Priyo Bondhu: My Childhood Friend

Aaratrika Mondal

I’m caught in the middle of a divided road; cars, bikes, rickshaws, and trams are whizzing by on all sides of me. The sound of their horns is ringing in my ears, and I’m blindly following my best friend pulling me through the traffic, dangerously close to being run over. For a moment, I’m caught so off-guard that I can’t remember where I am, or how I got there…

The whir of the plane’s engine as it touches down on the runway. The voice of the flight attendant as she gives instructions - once in English, and once in Hindi. The sounds of the City of Joy used to fill my ears. 

Kolkata was my childhood friend. I met her soon after I was born, and she welcomed me with open arms. We grew up together, inseparable despite the oceans between us. When I was in India, Kolkata always woke up at first light. She would rouse me from my jet-lagged sleep with the sound of the newspaper boy’s bell. I would jump out from under the mosquito nets, and we would creep up to the rooftop to watch the city come to life. The sky used to brighten at our arrival, and the tram would sound its hello. The crows would caw, demanding that we feed them breakfast before we quickly ate our own. 

Eager to show me around the city, she would pull me onto a rickshaw to take us to the markets, where I clutched her hand so I wouldn't get lost in the sea of bodies. Wandering through the pyramids of fresh fruit and the sparkling displays of earrings, she bargained with the shopkeepers with a finesse I secretly wished I had. We would stop at College Street to buy my favorite books; Kolkata had taught me how to read, but studying was quite low on our priorities when there was so much around us to take in. With books in our arms, she would drag me headfirst into the incoming traffic, effortlessly dancing to the symphony of horns as she conducted her traffic without any rules, pulling me along as her faithful sidekick. The quiet peace of the Victoria Memorial was a place to catch our breath from the crowds as we sat counting the pigeons stark against the sky. We always headed back home for lunch; even though she had so much food to offer, we both agreed that the best meal was always my grandmother’s cooking. 

With the afternoon light filtering through the wooden blinds, we draped bed sheets around ourselves, striking poses in the floor-length cabinet mirror until my mom let me wear my own saree. Kolkata taught me how to wear kajal, and we wrapped paayels around our ankles, pretending to be famous movie stars. When it was dark enough we ran outside; the streets we had wandered in the morning had been made unrecognizable by the colorful lighting. Her mehendi-laden fingers wrapped over mine as I lit my first sparklers for Kali Pujo. Our favorite songs blasted over the speakers, making us spontaneously burst out singing. We would stay up late at night, basking in the glow of fireworks, laughter, and our childhood.

Kolkata was my childhood friend; she opened herself to me so I could see the world through her eyes. She helped me overcome stage fright by organizing my first dance performance, eventually becoming my trusted wingman when I fell in love with dance. She taught me to never let people mispronounce my name - she was speaking from experience. She showed me that new and old, traditional and modern, can coexist in a happy hodgepodge as they do in her world. And while I felt at home in her streets, she made sure I was comfortable standing out because not everyone has a miniature city in their hearts. She gave me so much and never wanted anything in return except our friendship. 

Kolkata was my childhood friend, but I could only fly across the oceans to see her occasionally. But when we weren’t together, we were never really apart. She was in the songs I listened to, and in the food I ate. The clothes I wore were gifts from her, and the language was one we shared. I saw glimpses of her in our Pujo celebrations in Minnesota, in the background of video calls with relatives, and even fleetingly in the polluted sky, but it was never quite the same.

Kolkata was my childhood friend, but then I started visiting her less, and slowly the role of my best friend went to someone else. Life took us in different directions, and try as we might, the oceans grew harder for us to navigate.  The tides twisted and turned, forming walls instead of waves that neither of us could penetrate. She would try to hitch a ride with my grandparents over the summer, but she could never stay for long. Even when I did visit, our lives had gotten hectic; we could never spend time with each other like we used to.

Kolkata was my childhood friend, and now I’ve started missing her more. Kolkata, who used to bring the excitement of packing suitcases and flying on planes just to see her again. The oceans would bring me her breeze full of food and festivities and fun, no matter the season. But now I have trouble recalling the scent of her wind, the haze of her skies, the taste of her street food. Now we just exchange polite smiles but never talk, never embrace. She’s becoming the friend that my parents fondly remember me playing with, but I can never recall; I'm left with a handful of photos and a heart full of nostalgia. I want to relive those memories I have of her again, become her best friend again, this time for forever. Something tells me we haven’t yet written the last chapter of our friendship; we will find a way to cross these oceans between us.