Some friendships begin in classrooms, some in playgrounds, and some over shared interests. Ours began under a tree.
My first school had no building, no corridors, and no polished floors. It was simply a primary school under a large tree, meant for children from poor families like mine. In those days I was growing up in what felt like the poorest corner of the poorest state of a poor country. Life was simple, and resources were scarce.
School, for me, was not exciting.
I disliked the discipline — the idea of sitting in one place, listening, repeating lessons. Even a school under a tree felt restrictive to a restless child. I would have happily wandered in fields or played by the river instead.
But that was where I met Munna.
Munna was one year older than me. In that early chaos of childhood, he became the first person outside my family who mattered deeply. At that age we didn’t know words like friendship, loyalty, or bond. But somehow we already understood them.
Soon Munna moved to another school — a more structured one. Fate, however, had its own plans. That school eventually became my first serious school as well, and once again we found ourselves together.
He was in UKG, and I was in LKG, technically his junior. But the truth was that we were inseparable. We studied together, played together, wandered together. Only sleep separated us.
In the morning we would meet again and the world would resume.
A Child Who Refused to Be Separated
Life in school slowly began to change for me. Something awakened — a curiosity, perhaps a confidence. I started learning quickly, absorbing lessons faster than others. Before long I became the topper of the school, often far ahead of my peers.
But academic achievement wasn’t what defined that phase of life.
What defined it was Munna.
When the year ended, a small crisis appeared. I was supposed to move to UKG, while Munna would move to Class 1. That meant different classrooms, different teachers, different schedules.
For a normal child, this might have been a small inconvenience.
For me, it was unacceptable.
I refused the idea of being separated from my friend. I argued, protested, and insisted so persistently that eventually the school gave in. I skipped UKG entirely and was promoted directly to Class 1, just so I could remain in the same class as Munna.
Looking back, it seems absurd and beautiful at the same time — a child altering his educational trajectory simply because he could not imagine school without his closest friend.
The Season of Letters
There was another chapter of those early years that still makes me smile — the season of letters.
By the time Munna and I had reached the early years of primary school, something new had awakened in me. I had begun to understand language better. Words were no longer just things teachers made us repeat; they had become tools — playful, mysterious, powerful.
And like any young boy stepping unknowingly into the first edges of adolescence, I decided to experiment with them.
My first experiment was simple and wildly ambitious.
I began writing love letters.
Not to one girl.
To every girl in the class.
In our small village school the number of girls was not very large, but to a boy of that age it felt like an entire universe. Each letter was carefully written on small pieces of paper, folded with seriousness, and delivered with the quiet diplomacy that only schoolchildren understand.
Looking back, it was less about romance and more about curiosity. I had discovered that words could create reactions, and I wanted to see what would happen.
What happened next surprised even me.
Every single one of them wrote back.
Perhaps they were amused. Perhaps they were curious too. Perhaps the novelty of receiving a handwritten letter in a small village school was irresistible.
Whatever the reason, a strange little epistolary culture had suddenly emerged among children who were barely old enough to understand what they were participating in.
Notes traveled secretly between desks.
Munna, of course, knew everything.
He was both witness and accomplice to this grand experiment. Sometimes he would laugh at my seriousness. Sometimes he helped deliver a letter when the timing was delicate. Sometimes he simply watched the unfolding drama like a seasoned observer of village politics.
In a way, those letters were my first lessons in human connection.
They taught me that communication could create emotion.
Years later, when I began writing more seriously — essays, ideas, reflections — I sometimes think the seed may have been planted right there, in that tiny village classroom.
A boy discovering that language could move hearts.
Of course, in the innocent democracy of childhood, there was no jealousy, no complicated drama. Everyone knew everyone else. The letters were part mischief, part curiosity, part innocent play.
Soon the season passed.
School lessons grew harder, adventures outside school became more exciting, and life moved forward toward bigger horizons. But the memory of that brief period remains vivid — a time when the discovery of words felt like discovering a new superpower.
And Munna, sitting beside me through all of it, must have thought:
“This fellow is going to create trouble someday.” 😄
The World Outside School
School hours were only a small part of our lives.
The real adventures began after school.
Our playground was the world itself — fields, riverbanks, dusty lanes, abandoned spaces, and mysterious corners of the village. The Ganges flowed nearby, eternal and patient, silently watching generations grow up along its banks.
We swam in its waters, raced along its sandy edges, and sat for long hours watching the current move with quiet power.
Not far from our playground was a Muslim graveyard.
To adults it was a solemn place. To children, it was a territory of mystery and courage. We turned it into an arena of imagination — ghost stories, midnight challenges, hide-and-seek among the old stones, and whispered tales meant to frighten each other.
Looking back now, those were some of the richest adventures of childhood.
Between the Ganges, the fields, and that quiet graveyard, we lived a thousand stories that still deserve to be told to our grandchildren one day.
The Moonlight Club
As we grew older, our little circle of friends expanded. Together we formed something grandly named the Moonlight Club.
It was less a club and more a brotherhood.
We organized sports, cultural activities, small competitions, gatherings, and festivals. We felt like organizers of a miniature civilization — planning events, motivating others, creating energy in the community.
Munna was always there.
Steady. Loyal. Present.
That phase of life continued until another turning point arrived.
The Separation That Life Brings
Eventually my academic journey took a sharp turn. My performance in school pushed me into a much better institution — the best school in the state.
For the first time, our daily paths separated.
School no longer brought us together every morning.
But friendship, when it is real, does not depend on classrooms.
We continued meeting through sports, cultural activities, and the Moonlight Club for as long as circumstances allowed. Those years carried the warmth of familiarity — a bond that had already been forged through childhood, adventure, and shared struggle.
Then came another leap.
I left for IIT, stepping into a completely different world.
What Remains
Life has taken me very far from those early days.
The distance between the boy under the tree and the man writing these words is enormous.
But one thing has not changed.
Munna remains the closest thing in my heart.
Friendships formed in adulthood are often based on shared interests, professions, or convenience.
But childhood friendships are different.
They are formed before ego, before ambition, before comparison. They come from a place of pure companionship — two children simply walking through the same landscape of life together.
Munna and I walked through poverty, schoolyards, riverbanks, graveyards, playgrounds, and dreams together.
And somewhere between the Ganges and that old tree, a friendship was born that time has never been able to erase.
One day, when our grandchildren ask about our childhood, I know the stories will begin with the same line:
“Let me tell you about my friend Munna…”
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