Being Special in ‘Her’ eyes !

(this is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents are either the product of author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locale are entirely coincidental)

I was participating for the poem writing competition in our university arts fest two months ago. An air conditioned room was arranged for the writing competitions and I got inside. There was none there, so I was a little bit worried about whether I had been wrong about the stage number. But after a few seconds a girl came inside. She had worn a blue jeans and a white T-shirt, she looked like western born. And she looked almost of age nineteen or twenty.

It was my first time I was participating a university level poem writing. I was supposed to compete with almost forty colleges under the university. So there was no meaning to assess, whether the counterparts were western born or not. She took a seat very distant from me in that big hall. But I could notice her restlessness through my corner of my eyes. I assumed she too might be confused about the stage number. Confirming my assumption she came near me after a few minutes.
“Excuse me, are you participating for English poem writing?” she asked with eager. “Yes, but there seem none here to conduct it” out of confusion and worry I replied.
“Are you sure is this the stage number?” I asked with hope.
“Teachers sitting out there told me to wait here, they would come after the story writing competition”, she told pointing to the glass door of the hall through which I could see some teachers sitting out there.

I was relieved to know that I was too earlier to reach the venue, the story writing has only started.
It was a Sunday so I decided to wait till the competition starts. She sat near me. Usually I get scared when girls sit near me, without any reason. But at college I started accepting that girls were never terrifying creatures and it was uncultured and discriminative to sit away from girls to university standards.

“Do you have any idea about the topic they would give for poem writing?” she asked in doubt. She had an English accent in her voice.
“Actually this is my first time in university level, I have no idea about it” I said without any discomfort, though I could notice she was not happy to hear it.
“Last year they give us the topic – ‘the abandoned child’ “. She told without looking to my face. I was stunned to hear that. I had never imagined such a topic-‘the abandoned child’. If I had, probably I would never have been in that hall for this competition leaving aside a good holiday.

We sat in silence for a few more seconds, I was repeatedly spelling the topic ‘the abandoned child’ in my head. If that topic comes I had no clue to write anything about it. Probably the results would abandon me, I thought.
“So how will we write about an abandoned child?” with shy and scare I asked her breaking the silence.
“Oh! Yeah, there are different ways but I wrote a different kind of story. I mean a different kind of abandoned child. It was a true story” she said with a friendly smile. I wanted to know that true story.
“What was that, I mean your story? By the way what’s your name? Sorry I forgot to ask you”. I asked giving no way for her to hide the story.
“I am Revathi and you?” She said looking straight into my eyes.
“I am Nihal from marines department, tell me that story”. I said. I was eager to know her true story, and I wanted to know how she crafted a winning poem out of it. She nodded with a smile. She opened her heart.

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That was a story about someone very ‘special’ to me. He is Vipul. He was a distant relative for me. His father was a bank employee so as his father got transfer to a bank near our home they bought a house near to us and stayed there. We were in same class from kinder garden. At times when I feel terrified or disturbed by other boys in my class, he was there to stand for me. And in kinder gardens I used to grab the seat just near to him, I loved to sit near him in my class.

I was called a ‘geek’ in my class, but he never called me that. He called me a buffoon. He was true, I thought. So he was my best friend. He never cared about his studies. He hardly opened his book once in a week. I had to witness and feel the pain in my heart for every touch he got with stick of teacher, but he accepted every punishments as if he had no sensitive skin.

We were neighbours. Every day I had heard his dad and mom scolding him in high voice for not studying anything. He was their only child. His mom was very unkind. She even send him out of his home when he come with a zero marks in exams. He would come sobbing and eyes filled with tears near to my mom and she will console him, sometimes my mom taught him with her little knowledge and he would sleep in our house like a lost puppy.

During our teenage we had been the best friends ever. I had never had to face eve teasing after my classes as he was always there to accompany me. He made me feel special in ways I could not even imagine. When everyone in my class merely wished “happy birthday!” on my birthday, he gifted me with gifts. He never spoke or behave in any indecent ways to me.

Everything got a 180 degree shift when, one day when he was sixteen and I was fifteen. His mom scolded and blamed him severely about his marks and told him that she felt the ignominy of having a child like him. His Dad accused him for wasting his money. He was devastated and unable to tolerate his own parents, he left his home without saying single word to any of us. He ignored even me, I was sunk into a bottomless pit of depression. As there was no news of him for weeks, I could not even motivate me to go to my school. I realised that it was unable to imagine a classroom without him to accompany me. I stopped going to my school. His parents gave a notice regarding the loss of their child in a newspaper and the local police station started investigating. He wasn’t found. He had taken his cell phone with him. But it rang and someone unknown took the phone pointing that the phone was sold to them.

I had the knowledge that he has some ‘deviant’ friendships who would assist him leaving his home. I went to school that in my mind I got the number of one of his friend whom I assume would have some knowledge about him. He too was suspiciously taken leave for weeks saying he had typhoid. So I gave the number to his parents. As the phone rung, none took it. So I decided to call him. The phone rung for a few seconds and it was taken from other side.

“Hello, Is this Vipul?”, though I was scared I asked silently.
“Revathi, you?” he whispered with tired voice. Words fail to express my happiness at that moment. Fighting back my tears I continued.
“Where are you? Come back…” I burst into tears. He too was crying, I could hear that. He cut the phone.
Next day he came back straight into my home, but his parents forcefully took him to a psychiatrist. He was admitted there for a few days, and I was not allowed to visit him anymore. His father bought a transfer to Mumbai and they shifted by the next day itself. He left leaving no contact number, I had no way to contact him. I miss him terribly. But after all they did that for his benefit. I always wonder whether he would miss me at least once again. It has been two years since then. He was an abandoned child. With him in my heart, I wrote the poem which made the difference.
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Her eyes had welled up with tears rolling down her cheeks. She took a tissue from her bag to wipe it and she smiled pretending she was okay. Being special in her eyes was a blessing for Vipul’s parents to get him back. But none saw her sob neither missed her. That was a wild abandon, I thought absorbing her pain to myself.