Dear Amrita, I am so sorry

A friendship that could have thrived but didn't. An incident that I could have avoided but didn't. A regret and an acceptance that I was once a bully.

I have been called many things in my life – brutally honest, a little mean, very brave, super fun when drunk, slightly OCD, a reliable friend, insanely beautiful, hyper sensitive, the best host.

Of all the nicknames bestowed upon me, never have I been called a bully. But I was one. A long time ago.

Amrita was one year junior to me in school. She came to live with her grandparents for a few months one summer. Her grandparents were our neighbours. Their flat was on the fourth floor of the apartment building right next to our house – a stand-alone two-storey structure with a long driveway lined with Ashoka Trees, that had six bedrooms, two drawing rooms, seven toilets, a kitchen, an annex, three servant’s quarters, a garage and a large terrace. It stood out amongst all the apartment buildings that surrounded us.

Center: My childhood house / Right: Amrita’s Building

We were a houseful of kids. Amrita was a single child. Since I knew her from school and we took the same bus home, my mother encouraged me to invite her over to play with us. I did and she gladly accepted.

Amrita was always ready to help, nodding her head in agreement, doing whatever we asked her to do.

“Amrita, can you get us a bottle of water from the kitchen?”

“Amrita, it’s your turn to count till 100.”

“Amrita, please write down the rules of this game.”

“Amrita, you are the odd one out today. You can be the judge.”

Amrita would nod and smile. Everything was okay with her. She never argued, never fought and never said we were unfair. She was happy to have company and we were delighted to have someone to boss around.

After a few weeks she began coming over to our house daily, at 4:00 pm. When we came out to play, we would find Amrita sitting on the white marble staircase outside the main door, on our driveway. She would smile when she saw us.

Top left: the room before the terrace, Top right: the two-storeyed house, Bottom left: the Verandah, Bottom right: the white staircase where Amrita waited.

Amrita was not a fast runner. She would get caught first every single time. And every time she would laugh as if it was the funniest thing on Earth. She was not good at skating and she fell often. She never cried, instead choosing to stand back up and try again. She was terrible at badminton and failed miserably at hitting the shuttle cock. She was scared of hide and seek and preferred to hide with one of us. She was always treated like an extra in the game – the odd number. Her points would not be counted because she never managed to score any. We let her bounce around, fall down, get caught and move at her own pace and rhythm. She was the spot boy, always in the fringes but essential to our games.

The driveway where we played badminton, relay races, skating marathons and kabaddi.

Over the weeks, I grew fond of Amrita. She was soft spoken, mild mannered and kept to herself. We walked to the bus stop together in the morning and walked back home together in the afternoon. She was punctual and I was not. On days when I was running late, Amrita would go to the bus stop and ask the bus to wait for me.

We were not equals. I was her senior. She looked up to me.

She was a great listener. I would spin ridiculous stories and she would believe them all. I knew she would not snitch or tell my cousins that I had run the 100-meter race in school in under 5 seconds. She would not tell my mother that I could see and talk to ghosts at night. She would not tell my friends that the boy next door liked me.

I knew my secrets were safe with her.

With her, I could be the smart, clever and beautiful girl, envied by all.

Everything was going perfectly. Till one day, when Amrita did not show up.

She had told me she would come. I felt angry, betrayed somehow. She should not make promises she couldn’t keep. I decided to go to her house and give her a sounding for her bad behaviour.

I rang the doorbell three times.

Eventually, Amrita opened the door, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

“You didn’t come to play?” I asked her, losing all my steam when I realised that she had been asleep.

“Sorry, I fell asleep. I can come now.”

“Ok.”

“I’ll just tell my grandmother.”

We headed back to my house together. Amrita was still sleepy. She yawned continuously, rubbing her eyes. I could tell that she was not in the mood to play. She was tired. But I didn’t care. I had come all the way to get her. I did not want to return empty handed.

By the time we reached the terrace, everyone had left. My younger brother was chasing pigeons off the ledge. Amrita looked like she was going to leave.

“I have an idea! Let’s play a game!” I said loudly.

My brother looked at me. “But everyone has gone didi.”

“So what? The three of us can play.”

“What’s the game,” he asked, curious.

Amrita seemed to have woken up a bit by now.

“Okay so there will be a denner who will stand with their eyes closed. Then one of us will come and tap their back three times and the denner will have to guess who it is.”

“Me first, me first,” said my brother enthusiastically jumping with his had raised. He closed his eyes and I tapped him lightly three times.

“Didi I know it’s you!” he said laughing as I tickled him.

“Amrita, your turn,” I said, looking at her.

Amrita closed her eyes and stood quietly. She was wearing a short white frock, a simple cotton one with three buttons down the front. It was crushed from her nap, the edges crumpled. I had an urge to smooth them out. Instead, I sneaked up behind her and hit her on her back, really hard, three times.

Thwack! Her body went stiff with surprise.

Thwack! She began to tremble.

Thwack! She covered her face with her hands.

Silence.

At first, Amrita did not move. She did not remove her hands from her face. She stood still, like a statue.

“Amrita, are you okay?” I asked hesitantly. Had I gone too far?

“Didi she is crying!” my brother exclaimed.

“What? No, she’s not crying! I didn’t even hit her that hard. Amrita, are you crying?” I asked, desperately trying to pry her hands away from her face.

Amrita began sobbing. Tears rolled down her pink cheeks as she clutched the corners of her white frock. I did not know what to do. My brother ran down to call someone. I should have tried to pacify her, apologise, but all I could do was stare, as she cried inconsolably.

Eventually my cousin sister came up looking concerned. She hugged Amrita and whispered something in her ears. Hers sobs reduced. She hugged her again.

“I’m taking her home,” she said, looking at me sternly.

“I’m sorry Amrita,” I whispered as my sister guided her down the staircase, holding her shoulders and talking to her gently. Neither of them heard me.

Amrita’s parents came to get her the next day. I did not see her in school. She was not in my bus route either. Did she leave because of me? I will never know.

I don’t remember what Amrita looks like. I don’t even remember her last name. If I wanted to get in touch with her, I wouldn’t know how to. She left school the next year. I was eleven years old then and I never saw her again.

I write this today in the hope that maybe someone who knows Amrita might find this essay. If they do, I hope they tell her that I said, “Dear Amrita, I am so sorry. I was a bully. You deserved a better friend.”

. . .

This essay was written in response to a prompt at

Ochre Sky Stories

(Memoir workshop) facilitated by

Natasha Badhwar

&

Raju Tai

. If you are looking for a space to discover your authentic self, I highly recommend signing up for the Memoir Workshop.