Comments for Post #C27954

I still regret how we treated our friend fourteen years ago

The year was 2010-2011. I used to attend Biology tuition at a classmate’s home in South Kolkata. The class was taught by a respected teacher from a reputed school, and around Four or Five of us gathered there each week. The boy whose house hosted us was named "Deep". I have tried countless times over the years to recall his full name, but it always slips away. Within a few days, Deep and I became great friends. We talked endlessly about almost everything—except, ironic as it was, our Biology syllabus. I fondly remember his desktop computer and how he used to connect to the internet by using his mobile phone as a modem, a common trick back then. Sometimes, a few of us would arrive before the teacher got there. I have always been a rail fan—trains were, and still are, a passion close to my heart. Deep would sit at his screen, surfing YouTube, and pull up videos of speeding trains to show me while we waited. Cinema was another bridge between us. We both shared a deep admiration for Classic Hollywood cinema, and it was Deep who first introduced me to the masterpiece films of Alfred Hitchcock. Once in a while, before class began, Deep’s father would walk into the room. I believe he was a retired government servant. He was a warm, friendly man who often struck up conversations with me. One day, I shared my aim in life with him: I told him I wanted to join the Indian Railways. He simply smiled and said, "Ah, my dear one! Why would you join the Indian Railways? You will do something even better." Deep’s mother was also a government employee, though she seemed cold and distant, and I never really spoke to her. I could see that Deep was at ease around his father, but noticeably intimidated by his mother. Then there was "Sarbashis", another boy in our group. He was somewhat effeminate, and perhaps he was gay, though I hesitate to place labels on anyone based on personal assumptions. He was close friends with Deep, and in time, we became good friends too. Yet, as was so common back then, Sarbashis occasionally faced teasing from us about his self-expression—delivered under the guise of lighthearted jokes. He took it all sportingly, of course. But looking back from where I stand today, I feel a deep sense of regret. I should not have participated in those jokes, no matter how occasional or casual they seemed. I should have shown compassion and understanding, rather than poking fun at someone simply because they didn't fit society's narrow expectations. Our generation was never properly sensitized to these issues, and in a way, both Sarbashis and those of us around him were victims of that systemic ignorance. I haven't seen Sarbashis in fourteen years, and I doubt our paths will cross again. But wherever he is today, I offer him a heartfelt apology for my past conduct, despite the warmth of our friendship. I hope he is living a happy, fulfilled life. And I hope our society evolves quickly and stereotypes fade away—so that he, and anyone else who is uniquely and beautifully different, never has to endure the subtle disrespect that was once so quietly normalized. As for Deep, I lost touch with him soon after leaving the tuition. I heard later that he pursued engineering, but fourteen years have passed, and now I can’t recollect his full name. I hope he is doing well as well. I hope his parents are doing well, too—whether they are still with us or not, I sincerely wish them peace and health. Sometimes, all these memories come floating back: the quiet afternoons, the shared computer screen, and the quiet conviction in Deep’s father’s voice when he told me I would do well. I must say here that my dream of joining the Indian Railways went unfulfilled. I often feel as though I lacked the intellect for it, and truly speaking, I haven't achieved anything of true consequence in life. It’s highly probable that both Deep and Sarbashis have forgotten me. Their lives may have taken entirely different directions. The house where we gathered may have changed. The computer on which we watched those train videos is probably long gone. I have also become someone quite different from the boy I once was or dreamt of becoming. Yet those afternoons remain. The memory of those long-lost days—with all their warmth, flaws, and imperfections—gives me something priceless. They provide the oxygen needed to navigate the quiet, daily drudgery that life asks of me every day. They help me evolve as a human being and I sincerely hope they remain within me as long as I live—not merely as nostalgic fragments of a vanished youth, but as small lessons in friendship, humility, regret, compassion, and gratitude.