No Efforts.

The first message was simple—just a "Hi" on Instagram. It wasn’t planned. I wasn’t even sure why I’d done it after nine years. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was just the weight of her name—the way it never left my mind, no matter how many years passed.

She replied.

Even now, I remember the rush of seeing her name pop up on my phone, the way my hands trembled just enough to make me feel foolish. Her response was casual, almost effortless, like we’d been talking all along. And somehow, that’s exactly how it felt—like no time had passed at all.

We chatted about life, the little things, and soon, conversations started filling the empty spaces of my days. She remembered school moments I thought only I had clung to. I tried to play it cool, but inside, I was this 13-year-old kid again, completely smitten with her simplicity.

She wasn’t loud or over the top; she never had been. She carried a calmness, a kind of quiet confidence that always set her apart. I remembered seeing her last during the 10th-grade exams—her pink shirt neatly ironed, her hair tied back. Two years later, I caught a brief glimpse of her during the NEET exam. It was fleeting but enough to etch itself into my memory. Now, chatting with her felt like a secret joy the universe had finally granted me.

One day, I asked her if we could meet. I didn’t phrase it like that exactly—it was more casual, like a suggestion—but in my head, it was everything. I offered to visit her in Delhi, ready to make the trip the next weekend. Her response was classic her—gentle but firm.

“No need to make so much effort. We’re friends, right? It shouldn’t feel like a task.”

I agreed. She was right. Friendship wasn’t about grand gestures. But I wasn’t sure she knew that just her replying to me, making time for me, felt bigger than any effort I could ever make.

When she told me she’d be in Mohali the next Saturday, I couldn’t believe it. She had some work—meeting a friend, catching up with her academy professors—but she said she’d have time for me too. The thought of seeing her after all these years felt surreal.

Saturday came faster than I expected. I reached the café 15 minutes early, of course. I didn’t want to risk her waiting, and honestly, I just wanted to be there, soaking in the anticipation.

I’d asked her earlier if I could bring flowers. She’d laughed, calling me “extra,” and told me no. “No efforts,” she had said. But standing there outside the café, I spotted a park nearby with white flowers scattered under a tree. A smile crept across my face. No effort, I told myself, bending down to pick one up. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to quiet the little rebellion in my heart.

She arrived just as I was pretending to work on my laptop. I didn’t notice her walk in until she was right there, standing beside me, her shadow falling across my table.

“Hi,” she said.

I looked up, and for a moment, I forgot how to respond.

She was radiant, in that effortless way she always had been. Her hair framed her face just right, and her eyes—they were big, warm, and impossible to look away from. To this day, I don’t remember what she was wearing. Not the color, not the details. Just her eyes.

I stood up, extended the flower, and grinned. “No efforts were made, I promise.”

She laughed, the kind of laugh that makes the world feel lighter.

We sat down, and just like that, the years between us dissolved. We talked about school, about mutual friends, who got married, who had kids. She asked me if I still made those terrible jokes I used to, and I teased her about the way she used to try tying a Rakhi around my wrist during class.

At one point, I realized the light from the café door behind her was making it hard to see her face. I hesitated for a second before asking, “Could you shift a little to your right?”

She tilted her head, confused but compliant.

And there it was. Her face, perfectly lit, perfectly hers.

Ab kya sukoon paun tujhe dekhne ke baad.

(What peace could I find now, after seeing you?)

I’d heard that line a hundred times before, but it had never meant anything until that moment.

An hour passed in what felt like seconds. When it was time to leave, I realized I didn’t want to. She had places to be—her professors, her friend—but I kept hoping something would happen to keep her here.

I had bought a packet of chips earlier, thinking we’d share it over coffee. We never opened it, too engrossed in talking. As we stood up, she noticed it lying on the table.

“Don’t forget this,” she said, her tone more command than suggestion.

I laughed, grabbing it, and thought, She could make me better. She’d make me want to be better.

Walking out of the café, my head was a storm of thoughts. I wanted to tell her to stay a little longer, to cancel her plans and spend more time with me.

Thodi der aur thehar ja, the song played in my head, over and over.

(Stay a little longer.)

I wanted to say, Forget the professors, the meetings. Just stay here. With me.

But I didn’t.

We parted with a smile and a wave. She left, and I stood there, clutching a packet of chips, wondering if she knew just how much that hour had meant to me.

I don’t remember her dress, but her eyes? Her eyes will stay with me forever. And as I watched her walk away, I whispered to myself,

Ruk jaaye yeh pal, bas yahin pe.

(Let this moment stop, right here.)