If I were that girl?

We used to play together, swim together, and share lunch from the same box. We sat beside each other in class, growing up as an inseparable pair. She was smarter than me, stronger too, and I always admired her for that.

Our homes were about two kilometers from school. The school was in the main village. We lived in a small hamlet surrounded by farms. Every day, we walked those two kilometers to reach school. The road was lined with trees—Berry, Mango, and Jamun—tempting us with their fruits. After school, regardless of the season—winter, summer, or monsoon—we would race to collect those fruits. She always won, whether it was a race or an argument. We fought like rivals, yet those memories remain some of the most beautiful of my life.

As time passed, I realized I envied her strength and determination. I wanted to be as brave and resilient as she was. Our arguments never diminished our bond; instead, they became the foundation of an incredible friendship.

Time, however, doesn’t wait for anyone. We moved on to high school, which was even farther—five kilometers from home. Excitement filled the air as we donned new uniforms and nurtured fresh dreams. This time, I had a bicycle, and she didn’t. I told her smugly, “I won’t give you a lift if you keep fighting with me.” She smiled and replied, “We’ll see about that.” Emboldened, I set ridiculous conditions: “Wash my tiffin,” “Buy me chocolates,” and so on. She complied, not out of obligation, but with a quiet grace that I didn’t fully appreciate then.

One day, we fought again. This time, it was because she refused to ride the bicycle or let me sit on the back seat. “Why? Why? Why?” I demanded, but for the first time, she didn’t answer. Days of silence followed. One Sunday, both of us broke down in tears, our attachment too deep to bear the rift. She finally confided in me. “I’m not a girl anymore. I’m a woman now,” she said. Confused, I asked what she meant. She explained about the menstrual cycle—a revelation for a clueless boy like me. I was stunned by her bravery in facing something so alien to me. From that moment, I saw her in a new light.

We fought less after that, not because I had grown wiser, but because we began understanding each other better. She often missed school and preferred solitude during those days. Then came the bombshell. “I’m getting married,” she said one day. Her father had found a groom for her. She was only 14. For the first time, she lost an argument—not to me, but to her circumstances. At just 14 years and five months, she became a bride.

Years passed before I saw her again, almost a decade later. Because she moved to city along with her husband. She had three children—two daughters and a son. Life was not easy for her. Something entirely different was written in her destiny. Her husband had died in a construction accident, crushed under a collapsing wall. When I visited her, she welcomed me with a stoic composure, her deep eyes betraying a quiet strength. She introduced me to her children as their “mama.” They were as lively as she once was. She shared her story, not with bitterness or pride, but with the calm of someone who had faced life head-on.

“Life is about survival,” she told me. “Happiness or sadness doesn’t matter as long as you’re alive and focused. My only purpose now is to ensure my kids have a better life. I want them to grow up and help others avoid a fate like mine.” She dreamed of her elder daughter becoming a fighter pilot in the Indian Air Force. I was surprised but didn’t question her. Later, as I recalled our childhood, the pieces fell into place. As a furious kid, she would run out of class whenever she heard the sound of MIG-21 fighter jets. She would shout, “I’ll fly one of these someday!” Though life had denied her that dream, she now passed it on to her daughter.

Who knows the weight of the choices she had to make? Could I have been that brave? I didn’t think so…

Shakespeare once asked, “To be or not to be?” But the real question is, “How to be?” Life is survival, focus, and purpose.

After meeting her, I could not sleep on that night. The next morning, I sipped tea on the balcony of my friend’s apartment. Sparrows chirped around me, I felt like they were rhyming the a melody of life. I listened closely, understanding their encrypted message. I think there were saying, “Life is beautiful. Happiness is a choice, and the choice is yours.”

I smiled and recalled something about last evening. Her children had played around us, imitating the sparrows’ chirps, their innocent joy echoing the same truth. Yes, happiness is a choice.