Familiar Strangers
1095 Words
The funny thing about childhood is that you assume it will continue indefinitely.
Nobody tells you that one day you'll play together for the last time.
Nobody announces the final cricket match.
Nobody schedules the last summer evening.
Nobody says,
"This is the last time all of you will sit under this tree and argue about absolutely nothing."
Life simply moves forward.
And you don't realize what's happening until years later.
The beginning of the end arrived disguised as education.
Which, if you ask me, is exactly the kind of trick education likes to play.
When we were around thirteen, Manoj's parents made a decision.
A sensible decision.
An intelligent decision.
A decision I personally disliked.
They moved to a nearby town.
Not because they disliked the village.
Quite the opposite.
They simply wanted better schools.
Better opportunities.
Better coaching.
Better everything.
The Varma family had always believed success was something that required constant effort.
Standing still was never an option.
Especially for Manoj.
His father had grand plans.
His son would excel.
His son would achieve.
His son would go places.
Preferably places that involved foreign currencies.
The rest of us merely hoped to pass mathematics.
So one summer they packed their belongings and left.
The distance wasn't enormous.
Just far enough to matter.
Close enough to visit.
Far enough to change things.
At first, nothing seemed different.
Every holiday, Manoj returned.
The moment he arrived, the old routine resumed.
The same g**g.
The same arguments.
The same disasters.
Only slightly taller.
And significantly louder.
The adults often remarked that we were growing up.
Personally, I didn't see much evidence.
The only noticeable difference was that Manoj's terrible ideas had become more sophisticated.
Instead of jumping across wells, he now debated movie plots and career options.
A questionable improvement.
The movie discussions continued for years.
If Manoj discovered a new film, everyone heard about it.
Immediately.
Whether they wanted to or not.
He introduced me to Tamil movies.
Malayalam movies.
English movies.
Thrillers.
Mysteries.
Psychological horror.
Supernatural horror.
Horror movies involving possessed dolls.
Horror movies involving possessed houses.
Horror movies involving what appeared to be possessed furniture.
To this day, I maintain that some filmmakers were simply inventing new fears for entertainment.
My parents remained unaware.
As far as they knew, I was spending my evenings discussing academics.
Which was technically true.
If you consider movie analysis an academic discipline.
I certainly did.
Those holiday conversations became my favorite part of the year.
Not because they were important.
Because they weren't.
We talked about movies.
Teachers.
Friends.
Exams.
Village gossip.
The sort of meaningless conversations that somehow become precious later.
Back then, I thought there would always be more of them.
There usually are.
Until there aren't.
Around sixteen, things started changing.
Not dramatically.
Not overnight.
Just slowly.
The way evening becomes night.
Impossible to pinpoint.
Easy to notice afterwards.
Manoj spent more time with the older boys.
Conversations changed.
Interests changed.
Responsibilities appeared.
The rest of us changed too.
Childhood friendships operate on proximity.
As children, you become friends because your houses are nearby.
As teenagers, life starts sorting people into different directions.
Some friendships survive.
Others become quieter.
Then quieter still.
One summer I realized something strange.
Manoj and I weren't talking as much.
The silence wasn't awkward.
It wasn't intentional.
There simply wasn't the same urgency anymore.
He had his friends.
I had mine.
Sometimes we spent entire afternoons in the same place without really speaking.
The realization felt odd.
Like noticing a familiar landmark had disappeared.
Not shocking.
Just unexpected.
Then came engineering.
The final act of separation.
Manoj got admission into an engineering college far away.
Far enough that holiday visits became rare.
Far enough that village life stopped being part of his everyday world.
I still remember the week before he left.
The entire neighborhood spoke about it.
His parents were proud.
His relatives were proud.
The village was proud.
Everyone expected great things from Manoj Varma.
Honestly, so did I.
The annoying fellow was smart enough to succeed anywhere.
The evening before he left, a few of us gathered near the old playground.
Nothing special happened.
Nobody delivered emotional speeches.
Nobody promised lifelong friendship.
Nobody exchanged dramatic farewells.
We simply sat there talking nonsense until it became dark.
Then everyone went home.
At the time, it felt completely ordinary.
Years later, I realized it was the last evening of our childhood.
After that, life accelerated.
I joined engineering in a nearby town.
New classrooms.
New friends.
New routines.
New worries.
For the first time, my world expanded beyond the village.
Assignments replaced summer adventures.
Internal exams replaced cricket matches.
Hostel gossip replaced neighborhood gossip.
Life became busy.
Then busier.
The strange thing about growing up is how quickly people become background characters.
Not because they matter less.
Because life becomes crowded.
There are new faces everywhere.
New friendships.
New ambitions.
New responsibilities.
The old connections remain.
Just further away.
Occasionally during holidays, I would see Manoj.
Sometimes at the temple.
Sometimes on the road.
Sometimes during family functions.
We would stop.
Exchange a few words.
Ask the standard questions.
How are you?
How's college?
When did you come?
When are you leaving?
Then continue walking.
Two people who once spent entire days together.
Now reduced to a conversation lasting less than five minutes.
Funny.
Nobody fought.
Nobody argued.
Nobody got hurt.
Nothing happened.
And somehow everything changed.
Years passed.
Engineering ended.
Jobs arrived.
Cities arrived.
Adult life arrived.
The village became a place we visited instead of a place we lived.
Whenever I thought about Manoj, it was usually because somebody mentioned his name.
Malathi akka.
My brother.
Village relatives.
Occasional updates drifting through family conversations.
Manoj got a job.
Manoj moved cities.
Manoj was doing well.
That was it.
Information.
Not friendship.
The boy who once knew every detail of my life had become somebody I heard about second-hand.
A familiar stranger.
And, if I was being honest, I probably became one to him too.
That was life.
People drifted.
Paths separated.
Stories moved on.
At least, that's what I believed back then.
Lying in my childhood bedroom all these years later, listening to the sounds of the village night, I couldn't help wondering something.
If somebody had told ten-year-old Mounika that one day Manoj Varma would become a stranger, she would have laughed.
If somebody had told thirty-three-year-old Mounika that his name would still make her remember all these things, she probably would have laughed too.
Funny.
Sometimes life waits decades before proving you wrong.
- Writer
