Friendship

       I slipped off my shoes and walked bare-footed on to the commodious` field. (The field outside my grandmother’s house, basically a large garden) The soggy grass beneath my feet and mud splashing around seemed quite tranquil. It was an early morning in November and hence quite cold. I stretched my hand to the large mango tree which was on the bottom right of the field and touched the small, wet and black pit-like marks on its bark. Noticing an ant crawling on my palm, I shake it off. There were trees of different sizes and types, all littered around right and left. But this tree was different than others. It was the largest, and stood away. I gazed at the tiny insects all over it; their whole world was in this tree, and what would happen if someone would swat them? They would easily fall off, or die, for- they are helpless creatures, they cannot fight giants. And, while watching the ants scutter past, for reasons unknown, I thought of my friends.

My friends. Not something I would have liked to think at the very beginning of the day, but forcing topics out of mind was like trying to set water ablaze, even though, I should have control over my own brain.

I had basically given up on my social life, because of feelings that built up gradually inside the core of my being. But my friends- to which I had not spoken a word about how I felt their behaviour was abrasive and how averse I felt- thought it was instant, like someone would abscond a room. It took them some time to realize that my absence from all their outings, was not just absence, but avoidance- and this behavior, they thought, was very aberrant and not to mention abstruse. But as days became weeks and weeks became months, they grew to adapt to it. I think they made a new group without me, for everyone had long since stopped messaging on the old one- and that was fine by me, for the constant pinging from my phone while they chatted incessantly, was quite irritating. The reason I had stopped using the acid us earth creatures call friendship, was because of the constant drama of the group. I was always left out and it was mind-numbing. On top of that, everyone was always back-biting terribly- I had heard my so-called very “best friend’ was ranting about me, though I had not heard the exact words she said. But I knew it was happening, and that she was saying awful things, for everyone said they heard her saying it, even people outside the group.

 I watched as the squirrels scurried past me hurriedly in the trees. On one certain acorn tree, a long-deserted bright orange plant-pot which was stuffed with a small blanket hung from a low branch. I had acquired it from a store near my house, thinking of planting a spider plant in it, but then the plant died. I was aghast, but still quite adamant to make use of it as it was a pretty little thing. So, I hung it to the tree with a blanket on it, thinking of it as a resting place for birds and huddled some seeds and rice on it. The birds refused to come anywhere near the pot, but one evening I saw a squirrel sitting on it, eating an acorn which must have fallen from the tree onto the pot. From then on, I started placing biscuits, acorns and other nuts in it I used to sit at the veranda and watch the squirrel eat the items. I wondered if the squirrel had started recognizing me, for I came every evening to refill the pot with snacks. The squirrel always ran out of the pot when I came (if it was there at the moment) and perched onto a branch of the tree. It only regained its previous position after I left.

But now the squirrel had stopped visiting, which caused me to wonder what happened to it. Maybe it found a better spot, maybe some other garden. I sat down at the white swing which was in the field. It often creaked when it was swung too fast and I was always terrified of it falling, but acquiesced sitting on it. I looked up at the small potted plants which hung with chains by its green roof. On one plant which hung to the left, a small yellow butterfly sat at the pot. The butterfly was colored black at its edges and had small dashes of black on its wings. It looked quite gentle and I reached my hand out to touch it, but retreated my hand upon realising that it would only fly away at the touch.

Of course, it should, for with humans, one could never know. Humans are the ones which chase around butterflies with nets and can even tear them apart. Humans display dead butterflies with pride in their museums, and everyone gasps at how pretty they are, but just think, how prettier they would be if they had life in them.

 Rain poured down in fat drops. I remained sitting on the swing by myself, and felt at home. I could be my own friend, I realized. I didn’t need to have others.