Geometry Box

He rode his Hero cycle past my gate
nine times, then pretended to be lost.
My mother watched from the balcony
and counted every trip, and what it cost.

He taped me a cassette at the music shop,
the songs all cut off at the start,
with the radio announcer's voice in the middle
and "Track 4" written out like art.

We met at the tuition class, back bench,
sharing one worn-out geometry box.
He passed me notes inside a textbook,
my best friend guarding us like a fox.

On Sundays came the Chitrahaar hour,
we watched it from two houses apart.
He'd call the landline, whisper "Did you see?"
And my dadi would shout, "Who's that? Who's that?"

The PCO uncle knew our secret,
he charged us double for each call.
My papa found the Archies card in my bag
and read it out loud to the whole hall.

But he showed up with mithai and sharmaji's blessing,
a clean-pressed shirt and sweaty palms,
and my father, trying hard to frown,
said "Chai?" and melted into calm.