Chapter 1: The First Day of Childhood
It was a quiet morning in a small, serene neighborhood on the southern edge of Kolkata. The sky was painted in soft orange hues, and the air carried the smell of freshly brewed tea, warm milk, and the faint strains of an old Rabindra Sangeet playing on the neighbor's radio.
In one of the two-storied houses stood a little girl—barely five years old—clutching her father's finger. She wore a red frock, her hair tied in two little ponytails. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she watched the movers bring furniture into the house next door.
"Eisha," her mother called gently from behind, "a new family has moved in. They have a son about your age. Go say hello, beta."
She didn't wait for another word. With that innocent eagerness only children possess, Eisha let go of her father's hand and skipped toward the house next door.
Sitting on the veranda of the newly moved-in house was a boy around her age. His hair was neatly parted, and he wore a yellow T-shirt a size too big. He sat cross-legged on the ground, deeply immersed in playing with a small red toy car. His expression was serious, unlike Eisha's bubbling energy.
Eisha stopped in front of him and tilted her head. "Hey! What's your name?" she asked with the confidence of someone who had never known rejection.
The boy looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. He blinked once, then said, "Ayaan. What's yours?"
"I'm Eisha," she said, plopping down beside him without invitation. "Wanna play with me?"
Ayaan didn't answer right away. He just pushed his toy car toward her. That was enough. In a child's world, that one gesture meant friendship. That one moment sealed something they wouldn't understand for years to come.
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From that day, Eisha and Ayaan were inseparable. Their houses were side-by-side, but their lives became one shared routine.
Their families were close too—Sunday brunches, Durga Puja outings, late-night tea conversations between uncles and aunties, and joint trips to Shantiniketan or Darjeeling. It was more than friendship; it was a kind of quiet, rooted bond between two households.
Ayaan was always the quiet one—reserved, observant, and thoughtful. He never spoke too much but remembered everything. He liked drawing cars, reading books with pictures, and watching clouds move across the sky.
Eisha was the complete opposite—talkative, full of life, always the one to pull Ayaan into games, trouble, or stories she had imagined. She believed in fairies, hated math, and loved painting rainbows on everything, even when it wasn't raining.
They fought too—over toys, over crayons, over who would swing first in the park. Their parents often joked, "Ek doosre ko na dekhe toh khaana bhi nahi hoga inka!" ("They won't eat unless they see each other first!")
As the years passed, so did their seasons of childhood. From nursery rhymes to bicycle races, from coloring books to shared secrets under the mango tree in the backyard—they grew up together.
But something began to change around them... and within them. Somewhere between the age of 12 and 15, they became more self-aware. Ayaan began noticing the way Eisha laughed with her friends. Eisha, in turn, would feel a strange pinch when another girl from the colony tried to talk to Ayaan for too long.
Of course, they didn't call it love. Not yet.
They called it "just friendship." The kind that felt like breathing—natural, effortless, and constant.
But in their hearts, a quiet feeling was beginning to take shape. A bond deeper than friendship. One that would go unspoken for many years.
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