Priceless.

"I’m coming to India in December.", she said. "Really!", I asked, hoping that this wasn’t some stupid joke. She laughed and nodded and I realised that it was true. I had not seen my best friend for over a year and a half, as she had shifted to Japan and I couldn’t wait to see her again.

"Why did you have to tell me now?", I asked her crossly. "Couldn’t you wait till November? Five months! That’s forever.", I rebuked as I had begun to realise how long these five months were now going to be. They’d never pass. I looked at her, peeved.
"I know right!", she said angrily, and all my anger melted away. I knew that December seemed ages away to her too. "Give me your address.", she said suddenly. "Huh?"I asked. My brain had begun to make a list of the things to do when she came here in December. 'Give me your address' had disturbed the brilliant wave of ideas that my brain had been working on. "Your address!, she repeated, slowly, as if I was someone who had a difficulty understanding English.
I gave her a 'seriously-dude?' look and asked her why she wanted my address right now. After all, she was going to come eons later. "Come on", she said. "The last time we talked was about 4 months ago. Who knows when we’ll get to talk next. Just give it to me. " Laughing, I told her my address as she wrote it down somewhere in her book.

For another hour or so, we talked about what we’d do when she’d come here in December. We decided how we would surprise all our other friends, how we’d spend the first weekend and then the second, and all the stuff we’d do together. Just talking about it made us happy and by the time we had finished discussing the plans, we had started cursing August, October and November that stood in the way of December and July. September was an exception because her birthday is in September and so is my other best friend’s. We talked a bit more and then, realising how much time had passed, said goodbye.

After I closed Hangouts, I went to the living room and danced around, singing 'Vasumati is coming'
to a random tune. Now that I think of it, my brother and grandparents’ something-is-seriously-wrong with-her-looks were totally justified.

Last Thursday, Vasumati messaged me again. "What time are you free tomorrow", it said. I had a whole load of homework to do and notebooks to complete. Friday was a holiday and so, the teachers had given as much homework as they possibly could. "It’s a long weekend. You must study and complete everything.", all of them had said. I told this to Vasumati and also asked her if she had wanted to video call. When she said yes, I told her that we could do it around 4, India time. I wasn’t going to study the whole day anyway and talking to her would be excellent.

The next day, as usual, I did absolutely nothing according to plan. By afternoon, I had watched Masterchef Australia, Schindler’s List, read a book, made a sketch and had not even opened a school book. It was almost four and owing to the fact that I had done nothing, I decided to tell Vasumati to skip the call and do it later, maybe on Sunday.
I closed the book I was reading, and got up. I looked around my room; it was pretty much what you can call a mess. Guests were to come for dinner, but I was the least interested in cleaning up. The bell rang while I was opening my email to send a message to Vasumati. I thought that the guests had most probably decided to come early, but, I’ve never been more wrong. Mum rushed to my room and asked me if I was ready. "Why would I be-"I began to say, but stopped mid-sentence.

A girl, who looked exactly like Vasumati entered my room and sat on my bed, like it belonged to her, at 4 o’ clock. I stared at her for a couple of seconds, blinked...I seriously did. Then, I got up and hugged her tightly, pulled back, looked at her, blinked a couple more times and then hugged her again.

She laughed, probably because of the look of absolute disbelief on my face. I realised quite later that I had been muttering "No Way...No Way...Whoa", over and over again. I laughed, with almost tears in my eyes and she did too.
It was crazy and amazing. I can’t put into words how happy I was, seeing her and how extremely truly bloody surprised I was.

For the next ten minutes, I tried to convince myself that this was real. This girl had really come to India from Japan and she had, given me a wonderful shock, more than a surprise. She told me how she had hidden from a couple of boys in our school who lived near her house to make sure that I didn’t find out she was here. She told me how the whole plan would have failed if I had picked up the phone to let her in the building instead of my mum. We talked, we laughed, took loads of pictures and had fun. She stayed at my place for the weekend and honestly, it was one of the best of my life.

The fact that someone would do this for me left me ecstatic. The joy that I felt when she, instead of her call came at 4 is priceless and something that I will, without a doubt, never forget.

Yet to Discover...

People say that you can find a bit of the writer’s story in whatever he writes. A poem reflects what the poet feels. Many writers, have, in fact admitted to this. For instance, J.K Rowling, the author of the famous Harry Potter series said, in an interview that the story was greatly influenced by her hardships. Characters died when she was angry or in great grief, the dementors -one of the foulest creatures on Earth, who glory in decay and despair, drain hope and happiness from the air around them- were, to quote her, "based on her experience of depression".

I feel that it is quite easy to write about things we have felt, as compared to things we’re yet to discover.  I therefore think that a writer’s true test lies, not in making the reader feel what they have felt, but to take readers to places where the author has never been. Many of the readers might have been there already, many might have not. To engulf those who have, in his/her version, to make the undiscovered feel familiar, here lies the author’s trial. If your work keeps your secret, doesn’t let anyone know that what you’ve written is purely imagination, you know you’ve succeeded. 

That is what I’m going to try to do today. I’m 15 and most of the fifteen year olds I know write brilliantly, about stuff you’d expect, without a doubt, from teenagers. Love and broken hearts, backstabbing and fights, friends and crushes, well, isn’t that what we think teenage is all about? I have a wee bit different views on this, though I’ll have plenty of time to write about them later. So today, I’m going to try to write something, something I have never tried to write before, something that I’m yet to discover and something that I’m going to have to trust, my reading and my imagination will do justice to.

So here it is:

...

Don’t let me go, he screams

But words fail him

He is broken inside

But tears fail him

He takes a step back

Tries to turn around 

And walk away,

But I hold his hand in mine

I don’t let him go

"I heard you scream",

"I saw your tears", I say

"But I wasn’t the one walking away.

I scream, but this time,

Words fail me.

I’m broken inside,

But tears now, fail me.

"I know" he says,

And I know he heard my scream

I know he saw the tears, he says

"You’re all I need to stay"

Then, he holds my hand in his

Doesn’t, this time, walk away

And now, I know

He’ll never let me go.

Stoked.

Sipping a cup of hot coffee, I sat on a table, right next to the door in McDonald’s. It was raining heavily and the air conditioning on my wet clothes, hair and socks was making my nose runny. I wrapped my palms around the cup, sucking all its warmth. I sipped on, clocking the commotion outside. Amidst the muddle, a little boy, less than a year old caught my eye.

He crawled away as a girl, around 14 years old carried him back again and again to a tree under which stood a small crowd. The way she looked at him protectively and firmly told him to stay put , I guessed he was her little brother.

She wore a worn, old, red top with a dirty green skirt. Her curly hair was tied clumsily into a knot, falling all over her face. Broken slippers barely protected her feet. She looked at her brother with exasperation as he crawled into the muddy puddle again. I laughed as she scooped him up and brought him under the tree again, though it wasn’t of any use. He was already wet, from crawling in the puddle and she was too, from bringing him back for the hundredth time.
The few people standing there, who weren’t busy with their phones, watched these two kids quaintly; some, with interest, some with distaste. I wondered why the little boy wouldn’t listen to his sister. He crawled out again and this time, the sister did not bring him back. She just looked at him warily and let him crawl in the mud.

The little boy was having fun. He laughed as he splashed around, much to the annoyance of the drove. I smiled as I saw the sister keeping a watchful eye on her little brother. She looked responsible and matured. Her impecuniosity had perhaps shaped her older than her age.
The little boy, though wasn’t aware of any such thing. He was an innocent kid, without a clue of the hardships of his family. His little blue pants were all wet and he looked really happy as he sat in the mud and sloshed his teeny fingers in the mire.

He stopped abruptly for a second and then did something that, judging from her expression, his sister hadn’t expected. I watched with wonder as the little boy tried to stand up. He slowly got onto one knee, and then the next and tried to stand up. He couldn’t though. He fell down, head first into the plash. I was concerned for a moment until he sat back, his face now all muddy. He looked at his sister and then, laughed. She smiled with relief and I don’t know why, but so did I.

He tried again, fell again, tried again and fell again but this little boy, I knew, wasn’t going to stop till he’d stand up, all on his own. Finally, after loads of endeavours, he stood up on his little feet. He shifted his feet as he tried to balance himself but tumbled over again. This time, he didn’t laugh. With renewed confidence, now that he had stood up once, he got up again but couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds. After a couple of more attempts, he finally stood up, steady. He looked proud of himself and so did his sister. I felt glad but that wasn’t all that day had for me.

As his sister smiled at him, he tried to take a step ahead. Anticipation replaced her smile in a fleet of time but her little brother did not disappoint her. He took his first step, towards her and then his second. Slowly he walked over to her. She beamed with joy and the melancholy in her eyes, too old for her age vanished. She jumped around, clapping, encouraging her brother.

I was overjoyed. I knew I had nothing to do with the two kids but I had seen someone’s first steps. I was euphoric. Someone’s first steps! That was intimidating. The joy and pride in the sister’s eyes, the sense of accomplishment in the little boy’s who had just taken his first steps left me in awe. 

And there, sitting in a McDonald’s, sipping a cup of hot coffee, cold, with rain pouring outside I had seen something I’ll never forget. I was stoked.