After finishing first grade with good marks, I was told we were moving—to Nashik, Maharashtra. The place sounded beautiful, full of greenery, hills, and so many places to explore, especially Mumbai. I was excited. I wasn't sad about leaving; I was desperate to go.
The night we left, after all our belongings had been packed and sent ahead, we boarded the train. I climbed onto the middle birth to sleep, but for some reason, I felt a lump in my throat. My eyes burned. I wanted to cry. Maybe I did love that place more than I thought. Maybe, despite the bad memories, I still had good ones too. Maybe I would miss my friends after all.
But there was no turning back.
A New Place, A New Beginning—Or So I Thought
We arrived in Air Force Devlali, and it was beautiful. Lush green forests, towering hills, and the most perfect weather—never too hot, never too cold, with heavy, calming rains. I loved it. My parents, however, didn't. They hated the jungle, the endless greenery, the insects, and worst of all—the snakes. Their fear was understandable, but I didn't care. This was my fresh start.
After settling in, my father took me to school for the first time. I was nervous. No, terrified. A new place, new people, unfamiliar faces. But I managed. I wasn't scared of answering in class. I never hesitated to speak to teachers. And maybe that's what made me stand out.
Within a week, I became the class monitor. I was in second grade. It was my first time holding any kind of authority, and I was proud. My parents were too.
But not everyone shared that feeling.
The girl who had been the monitor before me hated it. She and her friends never spoke to me. Instead, they made sure no one else did either. Every day became a silent war. Every day was another fight. Every day, I sat alone.
And the reasons?
1. I was Bihari.
2. I was better than them at studies.
3. I was different—from the way I had food in my lunch , even the way I spoke.
4. Language. A wall I couldn't break.
5. I was an Air Force kid. And they were civilians.
No one wanted to befriend me. No one wanted to sit next to me. The only people I could even talk to were the other Air Force kids—and there were barely three or four of us.
Among them, there was only one girl—Adiba.
She was quiet. Had no friends. Wasn't even good at studies. But she was the only one I could play with. And when you have no one, even one person feels like a lifeline.
The other girl—the one who had been the previous monitor—was also from the Air Force, but she hated me. She hated me so much that even her mother got involved.
One day, her mom came to my house. She had no reason to, but she did. She wasn't there to talk. She was there to fight.
Another day, she did something worse.
She called me to her house. So sweetly. So kindly. She acted like she wanted to talk, like she wanted to make peace. And like a fool, I believed her.
But the moment I stepped inside, her mask dropped.
She screamed at me. She scolded me like I was a criminal. I was so scared, so shaken, that I ran. I turned to leave, tears streaming down my face, and she stopped me.
"Don't tell your parents I called you here."
I should have told them. I should have.
But I didn't.
I was so scared that if my parents found out I had gone to her house, I would be the one punished.
So, I kept quiet.
I swallowed it all—the fear, the humiliation, the loneliness.
For three years—second, third, and fourth grade—I survived on one friendship. One quiet, distant companionship with a girl who wasn't even my best friend.
And I thought, maybe that's all I'll ever get.