They say, friendship is the greatest gift of life and some may even comment that friends are the siblings that God never gave us. I don’t mean to contest those claims, for I too have received this gift. Oh! How beautiful to be able to hold onto it for a lifetime. Friends are irreplaceable parts of our life, we may have to leave some behind as life takes its twists and turns, but they make moments worthwhile, right? So, allow me to embark you on a journey as we uncover the tale of another such friendship. Lets’ pack up our bags as we proceed to the lush green Shivalik range of the Himalayas, to the land of Gods, Uttarakhand. You may have to prepare yourself mentally, for this one requires a bit of time travel to the 1930s, a cocktail of facts and fiction. I hope you have the snacks and drinks prepared and as for sweaters and blankets, I am sure this story will keep you warm!

Nestled in the lap of the mighty Himalayas, lies the quaint village, Jaikandi. The village offers a picturesque landscape surrounded by rolling hills and lush greenery, reflecting the natural beauty of the mystical lands of Uttarakhand. The morning sun falls upon the sleepy village like a spotlight and you can see that the elders are already out and about their daily routines. As for the children, the distant calls of the birds gently pull them out of their slumber. Yet, another night of peace in the lap of the Goddess of sleep, whose name your foolish guide cannot recall.

The nearest school is unfortunately a long distance away and our young energetic explorers happily skip along the way. Or maybe not everyone, as we see a few drag their feet and yet some other just happy to be out and about. A group of tween girls are walking with their hands locked together.
“Golu, is not here today”, the tallest one pouts. She has dark brown eyes and long hair tied in braids. She is wearing a short cardigan which keeps her warm during the day but may not be much suitable for evenings in the month of February.

“Why?” another girl enquires, looking sad. She hopefully looks around wondering if her friend was simply late. She is of short stature, with jet black hair, wide set black eyes, a plump nose, rosy cheeks and a small chin. She is known for being troublesome, with a child-like innocence on her face, making it hard to believe the mischiefs she comes up with. Amba shrugs. “I think her father is unwell, I heard my grandmother say,” Mamta explains.

Their school is a small three-room structure, just sufficient to cater to elementary education. Masterji is a man in his thirties who already looks like he has crossed forties. He has thick glasses on his nose, a short mustache and hunched shoulders. His undereye is a maze of wrinkles, all due to his late-night reading under the lamp, and the cause of his advanced aging. He wears a half sweater over a thick plaid shirt and a pair of trousers beneath. He talks in a nasal voice and smiles at children as they greet him and go inside. Once the bell rings he enters the class and the children sit cross-legged on the floor.
“Let’s read a poem today,” he points at the boy at front, “here take this and start reading.” The boy stands up and takes the master’s book, and all other children look up at him as starts reading. The same book is passed one-by-one to other students and some take turns reading. Masterji sings the verses intermittently. As everyone is engrossed in the lesson, Mohini stares out of the door. Usually, she loved listening but poems did not interest her.

She stares at the flowering trees of Kaafal just a month or so away from fruition. Further ahead, were the trees of Buransh awaiting their turn. It would be sight to see, once the tree starts to flower. “It would be delightful to go picking Kaafal with Golu” she wonders. Masterji finally notices the dreamy one and raps his scale on the table. She is startled by the noise and looks at the teacher. Masterji attempts an angered expression scowling at her. But she is hardly afraid as she stares back curiously. “Why is Golu not at school today, Masterji?” she enquires innocently. The teacher’s face breaks into a little smile and he thinks, “Maybe she is unwell. Now, focus on the poem so you can tell her the story tomorrow, hmm?” and the reading continues.

Mohini exhales heavily, bored to death and stares at the empty space next to her. Golu was her partner in crime, together they would plan various pranks on their master, much to his dismay. One time, the girls brought some dried chilies with them, kept them on a flat stone and set them ablaze. They kept it at the window of masterji’s room and hid behind a tree. The master entered the room a little later. He started to sneeze violently at the smoke unable to figure out its source. His papers flew across, eyes were red and watery. He ran out of the room immediately, nearly falling over his dhoti in the process. The group had a good laugh that day. Mohini chuckles as she remembers the day, if only Golu was here, the day would not be so uneventful.

Weeks went by and Golu was not to be seen. “Did you meet her Mamta?” Mohini enquires one day after school as the girls sit on the grass. They were playing with pebbles, “I am not allowed out after school,” Mamta says her eyes fixed at the pebbles as she tosses them. Mohini is disappointed as she looks at the path leading to Golu’s village. “It is probably not much far,” she thinks.
“How long does it take to go to your village?” she asks Mamta again. “Hmm…” Mamta replies, she had her focus on Amba as she plays her turn, hoping she loses. “How much time does it take you to go home?” Mohini shakes Mamta, who is finally out of her trance like state. “About forty minutes,” she says after a thought.
“How much is forty minutes?” Mohini asks again and the two girls shrug, sighing Mohini gets up, dusting off grass from her clothes. “I am going home,” she declares and leaves.

The next Sunday Mohini decides to visit Golu. “I am going to see my friend,” she tells her parents. Her mother is about to say something when her father cuts in, “Be back in three hours Masti.” Masti, that’s what her grandmother would call her, entertained by her antics even before she learned to talk. A much-loved nickname for their dear daughter.
“How much is three hours?” Masti shot a questioning look. Her father is surprised, he takes a moment before saying, “when the sun is behind that tree” he points to a tree at the top of a nearby hill. Masti nods and scurries away, off to complete her mission.

Her pace is close to that of running as she progresses along the lesser familiar path. After about an hour she reaches a tiny village, similar to hers. A few people walk by and look at her concerned, “Hey! Where did you come from little one?” a woman asks. “Chamoli,” she replies. The woman laughs heartily, “we are all from Chamoli,” she pauses to bring out a Maalta (a citrous fruit) from her bag and offers it, “Are you looking for someone?”
Mohini grabs the fruit gratefully and nods, “I am looking for my friend Golu.”
“Oh!” the woman exclaims, “Go down this path, be careful not to fall. You will find a field. Golu and her mother will be there.” And so, Mohini hurries along skipping along the way excitedly. She finally spots the field and yes, there she was! “Golu!” she yells.

A hunched over Golu looks up at the noise. Her face lit up as she spots the familiar figure and waves her hand. Mohini is panting as she enters the field. “Why are you playing here?” she pouts, “come to school.” Golu looks at her mother sheepishly who returns a sad smile as she continues working in the field. “I miss school too, but my father is unwell. We need money so I have to work with my mother in the field.” Mohini looks at the field behind her expression sad, “When will you return?”
Golu thinks for a moment and tears well up in her eyes, “Maybe never,” she whispers.

That day Mohini is visibly upset as she returns home. Her mother notices her displeasure and enquires. “My friend is in a difficulty,” Mohini mumbles.
“Then you must help her,” her mother smiles, passing her a plate of her favorite dish, laapsi.
The next day after school Mohini joins Mamta on her way to the village. She bids her goodbye and rushes towards the field. “Golu,” she yells. Golu spots her friend, “what brings you here?”
“I will help you,” Mohini says with a twinkle in her eyes, “I will share all the stories we learn at school!”
Golu is elated and hugs her friend lovingly. Her mother calls for her from behind, the zamindar is here. “I don’t have time after morning and evenings would be too late,” Golu thinks. “Then I’ll be here in the morning,” Mohini resolved. “Okay, let’s meet at 7:30 every morning, near that Buransh tree” with that Golu runs back into the field.

Since that day the two friends would meet every morning. Sometimes Mohini would be there over half an hour early. “You are late, I waited for so long,” she complains one day. “But I am here at exactly 7:30” Golu points at the wall clock inside the zamindar’s house. Mohini cocks her head to one side, confused.
“You don’t know how to read the clock?”
Mohini shakes her head, unembarrassed and Golu laughs. The zamindar’s son, a twelve-year-old Jitendra or Jitti as the village calls him, overhears the conversation and mocks her. Mohini stares back and confronts him, unflinching. She gives him a good scolding swinging a stick in her hand as she threatens. Shamed by the slurry of humiliations she spats at him he runs inside his house never to mess with her again.

Mohini is now the most attentive she has ever been in class. A delightful masterji would finally be at peace as the notorious one put an end to her mischiefs. However, he misses the girls’ scheming looks and whisperings, it is strange to see your pupils grow up so quickly.
“This was what he taught today,” Mohini would attempt to draw on the soil with a pointed stick. A lot of students would not have proper notebooks. They could speak and understand Hindi but hardly a few knew how to read. Golu would furrow her brows together as she copied the figures drawn by Mohini and repeat the sounds. The girls would then play for a while, Mamta would join them at times.
It was easier to meet early during the summer but as winter set in the days were shorter. And so, their meetings weren’t so regular. “There are tigers and leopards out now Masti,” her father would warn.

A year went by, somedays the girls would go picking up wood for cooking. One time Mohini spotted a bunch of mushrooms and pointed excitedly, “those white ones are my favorite. Let me get those.” Golu immediately held her back, “Not those ones Masti. They are poisonous.” She gently guided her friend towards another spot, “there, my mother and I often pick them up for dinner. They are safe.” That day Mohini took a handful of mushrooms home and gave them to her mother, “Golu helped me find these.” Her mother scrutinized them carefully, “these are soft,” she approved. “Help me chop some onions for this, then we’ll make some rotis to go with it,” and so Mohini kept growing one step at a time every day.

It is time for annual village prayer. All the villagers gather for three-day prayer for their local deity. They dance around in circles singing folk songs. The group of friends is reunited on such events. “My father is healthy now,” Golu tells. “Will you be back to school now?” Mohini looks at her hopefully, there were a last few months left. Golu shakes her head slowly. “But why?”
Golu stays silent and stares at her feet, biting her lips. “It am getting married. Next month,” she finally speaks. The group falls silent, unsure if they should be jubilant or remorseful at the eminent farewell. “Promise me you’d come to meet me,” Mohini hugs her friend as the festival ends. “I promise,” Golu says wiping tears.

And so, their adventures come to an end. What started from a couple of pranks at school and eventually become a beautiful bond of sisterhood had neared its finale. Mohini often misses Golu. She did not even know which city she has moved to. “Maybe we’ll meet one day” Mohini dreams.
Another year flew by slowly and now Mohini too would be married. She would now belong to a place far away from home, a new city, a new family. She would master household chores as her strict mother-in-law would teach. Many a times her father-in-law would welcome her views on different discussions, praising her quick thinking. As the family would face tough days, she would often fetch wood and vegetables from the nearby jungle, helping save money. As she would go about looking for the mushrooms, she would remember that one person who taught her to differentiate.

People grieving with different illness would call for her, when they could not afford a doctor or when the only doctor they had would be out of town. She had hands of a healer and she deftly cured their pain, sometimes even using a hot iron rod. When they would gratefully appreciate the aid, she would recall that one conversation she had with Golu.
“What would you want to be when you grow up?” Golu had asked.
“A doctor,” the short girl had replied.

“Dadi tell us about your village,” the kids would plead. She would share with them all funny anecdotes like when the girls had masterji climb up a ber tree leaving him on the tree when he couldn’t come down. Or when, they locked him up inside one of the classrooms after school and he kept rapping at the door. The kids would laugh heartily.
Years later when dementia would eat away her memories one at a time, she would look at the hills sitting in the balcony of the house. Her mind would race back fifty years, a child-like smile on her face as she is a twelve-year-old once again. Nodding fondly, she would mumble, “Golu, I hope you come to school today.”

The End.