by people hoping their dreams would come true. What an idea, I thought. She, on the other hand, drew a candy land. Crayons were her medium then, and she had already mastered shading. I thought it looked nice, but too generic, everyone was building fantastical worlds around the tree. And yet, she won first prize. A watch. I came third and got an art kit.

Then there was the time a guest was visiting our school, and the teachers asked if anyone knew Bharatanatyam. Both of us raised our hands. She was genuinely good at it; I had learnt for a while but had lost interest. They asked us to each prepare something. I spent the whole day working on a piece with my mom’s friend, who was a professional. But the next day, when we performed, she got selected. She deserved it. She really was that good.

And then science. Especially physics. It always slipped through my fingers, but she grasped it effortlessly. She and a group of like-minded students were even selected for a short trip to NASA, to see and learn about some project they were working on. I remember feeling envy. Whether it was Bharatanatyam or NASA, I knew she deserved it, she was born for it. And yet, I couldn’t be fully happy for her. I often wondered: was I a bad friend?

Once, her dad was looking for a job. He had asked my dad for help or maybe even applied to the company my dad was working in. For whatever reason, he didn’t get it. I remember thinking it was weird, like she might not want to be friends with me anymore because my dad couldn’t help her dad out. I even asked my dad why they couldn’t just hire him. He really needed the job. Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do? Of course, my dad and her dad weren’t actually friends. But to me, it felt like it should be that simple. Why wouldn’t they help each other out? My dad explained it wasn’t that simple. But it left me confused, friendship, I thought, should be straightforward, but life wasn’t always that simple.

The last birthday of hers that we celebrated together was on 18th September 2018. I was coming back from college in my van when I got a call from her mom. She said they wanted to surprise her and invited me over. It was all so last minute, I quickly called my mom, asked her to keep an envelope with some money ready. I reached home, grabbed the envelope, and left in an auto. I thought I’d be late, but I actually arrived early, the first one there. Slowly, a few of her other friends showed up and we all hid in her room.

When she came home, we jumped out and surprised her. The cake was cut, and we all got to talking. There was this guy from school I wasn’t a big fan of, and she casually mentioned that they sort of liked each other and were dating. She had never really verbalised her crushes before, so it came as a surprise. If they did date, it would’ve been her first boyfriend, I still hope she did, and that she got to experience that joy.

As everyone settled into conversation, they began handing her gifts. I thought they’d be something real, things bought with care. But instead, each of them gave her something that reminded them of her, or connected to an inside joke. One even handed her some chemical powder wrapped in paper! I remember thinking, how are these gifts? But she was so happy, she tucked every one of them safely in her drawer.

Later, when everyone was busy chatting, I handed her my envelope. I had, of course, made a card and drawn something on it. She smiled and said she couldn’t take the money but would keep the envelope. I didn’t know what to say, I wanted her to buy whatever she wanted. She even took it to her parents, asked them to tell me she couldn’t accept the money, and put it back in my bag. I was out of words, ashamed even.

I was used to both giving and receiving gifts. My birthday had always been my favourite day of the year. Every year, I’d plan exactly what I wanted. But after that birthday, I no longer had materialistic wishes. Since then, every birthday, I’ve told my friends to write me letters or just a note if they wanted to bring something. I no longer asked my parents for gifts, and I’ve stopped having any materialistic expectations. The gifts they still give me are because they want to, not because I expect them.

That day taught me the joy in small things. She showed me that the little gestures, the thoughtfulness behind something meaningful, will always matter more than bought gifts, even the most thoughtfully picked ones. It made me realise I already had everything I could ever want, more than enough, and it made me truly count my blessings. I will never forget that birthday.

The day I found out she had passed away was no less life-changing. For two or three days, I had seen her mom’s status, it was full of her pictures. I assumed she missed her because she was away at college. But while I was on a retreat with my family, I saw those pictures again. One was a framed photo with “Miss you” written on it, and another had her picture with some numbers and notes written in Gujarati.

I panicked for a moment but didn’t want to jump to conclusions. I asked my brother to send it to his friend for translation, but then I realised I knew someone myself who could help. Within minutes, I got a call. He hesitated and said, “I don’t know how to say this to you.” My exact words were, “Is she dead?”

And then I just broke down, instantaneously, as if something inside me cracked open. My breath hitched, and the world blurred. My parents thought I had hurt myself. The retreat included lunch, but while they ate, I sat alone outside in the golf cart. My mom kept trying to persuade me to come eat, but how could I even think about food? The booking was for the whole day, and when my dad asked if I wanted to head back, I simply said yes.

The entire drive home, my eyes stayed glued to the road. I sat silently, unable to speak. My mom called her mom, and I still remember how calmly she explained what had happened. I couldn’t say anything. What could I say?

Later, my brother offered to drive me to Gujarat for the funeral, but I refused. What would I possibly have to say or do?

I’ve replayed that day countless times. I wonder, even now, what would I say if I ever met her family? Would I even have the courage to face them? Would they be angry that I hadn’t been there when they needed me most? My mom had gently explained to her mom in the car that I was too stunned to speak, but I can’t help wondering if that made any difference, if they still felt abandoned, or if they understood.

I later learned that she had been in Mumbai the entire time for vacation, just twenty minutes away from where I live. And I had no idea. I had simply assumed she was in college. That thought kept replaying in my head. If I had just messaged her to ask if she was in Mumbai, I would have known. I could have been there.

Days passed, but the grief lingered. It even felt strange to me. I’d sit in silence, staring at my phone. Why did tears keep falling, when we hadn’t spoken in so long? After all, we hadn’t spoken in more than half a year. The last time we texted was when I sent her a picture of my half-done assignment. She was excited to see how it would turn out. I told her I’d send the finished print, but I never did. I got so caught up in chasing perfection that I began disliking my own work, too ashamed to share it.

Even now, perfection trips me up, but losing her taught me that staying in touch is more important than getting it right.

Once I went back to college after the vacation, I sat alone by the lake in the colony we lived in. I lit a diya and read out a letter I had written to her on the plane, hoping somehow she would hear me. I sat with the flickering flame, watching it slowly extinguish, then carefully placed it in a corner before returning to my room. I guess it was my way of saying goodbye. 

With time, I tried to remember what all I know about her. Was she really my best friend? What does it mean to be someone’s best friend? I realised how much I didn’t know about her. Maybe her favourite colour had changed over the years, like mine had. All those little details you’re “supposed” to know about your best friend, I didn’t. And for a long time, that made me sad.

But then I understood: who really decides the proof of friendship? Ours wasn’t loud or constant. It was quiet, steady, hidden in its own way, but it was real. The kind of bond you can always return to, picking up exactly where you left off, no matter how much time has passed.

Sometimes I think about her family, where they are now, how they’re doing, how her younger brother is growing up. They were always such an affectionate family. I remember how his class and mine often had P.T. period at the same time. If he spotted me across the ground, he would run straight over just to say hi. At first, I was surprised, he barely knew me, except as his sister’s friend. But after that, each time I saw him, I felt this quiet joy.

For my 18th birthday, she was in town. She had come for the lunch that was organised, and she brought two gifts, one from her and one that her mom had sent. Her mom had told her, “I think she’ll love this set,” and they even had a little competition about whose gift was more me, which one I would like better. I loved both of them, not just because of what they were, but because of the thoughtfulness behind them. It meant so much to me that her mom had thought of me when she saw that set and wanted to send something that I would love. That simple, unfiltered affection stayed with me, just like she has.

Affection and effort, the quietest forces, the ones that bowl you over before you even realise it. These are the things I now try to give freely to others, without waiting for them to be returned. To show love, interest, or excitement for people without worrying about seeming too much. To give freely, because I’ve learned how powerful it really is.

When she left without warning, it was as if all the moments I felt envious about suddenly made sense. Maybe the universe had let her experience so much, so early, because it knew she wouldn’t have the time later. That thought changed me. From then on, whenever a friend achieved something, I made sure to show my excitement, to let them know they deserved it, that I was genuinely happy for them. Because I never wanted to hold back that joy again.

We once spoke, when we were fifteen, about where we’d be in ten years. She said something about working in science. I said fashion. After she passed, I thought about everything she would miss—the decades she’d never see, the milestones she’d never reach. I was glad at least she had known what it felt like to turn eighteen, to cross that threshold into adulthood.

Even after it all, I’m no expert at making every day count. I’m still learning, still stumbling. But maybe that’s what life is, not perfect plans or grand gestures, but the trying. The living, however messy or incomplete. And maybe it’s the very transience of it all, the time we get, however short, that makes it meaningful. That’s what makes it matter, makes it special, makes it ours.

Like a bookmark tucked between pages, easily forgotten, but always ready to bring you back to the story, to the bond, to the moments that make life worth living.

And that’s how I try to live now, holding on, reaching out, and never taking anything for granted.