Ratan and I had been inseparable once upon a time; like the Siamese twins.

Growing up in the same small vicinity, going to the same school, playing gully-cricket, having the same set of friends; our lives were intertwined. We shared everything; our dreams, secrets, fears, laughter. The world was a simpler place when it was just the two of us, and we believed nothing could come between our friendship, not even our religions. I had once overheard it when the so-called well- wishers said to Ratan, “Suhail is not the right person to be your friend. Not just your social status and lifestyle, but chi chi chi his non-vegetarian consumption, how do you put up with it? In fact, why do you put up with it? Does he have anything on you, is that the reason why you acknowledge him to be your friend publicly?” I was literally in tears when I heard this, but Ratan as always was nonchalant and walked away from the group without even offering an answer.

In our town, religion was a part of daily life, woven into the fabric of our existence. Yes, Ratan was a Hindu and I a Muslim, but for us, it had never been a point of contention. We celebrated each other’s festivals, attended each other’s prayers, and laughed at the idea that our friendship could ever be affected by something as abstract as religion.

Ratan’s family lived in a modest, two-story house with a courtyard that always seemed to be filled with life. His mother, Geeta, was a warm-hearted woman who treated me like her own son. Whenever I visited, which was almost daily, she’d greet me with a wide smile and a plate of freshly made snacks. His father, Harish, was a quiet man with a stern exterior, but I had always sensed the warmth beneath.

My family’s home was just a short walk away from Ratan’s. My mother, Ammi, was a gentle, soft-spoken woman who had a way of making everyone feel at ease. Ratan was like another son to her, and she never hesitated to show it. My father, Abba, was a bit more reserved, but he had a soft spot for Ratan.

But as we grew older, things began to change. The world around us was becoming more polarized, and the tensions that had once seemed distant were now creeping into our lives.

Then came the day that everything changed.

The town was abuzz with preparations for the upcoming festival of Holi. Ratan and I were walking home from college, discussing our plans for the celebration. As we passed the temple, a group of boys from our locality approached us. They were older, tougher, and carried with them an air of hostility that made my stomach churn.

“Suhail,” one of them sneered, “Why don’t you just stay home for Holi? It’s not your festival, after all.”

I felt a flush of anger, but before I could respond, Ratan spoke up. “He’s my friend,” he said firmly. “And he’s celebrating with me, just like I do for Eid.”

The boys exchanged glances, then turned to Ratan. “You’re too soft, Ratan,” one of them said. “Always hanging out with the wrong crowd. You should stick with your own kind.”

Ratan’s jaw tightened, and I saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. But he didn’t back down. “Suhail’s my best friend,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

The boys scoffed and walked away, muttering under their breath. Ratan and I continued on our way, but the encounter left a sour taste in my mouth. It was the first time I had felt like an outsider in my own town, and the first time I saw Ratan getting bothered by the comments. He was in a daze, like he was contemplating what the boys just said.

In the days that followed, I noticed a change in Ratan. He became more distant, spending less time with me and more with the boys who had taunted us. I tried to brush it off, telling myself that it was just a phase, that things would go back to normal. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t long before Ratan stopped inviting me to his house. When I asked why, he gave vague excuses like his parents were busy, there was a family issue, he had too much work. But I could tell that he was avoiding me, and it hurt more than I could admit.

One evening, as I was walking home, I saw Ratan near the frozen creek. He was with the same group of boys, laughing and talking as if they had been friends forever. My heart sank as I watched them, realizing that Ratan was slipping away from me, drawn into a world where I no longer belonged. The boy I had once called my brother was now a stranger, someone who had traded our friendship for acceptance in a world that didn’t want me.

When someone asked me when was the exact moment, I realised Ratan and I were a thing of the past, that the hateful comments got the better of our friendship, it would be this. I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek. That was a long time ago, but it's wrong what they say about the past, I've learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.

That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal. I had always thought that Ratan and I were above the petty divisions of religion and community. But now, it seemed that those divisions were stronger than our bond, pulling us apart in ways I couldn’t understand. The worst Ratan and I never even had a conversation on this.

On the day of our college cricket match, when I showed up at the field, I was shocked to see Ratan playing for the opposing team, alongside the very boys who had taunted us. Ratan and I had always played on the same team, but this act of Ratan’s was like he had pierced a knife through my heart.

My heart pounded as I approached him, trying to mask my hurt with anger. “What are you doing, Ratan? Why aren’t you on our team?”

He avoided my gaze, focusing on the ground instead. “They asked me to play with them,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t say no.”

“You couldn’t say no?” I echoed, incredulous. “What about us? What about our team?”

Ratan finally looked up; his expression conflicted. “Suhail, things are different now. I have to think about my family, about my place in the community.”

I stared at him, struggling to understand. “What are you talking about? We’ve always been friends, Ratan. None of that ever mattered before.”

“It matters now,” he said quietly. “People are watching, Suhail. They expect certain things from me.”

“People?” I scoffed. “Who cares what they expect? We were supposed to stick together, no matter what.”

Ratan’s face hardened, and I saw the finality in his eyes. “I can’t do that anymore,” he said. “I have to look out for myself, for my family. You should do the same.”

His words felt like a slap in the face. I wanted to argue, to make him see how wrong he was, but I knew it was pointless. Ratan had made his choice, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

As I walked away, I felt a deep sense of loss; like I had lost not just a friend, but a part of myself. The boy who had once been my closest ally was now a stranger, someone I no longer recognized. And the worst part was that I didn’t know if I would ever get him back.

The rift between Ratan and me grew wider in the weeks that followed. We barely spoke, and when we did, the conversations were strained and awkward. The easy camaraderie we had once shared was gone, replaced by a cold, uncomfortable distance.

Our families noticed the change, though they didn’t say much about it. My parents, devout Muslims, encouraged me to focus on my studies and my faith. They reminded me that our true friends are those who share our values, who stand by us in times of need. I knew they were right, but it didn’t make the loss of Ratan any easier to bear.

One Friday, after prayers at the mosque, I found myself standing in the courtyard, watching as I saw the boys my age laughing and joking together, their friendships seemingly untouched by the divisions that had torn mine apart.

As I was about to leave, the Imam approached me. He was a kind man, with a gentle smile and a wisdom that came from years of guiding our community. “Suhail,” he said, “you seem troubled. Is there something on your mind?”

I hesitated, unsure of how to put my feelings into words. “It’s about Ratan,” I finally said. “We used to be best friends, but now I don’t even know who he is anymore. It’s like everything has changed.”

The Imam nodded; his expression thoughtful. “Friendships are like gardens, Suhail. They require care and attention to grow. But sometimes, the soil changes, and what once flourished may struggle to survive.”

I frowned, not entirely understanding. “So, you’re saying that our friendship is doomed? That it’s just the way things are?”

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “But you must understand that the world is complex. People are influenced by many things; their families, their communities, their beliefs. These influences can strengthen bonds, but they can also create divisions.”

I sighed, feeling more confused than ever. “I just don’t know what to do. I don’t want to lose him, but I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay.”

The Imam placed a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. “Sometimes, Suhail, the best thing you can do is to be true to yourself. Stand firm in your faith, but also be open to understanding others. It’s possible that Ratan is struggling too, caught between what he feels and what he believes is expected of him.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely convinced. The Imam’s words were wise, but they didn’t change the reality of my situation. Ratan and I were on different paths now, and I wasn’t sure if those paths would ever converge again.

The final break between Ratan and me came during Diwali, the festival of lights. The air was filled with the sound of firecrackers, and the streets were aglow with vibrant colors. I walked through the town, hoping that the festive spirit might somehow heal the rift between us.

I arrived at Ratan’s house, carrying a box of sweets as a gesture of goodwill. His family had always welcomed me during Diwali, and I hoped that this gesture might rekindle our friendship. When Ratan opened the door, his face softened momentarily, but there was a distant look in his eyes.

“Hey, Suhail,” he said, his voice lacking its usual warmth. “Come on in.”

The house was beautifully decorated, but the festive atmosphere felt hollow. We mingled with the guests, and I tried to engage Ratan in conversation, but he seemed distracted. The laughter and joy around us felt like a backdrop to our growing divide.

At one point, I caught Ratan speaking in hushed tones with some of his new friends; the same boys who had mocked me before. I felt a pang of jealousy and hurt, but I tried to stay composed.

Later in the evening, I cornered Ratan in a quiet corner of the house. “Ratan, what’s going on? Why have you been avoiding me? What has been my fault?”

He looked away; his expression troubled. “Suhail, things are different now. I need to focus on my place in the community. It’s not that I don’t value our friendship, but,”

“But what?” I pressed, frustration rising. “You’ve told me this before as well, but you’re letting others dictate our lives? What happened to sticking together, no matter what?”

Ratan’s eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and resignation. “It’s not that simple. There are expectations, pressures. I have to navigate them.”

His words felt like a betrayal. “So what? You’re just going to abandon our friendship because it’s inconvenient?”

Ratan’s silence was answer enough. The weight of his decision hung heavy between us. I left his place feeling betrayed and mostly empty, knowing that our friendship had reached a breaking point, that it will never be the same again.

That night, I sat alone in my room, the sounds of Diwali celebrations still echoing outside. I replayed the conversation with Ratan in my mind, trying to make sense of the hurt and anger I felt. I was overwhelmed by a sense of loss and confusion.

My parents noticed my distress and approached me with concern. “Suhail, what’s troubling you?” my mother asked gently.

I hesitated but then poured out my feelings. “Ratan and I are drifting apart. It’s like everything we had doesn’t matter anymore.”

My father nodded sympathetically. “Friendships can be tested in many ways. It’s hard when someone we care about changes, especially when it feels like a part of us is lost.”

My mother added, “Sometimes, the best thing we can do is to reflect and understand our own feelings. It’s painful, but it can also be a chance for growth.”

Their words offered some comfort, but they didn’t erase the pain. I spent the night reflecting on the nature of our friendship and the impact of our differing beliefs. The past few months had been a test, and I wasn’t sure how to move forward.

Determined to understand Ratan’s perspective better and give him the benefit of doubt, I realized that his decisions were not just about abandoning our friendship but were also shaped by a complex web of family expectations and community pressures. It didn’t make the pain any less, but it gave me a new perspective on his choices. I decided to keep my distance from Ratan here on.

A few weeks later, as I was running errands, I unexpectedly bumped into Ratan at a local café. The encounter was awkward at first, but it provided an opportunity for us to talk.

We sat down at a small table, and I noticed the weariness in Ratan’s eyes. “How are you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

Ratan sighed. “I’m managing. It’s been a lot to handle.”

“I’ve been thinking about what happened,” I said. “I want to understand more about what’s going on with you.”

Ratan looked relieved to have the chance to talk. “It’s been difficult. I’m torn between my community’s expectations and my own feelings. I know I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

As time passed, both Ratan and I continued with our separate community service projects. I was involved in initiatives within my own community, while Ratan contributed to his. Our mutual dedication to helping others allowed us to see the positive impact of our efforts, even if we were still apart.

One day, Ratan and I found ourselves working on a joint project for the town’s interfaith initiative. It was a chance to collaborate on something meaningful, and it brought us together in a new way. The town’s interfaith initiative, aimed at fostering unity among different religious communities, became a significant part of our lives. Though our interactions were professional, there was a sense of shared purpose that felt healing. Weeks turned into months, and life continued to move at its own pace. Both Ratan and I threw ourselves into community service projects, finding solace and purpose in helping others.

Weeks had passed since the rift between Ratan and me seemed insurmountable. Life had continued its relentless pace, and both of us immersed ourselves in community service projects. The town’s interfaith initiative, which aimed at fostering unity among different religious communities, had become a significant part of our lives.

One crisp morning, as I sorted through donations for a charity drive, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Ratan:

“Hey, Suhail. I’ve been thinking. How about we work together on the interfaith mural project? It could be a chance to reconnect.”

I hesitated before replying, my feelings mixed. After a few moments, I typed back:

“Alright, Ratan. Let’s give it a try.”

We met at the local community centre where the mural project was underway. The space was bustling with activity, and the scent of fresh paint filled the air. Ratan was already there, his sleeves rolled up and a focused expression on his face.

“Hey, Suhail,” he said, his voice slightly hesitant. “Glad you could make it.”

I nodded, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Yeah, I’m here. What’s the plan?”

Ratan handed me a paintbrush. “We’re going to create a mural that represents unity among different faiths. We’ll be working together on this, so let’s get started.”

As we began painting side by side, the silence between us was both heavy and comfortable. Ratan broke it by saying, “Remember when we used to paint together as kids? This feels a bit like that.”

“Yeah,” I said curtly. “But those were simpler times.”

Ratan looked at me, sensing the tension in my voice. “What’s going on, Suhail? You seem distant.”

I paused, the brush still in my hand. “I’m distant because I don’t know where we stand anymore, Ratan. One minute we’re best friends, and the next, you’re pulling away.”

Ratan sighed, dropping his brush onto the paint tray. “I’m not pulling away. I’m just… navigating things the best I can.”

“By abandoning our friendship?” I shot back, my voice rising. “By letting those new friends of yours dictate who you should be?”

Ratan’s expression hardened. “It’s been a lot to handle. Balancing my family’s expectations with my own feelings has been tough.”

“Don’t understand?” I echoed, anger flaring. “I understand plenty. But what I don’t get is why you’re letting others tell you who you can be friends with!”

Ratan stepped closer; his voice sharp. “And what about you, Suhail? You think it’s easy for me to balance everything? You’ve been so wrapped up in your own world that you haven’t even tried to see things from my side.”

“Your side?” I snapped. “I’ve been trying, Ratan! But every time I reach out, you’re too busy, too caught up in what other people think.”

“You think I don’t care about what you think?” Ratan’s voice cracked; his frustration evident. “I’m torn between two worlds, and I’m doing the best I can. But you—you’ve been so focused on being hurt that you’re not seeing how much I’m struggling!”

I stared at him, my chest heaving with anger. “Struggling? You don’t know what struggling is! I’ve been dealing with your cold shoulder, your indifference, and now you want me to just pretend everything’s fine?”

Ratan’s eyes blazed. “You’re not the only one who’s hurting, Suhail! I’ve lost sleep over this—over us! But if you think I’m going to keep bending over backward while you play the victim, you’re wrong.”

The words hung between us like a physical barrier, both of us breathing heavily, anger and hurt twisting our expressions. The tension was unbearable, the fight leaving both of us raw and exposed.

Ratan’s shoulders slumped first. “I don’t want to fight with you, Suhail,” he said, his voice breaking. “But I don’t know how to fix this.”

I looked at him, the anger slowly draining away, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. “I don’t want to fight either,” I said quietly. “But I also don’t want to lose you.”

We stood there in the silence that followed, the weight of our words settling over us like a heavy shroud. The mural, half-painted behind us, seemed like a mockery of the unity we were supposed to represent.

The day of the interfaith event arrived, and despite the fight, Ratan and I had finished the mural. The mural was unveiled to a crowd of community members, and it was met with admiration. The painting depicted a tapestry of symbols from various religions symbolizing harmony and respect. It was a testament to our collaborative effort. The community gathered to celebrate the event, and Ratan and I found ourselves in the midst of the festivities.

The community gathered to admire our work, but I couldn’t shake the tension from our argument. Even as people praised the mural, I felt a hollow ache inside. I knew Ratan felt it too.

After the event, Ratan approached me. “Can we talk?” he asked, his voice subdued.

I nodded, and we found a quiet spot under a tree, away from the crowds.

Before Ratan could speak, I said, “It’s been a tough journey, but I’m glad we could work on something meaningful together.”

“I’m sorry about the other day,” Ratan said, his voice low. “I was angry, and I said things I didn’t mean.”

I looked at him, my own anger having cooled. “Me too. I’ve been holding onto so much hurt that I didn’t see how much you were going through.”

Ratan’s eyes softened. “Do you think we can ever get back to how things were?” Ratan asked, looking hopeful yet unsure.

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “This isn’t easy for either of us, is it? But I believe we can find a new way forward. It won’t be the same, but it can be something meaningful.”

“No, it isn’t easy in the least,” I admitted. “But I don’t want to keep fighting. I miss the way things used to be.”

“Me too,” Ratan agreed. “But maybe we need to accept that things have changed and find a new way to move forward.”

We talked for hours, the conversation filled with moments of vulnerability and understanding. We both expressed our regrets and acknowledged the ways we had grown. It was a difficult but necessary conversation, and for the first time in months, I felt at peace.

A few weeks later, Ratan and I participated in a special community ritual that blended elements of our respective faiths. It was a symbolic gesture meant to represent unity and respect for our differences. The ceremony was a beautiful amalgamation of traditions, showcasing the strength found in diversity.

We stood together, performing a ritual that combined aspects of both Hindu and Muslim practices. It was a powerful moment, and as we completed the ritual, I felt a renewed sense of connection with Ratan.

He turned to me and said, “This is something I’ve always wanted; to find a way to honour both our traditions.”

I smiled. “It feels like a step in the right direction.”

After the ceremony, we stood together, taking in the significance of what we had just experienced.

“This might not solve everything,” Ratan said, “but it’s a start.”

“Agreed,” I said. “It’s a new beginning for us.”

The event marked a turning point. Our friendship, while different from what it once was, had been reshaped into something more profound. We learned to navigate our relationship with a new understanding, one that respected our individual journeys and embraced our shared experiences.

In the months that followed, Ratan and I continued to navigate our separate journeys. The past, with all its struggles and heartache, had clawed its way out, but it had also paved the way for a new chapter in our lives.

One evening, as I walked through the town, I saw the mural we had painted together. It stood as a reminder of our shared effort and the bond that had endured despite the trials. I thought about our conversations, our attempts to reconcile, and the new understanding we had found. While our friendship was different from what it once was, it had evolved into something more profound.

Looking back, I saw how our journey had transformed us. The pain and challenges we faced had not been for nothing; they had shaped our perspectives and deepened our understanding. Ratan and I were no longer the carefree friends we once were, but we had grown into individuals who could appreciate the complexities of life and faith. I realized that the past couldn’t be erased, but it could be woven into the fabric of a richer, more meaningful present. Ratan and I were on different paths, but the respect and empathy we had cultivated guided us as we moved forward.

In the end, we discovered that while the past couldn’t be erased, it could be woven into the fabric of a richer, more meaningful present. And as we continued our separate journeys, we carried with us the lessons of our shared past, forever changed but united by the understanding that had emerged from our trials.

Our story wasn’t about erasing the past but about learning from it and finding a way to move forward with grace and hope.

***

It was a warm summer afternoon, the kind of day when the heat hung lazily in the air, and the scent of blooming flowers filled the streets of our town. Ratan and I had finished our classes early, and we decided to head to our favourite spot by the river, a place where we could escape the world and just be ourselves.

“Race you to the banyan tree!” Ratan shouted, already taking off before I could respond.

“Hey, no fair!” I laughed, sprinting after him.

We dashed through the narrow streets, dodging bicycles and carts, the wind whipping through our hair. Ratan, always the faster runner, reached the tree first and leaned against it, grinning triumphantly.

“I win again!” he declared, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

I skidded to a stop beside him, hands on my knees, trying to catch my own breath. “Only because you cheated,” I teased.

He shrugged with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Winning’s winning.”

We both collapsed under the shade of the sprawling banyan tree, its thick roots curling into the ground like ancient fingers. The river flowed gently beside us, its surface glinting in the sunlight. We sat in comfortable silence, our backs against the rough bark of the tree, simply enjoying the peace of the moment.

After a while, Ratan turned to me with a thoughtful expression. “Remember the first time we came here?”

I nodded, smiling at the memory. “Yeah, we were what, seven years old? We thought this place was a hidden treasure.”

“It still is,” Ratan said, his voice soft. “We’ve had so many adventures here.”

We had, indeed. The riverbank had been our kingdom, the banyan tree our fortress. We had spent countless afternoons here, talking about everything and nothing, dreaming about the future, and daring each other to do ridiculous things. It was here that we had built rafts out of fallen branches, only to watch them sink within seconds. It was here that we had caught fish with our bare hands—well, tried to, anyway—and here that we had made pacts of eternal friendship.

One particularly vivid memory came to mind, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Remember the time we tried to camp out here overnight?”

Ratan chuckled, shaking his head. “How could I forget? We barely made it an hour before the noises started freaking us out.”

We had convinced ourselves that spending a night under the stars by the river would be the ultimate adventure. We’d packed snacks, flashlights, and even a blanket to sleep on. But as soon as the sun set and the night sounds began—crickets chirping, leaves rustling—we both became convinced that wild animals were lurking just beyond the tree line.

“I think we broke the record for the fastest dash back home,” Ratan said, laughing. “We didn’t even bother packing up. Just grabbed the blanket and ran.”

I joined in his laughter, the sound echoing across the river. “And then your mom scolded us for dirtying the blanket.”

“She wasn’t too mad, though. I think she knew how scared we were,” Ratan added, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

We fell into another comfortable silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over everything. It was one of those perfect days that felt like it would last forever.

“Suhail,” Ratan said suddenly, his tone serious. “We’ll always be friends, right? No matter what?”

I turned to look at him, surprised by the intensity in his voice. “Of course we will,” I said firmly. “You’re my brother, Ratan. Nothing’s ever going to change that.”

He smiled, but there was something in his eyes; a flicker of doubt, maybe, or just the weight of the words he’d spoken. I didn’t think much of it then, brushing it off as just another one of our moments of childhood seriousness.

But now, looking back, I wonder if he had somehow sensed what was coming if he had felt the first tremors of the divide that would later grow between us. It was a fleeting thought, and in that moment, it was lost in the simplicity of our friendship.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky turned a deep shade of orange. We knew it was time to head back, but neither of us wanted to leave. The world outside our little sanctuary felt distant and unimportant compared to the bond we shared.

“Let’s stay a little longer,” I suggested.

Ratan nodded, his smile returning. “Yeah, let’s.”

We stayed until the stars began to appear, until the air grew cooler and the world around us quieted down. It was one of those days that would become a treasured memory, a day that encapsulated everything good about our friendship.

As we finally made our way home, walking side by side in the twilight, I felt a deep sense of contentment. Ratan and I had always been there for each other, through thick and thin, and in that moment, it felt like nothing could ever come between us.