A Tribute to a Fighter: Who Lives in My Heart

A Warrior's Smile: Remembering My Friend

High school. Those years are a blur of classrooms, awkward moments, and the slow unfolding of who we were becoming. I met her then, during higher secondary. We shared the same school, her class right next to mine, yet she was a peripheral figure until an awards function brought her into sharper focus. Later, we found ourselves in the same class, she sitting in front of my group. We were among the few who didn't attend tuition classes, forging a unique bond, a "friendship of situation-ship," as I like to call it.

Until 10th grade, academics came easily. I learned by listening in class, reflecting on the bus ride home, and applying concepts to the world around me. I embraced mistakes as learning opportunities, a stark contrast to the rote memorisation favoured by others. Consistently ranking above average, I never consciously set academic goals; it all just happened.

Everything changed in higher secondary. The medium of instruction switched to English, and suddenly, half the class consisted of ambitious students with clear goals—many already enrolled in coaching centers. The other half were management quota students who knew they’d pursue arts or just wanted the prestige of our school. I, however, was lost.  

I had taken science simply because my sister had chosen bio-science, leaving my options open. A teacher had advised me, Don’t take computer science—you can still pursue engineering after bio-science. Besides, everyone should study a little biology for their own good. The class was a mix of CBSE and ICSE students, further amplifying my sense of displacement.

I vividly recall a particularly humiliating moment in maths class. On the very first day, the teacher asked me to solve a problem on the board. I managed to solve it, but I misspelled a word. Accustomed to learning maths in my native language, English was still a struggle for me at the time. Her response? A disdainful "Kashtam," meaning "pathetic" in Malayalam. That look of contempt cut deep. I was just a 15-year-old kid struggling with a change in the medium of instruction, and instead of compassion, I was met with scorn. I began to question my own intelligence. Sixteen years later, that moment remains vivid. I felt utterly inadequate. Was she just disappointed in me or in the system itself? The other kids in the class remained silent; some were horrified and tried to avoid the teacher's attention to escape similar humiliation, while others were already terrified of maths. I believe all the children were as horrified as I was by that first-day treatment.

Despite excelling in 10th, I was never a teacher's favourite or a source of parental pride. My study methods were unconventional, and I didn't believe in equating high scores with intelligence. I knew I was capable, but I was also aware of the role luck played. That dismissive look, however, wounded my teenage heart. 

As I sat there, humiliated, she glanced at me—not with pity, but with empathy. A silent nod, an unspoken "I get it." That small gesture made me feel a flicker of hope.

She was ambitious, dreaming of becoming an IFS officer, but her dreams were complicated by cancer. I didn't know her diagnosis at first, just that she had health issues. We bonded over our shared struggle of navigating the curriculum without tuition. Teachers excused her absences, knowing her condition, but she never used it as a crutch. Despite her pain, she fought fiercely.  

Amidst this turmoil, she offered a silent  care . A sympathetic nod from across the room, a brief moment of connection, was a lifeline and cause of our friendship.

History repeated itself in maths class. The teacher remarked on how ICSE students learned sets in 6th grade, while we were just starting. My friend from elementary school, wary of the teacher's scrutiny, avoided sitting near her, leaving me exposed. The teacher's constant, disapproving glances at my work were a new and painful experience. I finally understood the feelings of those students I'd seen dismissed in my previous classes.

That was the first time in my life I started to feel this way. As I was shorter, I had always been seated in the first bench and usually first in line, and had never been afraid to be there. But then, I started to fear even the side seat. I hated that class, especially maths (despite loving the other maths teachers' classes), and I began to feel anxious even about going to school.My school bus buddy had always disliked our old school for its treatment of average students. I could never agree with her before because I loved my old school, but this time, experiencing it myself, I finally understood how others saw it.

I,  hid my insecurities, but she saw through my facade and became my anchor.When I took leave, faking a stomach ache to avoid a class test by that same math teacher, she immediately caught on. My "funny stomach pain" was like a pinch for her, and she called me out on it. No one else knew I was faking it because even my teachers and friends thought I was studious and hardworking, and I never tried to change that image to stay in my comfort zone. When I slacked off and scored less, my teachers and friends only thought it was because the subject was tough, not that I hadn't studied. But surprisingly, she caught me, taught me, and helped me get back to my studies. Otherwise, I was losing interest in the subject due to the unfair treatment.

Her health struggles meant sudden disappearances—weeks of absence without warning. only a few of us knew the truth. We never spoke about it openly. Her best friend, more fragile, revealed it only when she could no longer hold back her tears. But knowing that talking about it would only deepen our sorrow, we pretended we didn’t know. I shielded her from prying questions, respecting her desire for normalcy. She craved the carefree banter of friendship, not pity.

She taught me the importance of memorising formulas and practising consistently, a strategy foreign to me. I had always separated "learning" from "studying for exams." She helped me bridge that gap and pulled me from my isolation.

She would call me after her treatments, asking about missed lessons and homework. I became her conduit, listening attentively in class so I could relay the information. Even when weeks passed without a call, I held back my worries, knowing she needed normalcy, not concern. During those two years, I never once asked her how she was feeling, though the question often came to mind. After realizing how bland her food was due to her diet restrictions, I never discussed the taste of food with her again. These were the little things I could do for her. 

Despite her immense physical and mental pain, she scored 95% in her final exams. During the vacation, we stayed in touch until she suddenly went silent. she stopped answering calls. The last time we spoke, she had chosen an engineering college near her home. I assumed she was fine and might have gone for treatment and would call me back once she returns home. —until the morning I got the call.  

She was gone

 Visiting her lifeless form, I felt numb, not tearful, she didn't look tiered. I felt a strange sense of relief that her suffering was over.i knew she endured unimaginable pain though she never expressed it.I felt crying would be unfair to her , cause she  tried so hard to fight it , and that wasn't how I should send her off, 

She was the strongest person I had ever known. She smiled for her parents, bore the weight of their pain, and acted brave—not because she had to, but because she truly was. Her strength, resilience, and unwavering spirit continue to inspire me. Even today, when life throws challenges at me, I think of her and push forward, knowing she would have done the same.

 I believe she would have become an exceptional officer. Though she's gone,we carried her memory in silence, honouring her wish to be remembered not for her pain, but for her spirit not to dwell on problem but to face them head on like a warrior.  

Have you ever had a friend who quietly shaped your life in profound ways? I'd love to hear your stories in the comments.