Young, impressionable age—memories stick fast to the pliant brain. So many souls from that period left their marks on me.

I have to jump to my third and fourth standards. Being short and wearing the thickest spectacles my tiny nose could bear, I was, by natural selection, placed in the front row of my class. It was a three-seater bench, and I was sandwiched between two girls who, of course, didn’t wear even the thinnest of glasses. Despite my dedicated efforts, I can’t recall the name or face of the girl on my left, but the girl on my right—she was like a darling to me. Not in the way you might imagine, especially at that young age.

Her name—one that I could never forget, even with dementia. Why? Because at that tender age, she showed me so much compassion, love, understanding, and undiluted affection. If I was happy, she would recognize it and share in my joy. If I was sad or upset, which was often, she would be right beside me, goading and encouraging me to come out of whatever was bothering me. She was such an enabler. One occasion, distinct in my memory, caused me so much pain and shame for no fault of my own.

There was a maths teacher, a kind man with a tuft of hair, responsible for distributing textbooks. During one such distribution, he ran short of one copy and promised to give it to me later. After a few days, when I reminded him, he insisted he had already given it to me. And, as luck would have it, the Principal entered the class at that very moment. The entire class blindly agreed that the book had indeed been given to me—except the girl on my right. Yes, she was literally on the right side, speaking the truth. What guts!

After a couple of years, we went to different branches of the same school, and our paths diverged. But the story ends with a bittersweet note nearly sixty years later.

With the advent of the internet, websites, and alumni portals, I discovered one day that my school had launched its own website. We could now search for our long-forgotten friends. No prizes for guessing—I tried to locate this girl but in vain. I registered my name, hoping that one day she would too, and I could finally express my gratitude and appreciation. Nearly five years passed when suddenly her name appeared, and all the details matched. I got the contact number, and her husband answered the call. He was very forthcoming and, after giving me her mobile number, encouraged me to call her anytime.

On the first occasion when I contacted her, I tried to stir her memory with names of friends and events from those days. I felt she responded very neutrally. On the second occasion, she mentioned she was in a meeting. My instincts told me she was hesitant, doubtful, and unsure—perhaps she thought this was a prank. With a heavy heart, I stopped calling her.

Not even for a fleeting moment do I suspect that she had changed, not even a little bit. Come to think of it, anyone in her position might have reacted the same way. One’s nature doesn’t change so drastically. I still remember her face: tiny, with a pronounced forehead and a calm disposition. Having shown me unexpected, unsolicited kindness at a point in my life, she will always be in my prayers.

To be continued... Part 3.