Chapter 1

The classroom had already come alive long before the teacher arrived.

Tiny voices filled every corner of the room. Children barely five or six years old ran between the wooden benches, some chasing one another, some arguing over pencils, some showing off little toys they had brought from home. Someone was laughing loudly near the windows. Two children were crouched beneath a desk, apparently involved in an extremely serious secret mission. Another boy was standing on his bench, proudly announcing something that nobody seemed interested in hearing.

The room was small, bright and wonderfully chaotic.

It was the kind of chaos that belonged only to childhood.

Almost every bench had two or three children sitting around it.

Almost.

At the very first bench, a little boy sat alone.

He was five years old.

While everyone around him seemed to have arrived with a friend, a sibling, or at least someone to talk to, he sat quietly with his hands folded on the desk. His school uniform was neat, his books were arranged carefully in front of him, and his eyes moved around the classroom without joining any of the noise.

He had come to the school from a hostel.

At an age when most children still ran into their parents’ arms at the school gate, he had already learned what it meant to sleep somewhere without them.

He was an orphan.

He had been admitted through a scholarship, and the school was supposed to become one of the few stable places in his life.

For now, though, he simply sat alone.

He had grown used to it.

Or perhaps he had only learned how to look as though he had.

Then the classroom door opened.

The noise didn’t stop completely, but a few children turned toward it.

A man and a woman stood there.

And between them was a tiny bundle of childhood.

They were holding his little hands, one on either side, as though the two of them had brought the smallest, most precious person in the world between them.

And, judging by the way they looked at him, they probably had.

The little boy walked between his parents with tiny, slightly uncertain steps.

He had a lollipop in his mouth.

And, apparently, one lollipop wasn’t enough.

There were two more tucked safely into his pocket.

His cheeks were round and impossibly soft-looking, the kind that seemed almost pinchable by instinct. His skin was fair and delicate, his features soft, and his enormous eyes were filled with such open innocence that it seemed as though the world had not yet found a way to leave even a fingerprint on him.

He looked warm.

Safe.

Loved.

Like childhood had been very kind to him.

His mother paused near the doorway and looked around the classroom, searching for the place where her son was supposed to sit.

But before she could say anything, the little boy noticed the empty space beside the solitary child on the first bench.

He looked at it.

Then he looked at the boy sitting there.

And, without asking anyone for permission, simply walked over.

His parents exchanged a brief glance.

The little boy climbed onto the bench and sat beside him.

The older boy immediately looked at him.

His eyes widened slightly.

Someone had actually sat beside him.

The little boy, meanwhile, seemed completely unconcerned about the significance of what he had just done.

He simply settled himself comfortably, his lollipop still between his lips.

His mother walked over and gently adjusted his uniform.

She straightened his collar, fixed the way he was sitting, and made sure his little feet were properly beneath the bench.

Then she turned toward the boy sitting beside him.

Her expression softened.

She bent slightly and said,

“Iska khayal rakhna, beta.”

The seven-year-old boy looked at her.

For a second, he seemed unsure what to do.

Then he quietly nodded.

His mother smiled.

She bent down and kissed her tiny son once on the cheek.

The little boy blinked, still holding his lollipop between his lips.

His father gave him one last affectionate look, and then the two of them turned toward the door.

The tiny boy immediately lifted his hand.

He waved.

Once.

Then again.

And again.

He kept waving until his parents disappeared completely from his sight.

Only then did his little hand slowly come down.

The classroom had already swallowed them back into its noise.

The little boy turned around.

For the first time, he properly looked at the boy sitting beside him.

The older boy was still watching him.

Neither spoke.

The little boy studied his face for a moment.

Then, without any hesitation at all, he smiled.

It was a bright, completely unguarded smile.

The kind that carried no question, no suspicion and no fear.

Just warmth.

The five-year-old boy stared at him.

And for the first time that morning, the empty bench didn’t feel quite so empty.

The teacher arrived a few minutes later.

The moment he stepped into the classroom, the noise slowly began to settle.

“Good morning, Sir!”

Every little child stood up.

Some stood straight.

Some were still giggling.

One boy nearly knocked over his pencil box while getting up, and another had to be reminded by his friend to stop hiding beneath the desk.

The five-year-old boy on the first bench stood quietly and greeted the teacher properly.

The tiny boy beside him stood too, though his lollipop remained firmly in his mouth.

The teacher looked across the classroom once, smiled at the children, and began the day’s lesson.

For the next while, the classroom settled into the rhythm of learning.

The teacher explained what he had to teach, wrote things on the board, asked questions, and moved around the room.

The five-year-old boy listened with complete concentration.

His small hand moved steadily across his notebook as he copied down every important point. He wrote carefully, his handwriting neat and disciplined. He didn’t look around much. He didn’t get distracted by the children whispering behind him.

He listened.

He understood.

He wrote.

For a five-year-old, there was an unusual seriousness in the way he studied.

Beside him, however...

There was an entirely different universe happening.

The tiny boy had apparently decided that the notebook was not meant for taking notes.

It was meant for art.

He had drawn something that vaguely resembled a house.

Or perhaps a dinosaur.

Or perhaps a house being eaten by a dinosaur.

Even he probably didn’t know.

His pencil moved randomly across the page while his little legs swung beneath the bench.

Back and forth.

Every now and then, he licked his lollipop with complete happiness.

He listened to approximately nothing.

He looked completely unbothered.

There was no urgency in him.

No restlessness.

No concern about whether the drawing made sense.

He was simply sitting there, swinging his legs, enjoying his lollipop and existing with the absolute confidence of a child who had never once considered that life might be complicated.

The five-year-old boy eventually noticed.

His eyes shifted toward the notebook beside him.

He stared at the absurd drawing.

Then at the little boy.

The tiny boy was still happily licking his lollipop.

He noticed the gaze.

Slowly, he turned his head.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, the tiny boy simply looked at him.

Then his eyes dropped toward the lollipop in his mouth.

He seemed to think about something.

He reached into his pocket.

There were still two lollipops there.

He pulled one out.

Then he held it toward the boy beside him.

A small offering.

No words.

Just a lollipop and that same bright smile.

The five-year-old looked at it.

Then at him.

He hesitated for barely a second.

And then, for the first time, he took it.

He didn’t know why.

Perhaps because the little boy had offered it so naturally that refusing didn’t even occur to him.

Perhaps because no one had offered him something so casually in a long time.

Or perhaps it was simply that smile.

Something about it slipped past the careful walls he had built around himself.

He had learned to remain composed.

Quiet.

Self-contained.

He had learned not to expect people to stay.

Not to ask for too much.

Not to depend on anyone.

But that tiny boy beside him didn’t seem to know any of those rules.

He had simply smiled and shared his lollipop.

And somehow, that was enough.

For one brief moment, the five-year-old forgot to remain guarded.

His fingers closed around the lollipop.

The tiny boy’s smile grew even wider.

The teacher continued explaining the lesson at the front of the classroom, completely unaware that something far more important had just happened on the first bench.

When the class finally ended, the children immediately began moving around again.

Books closed.

Pencils rolled across desks.

Chairs scraped against the floor.

The classroom returned to its earlier liveliness.

The tiny boy turned toward the boy beside him.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Naam kya hai tumhara?”

The older boy looked at him.

“Vidvaan.”

The tiny boy repeated it quietly, as if testing the name.

“Vidvaan...”

Then he smiled.

“Mera naam Shriharsh hai.”

He pointed toward himself with tiny confidence.

“Tum mujhe Shri bula sakte ho.”

He paused for a moment, then added with complete seriousness,

“Simple aur sweet hai na?”

Vidvaan looked at him.

Then he nodded.

“Hmm.”

He didn’t say anything else.

But somewhere inside, he knew the name was sweet.

Shriharsh.

It suited him.

Although, if Vidvaan had to be honest with himself, the boy’s smile was sweeter.

Much sweeter.

For once, the calm and composed little boy had lost his composure.

Not dramatically.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Just enough for something inside him to soften.

Meanwhile, Shri seemed completely unaware that he had just managed to reach somewhere nobody else had.

He happily pulled out his last lollipop from his pocket.

Unwrapped it.

Popped it into his mouth.

And smiled again.

As though giving away one of his precious lollipops had not been a sacrifice at all.

As though sharing was simply what you did when someone sat beside you.

Vidvaan looked at him for another moment.

And quietly, without knowing it yet, he began getting used to the warmth sitting beside him.

The next morning, Vidvaan came to school just as he had the day before.

Quietly.

Without any fuss.

He walked into the classroom with his books held close to his chest and went straight toward the first bench. He placed his things neatly on the desk and sat down in his usual place.

A few minutes later, the classroom door opened again.

And just like yesterday, Shri arrived with his parents.

His tiny hand was held by his mother’s, while his father walked beside them. Shri was already smiling before he had even reached his bench.

The moment he spotted Vidvaan sitting there, his face lit up.

He slipped away from his parents, hurried toward the first bench and climbed up beside him.

“Good morning,” he announced cheerfully.

Vidvaan looked at him.

“Good morning.”

Shri smiled.

Then he settled down beside him as though that seat had always belonged to him.

The class began.

The teacher came in, the children stood and greeted him, and soon the room settled into another morning of lessons.

Vidvaan listened carefully.

Shri did not.

At least, not entirely.

He listened for a few minutes.

Then he drew something in the corner of his notebook.

Then he swung his legs.

Then he stared out of the window.

Then he quietly leaned toward Vidvaan to see what he was writing.

Then he went back to his drawing.

Vidvaan noticed all of it.

But he said nothing.

By the time the lunch break arrived, the classroom erupted again.

Children immediately opened their lunch boxes.

The smell of homemade food spread through the room.

Some children ran outside carrying their boxes. Others gathered together in little groups, happily comparing what their mothers had packed.

Vidvaan quietly closed his notebook.

He had no lunch box to open.

There was no one waiting at the hostel in the morning to pack one for him.

And he had no money to buy food from the school canteen.

So he simply stood up and walked toward the play area.

He found a quiet corner and sat down.

He was used to being hungry.

It wasn’t something he complained about.

It was simply another thing he had learned to accept.

He lowered his eyes and watched the other children running around.

Then he heard a familiar voice.

“Vidvaan!”

He looked up.

Shri was coming toward him.

Or, more accurately, Shri was hopping toward him.

He was holding a lunch box tightly against his chest with both hands, taking little hurried steps, occasionally jumping over imaginary obstacles and giggling to himself.

He looked absurdly happy.

Vidvaan stared at him.

Shri finally reached him, slightly breathless from his very important journey.

He lifted the lunch box proudly.

“Maine tumhara box laaya!”

Vidvaan blinked.

“Mera?”

“Haan!” Shri nodded immediately. “Tumhara!”

Vidvaan looked at the lunch box.

Then at Shri.

“Tum kyun laya?”

Shri seemed genuinely confused by the question.

He tilted his head.

“Main friend hoon na tumhara.”

He said it as though that explained everything.

Then came the simplest answer in the world.

“Isiliye.”

Before Vidvaan could say anything, Shri grabbed his hand.

“Chalo!”

And dragged him toward the lunch area.

Vidvaan followed, still looking at the little boy beside him as though he was trying to understand him.

They sat together.

Shri opened the lunch box.

Inside was food packed neatly by his mother.

Food that had been prepared at home.

Food that had been packed with care.

Vidvaan stared at it for a moment.

He had eaten food before, of course.

But this was different.

This smelled like a home.

Like a kitchen where someone had thought about what a child would eat that day.

Like someone had woken up in the morning and prepared a meal knowing that a little boy would be sitting somewhere at school, waiting to open his lunch box.

Except this time, the lunch box had been brought for him.

Not because anyone had been asked to.

Not because Vidvaan had said he was hungry.

Not because anyone felt sorry for him.

Simply because a tiny boy had decided that his friend should not sit alone during lunch.

Shri picked up a bite and began eating happily.

Then he looked at Vidvaan.

“Tum bhi khao.”

Vidvaan slowly picked up some food.

He took the first bite.

And paused.

It was simple home food.

Nothing extraordinary.

Nothing specially prepared.

But to Vidvaan, it tasted different from anything he had known.

Warm.

Fresh.

Comforting.

For the first time, he tasted food that had come from someone’s home.

Not hostel food.

Not something given because it was part of a routine.

This had been brought especially for him.

Vidvaan looked at Shri.

The tiny boy was eating happily, his cheeks slightly puffed with food, completely unaware of the weight of what he had just done.

He had no idea that this small lunch box had given another little boy something far bigger than a meal.

For Vidvaan, it was the first time someone had looked at him and thought,

He should have something too.

And perhaps that was why the food tasted so warm.

Shri suddenly pushed the lunch box a little closer to him.

“Khaao na.”

Vidvaan nodded.

And continued eating beside him.

For the first time, lunch wasn’t something he had to endure alone.

It was something he shared with a friend.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

Then months.

And before either of them realized it, one class quietly became another.

First class became second.

The school changed around them as they grew. Their uniforms became slightly different, their books became thicker, their handwriting became neater, and their little legs slowly became longer.

But some things never truly changed.

Vidvaan still sat on the first bench.

And Shri still sat beside him.

Always.

Every morning, Shri would come into the classroom with that same bright smile and take his place beside Vidvaan as though there had never been any other option.

It had started so simply.

One little boy had chosen an empty seat beside another.

And somehow, that choice had remained.

The lunch box never stopped coming either.

Every single school day, there was enough food for two.

Sometimes Shri’s mother packed his favourite things.

Sometimes she packed something Vidvaan liked.

Sometimes Shri would open the box and immediately announce,

“Ye tumhara hai.”

Vidvaan would look at him.

“Tumhara bhi hai.”

Shri would shake his head.

“Dono ka hai.”

And somehow, that became their lunch.

Not Shri’s.

Not Vidvaan’s.

Theirs.

The same thing happened during holidays and festivals.

Whenever the school closed for a festival, Vidvaan would somehow find a new set of clothes waiting for him.

Sometimes it was a shirt.

Sometimes a kurta.

Sometimes new shoes.

Sometimes something as ordinary as a new notebook or some other essential he needed.

Vidvaan would often stare at the things with quiet confusion.

“Ye kyun?”

And Shri would answer as though the question itself was ridiculous.

“Tumhare liye hai.”

“But—”

“No but.”

And that was usually the end of the discussion.

Shri had simply decided that he was Vidvaan’s friend.

He had never formally asked for permission.

He had never needed to.

He had chosen Vidvaan.

And Vidvaan had never denied him.

Their friendship had been created by Shri.

But it was lived by both of them.

They grew together.

They studied together.

They played together.

They sat together.

They ate together.

And, rather inconveniently for everyone else in the class, they kept topping the class together too.

Sometimes Vidvaan came first.

Sometimes Shri came first.

Sometimes both of them stood at the top, sharing the same proud position in different subjects.

And neither of them ever treated it like a competition.

If Vidvaan came first, Shri would arrive the next day carrying some cake or sweets.

He would put them proudly in front of Vidvaan.

“Ye tumhare liye.”

Vidvaan would stare.

“Why?”

“Tum first aaye.”

And if Shri came first, Vidvaan would do exactly the same.

Cake.

Sweets.

A little celebration.

The person who had won wasn’t the important part.

Winning was.

Because somewhere along the way, they had stopped thinking of each other’s achievements as separate.

If Vidvaan succeeded, Shri celebrated.

If Shri succeeded, Vidvaan celebrated.

And eventually, they both began expecting it.

If one of them topped the class and the other didn’t bring something sweet the next day, something felt strangely incomplete.

Vidvaan had even gotten used to it.

That was perhaps the biggest change of all.

Because when he had first arrived at that school, he had carried one simple truth inside himself.

I am an orphan.

It had been a fact.

A fact he had never questioned.

A fact that had quietly shaped the way he looked at the world.

He had learned to expect less.

To ask for less.

To need less.

But somewhere between first bench seats, shared lunch boxes, stolen glances during class, festival clothes, sweets after exams and a tiny boy’s endless smile...

that sentence had slowly changed.

Not because Vidvaan forgot who he was.

Not because his past disappeared.

But because something new had entered his life.

Something he had never had before.

A person.

A friend.

One morning, as they sat beside each other in the first bench, Shri was busy drawing something ridiculous in the corner of his notebook while Vidvaan revised his notes.

Shri suddenly looked up.

“Vidvaan.”

“Hm?”

“Kal tum first aaye the na?”

Vidvaan nodded.

Shri smiled.

“Cake launga.”

Vidvaan looked at him.

“Tum bhi first aaye the.”

Shri’s smile became even wider.

“Toh dono cake khayenge.”

Vidvaan shook his head slightly.