The school's gulmohar tree was in full bloom that April, its crimson petals carpeting the ground like scattered fire. It stood tall behind the main building, with a faded concrete bench curling around its trunk. Few students ever came there — it was too far from the canteen and too quiet for a game of cricket. But for Tushar and Amrita, it became a new place of solace.
Their neem tree by the east corridor had been cut down during the spring cleaning drive. When they arrived one Monday, all that remained was a jagged stump and a pile of brittle leaves. Tushar had stared at it in stunned silence, and Amrita had touched his shoulder gently.
"Let's find a new place," she said simply. "It's the company, not the tree."
They wandered behind the science block, following the narrow path that curved behind the back wall. That's when they found it — the gulmohar, majestic and silent, its branches wide like sheltering arms. The bench beneath it was cracked but still strong, and the breeze that rustled through the leaves carried the scent of something old and wise.
That day, as they sat on the bench, Amrita took out a thin notebook from her bag — one he hadn't seen before. "My journal," she said, handing it to him. "It's where I write things I can't say out loud."
Tushar flipped through it slowly. The pages were filled with poems, small sketches, half-thoughts and longings. One page read:
"Some days, I speak only to the wind, because it doesn't interrupt."
Another had a drawing of a house with only one window — wide open, looking out at a sun that seemed too far away.
"These are beautiful," he whispered, almost afraid to disturb the fragile honesty of her words.
Amrita shrugged. "They're messy."
"Messy is beautiful," he said. "It means you're not hiding anything."
For the first time, he reached into his own bag and pulled out his sketchbook. Until now, it had stayed hidden — doodles of sea creatures, of imaginary planets, of strange machines and buildings he saw in his dreams. He handed it to her with trembling fingers.
Amrita turned the pages reverently. She stopped at one — a drawing of a girl on a swing, surrounded by stars.
"This one's me, isn't it?"
Tushar smiled. "Maybe."
They sat there under the gulmohar for a long time, reading each other without judgment. When the bell rang, they didn't rush. Some friendships didn't need to chase the clock.
That week, they returned to the bench every day. They read, drew, wrote, sometimes just stared at the canopy of red above, and for those few minutes, it felt like the world couldn't touch them. There were no mocking seniors, no scolding teachers, no scars from angry homes.
One afternoon, Amrita said, "You know what I think friendship is?"
"What?"
"It's like this bench. A little cracked, a little old, but always waiting when you need it."
Tushar nodded. "And like the tree — it doesn't ask questions. It just gives shade."
They left behind a pebble each under the tree that day — their own secret tokens. Amrita's was smooth and blue. Tushar's was rough and golden-brown. They buried them side by side in the soft earth beneath the roots.
When they walked back to class, there was no need to talk. The silence between them was not awkward — it was full.
It wasn't just a friendship anymore. It was a language, a home, a quiet place beneath a blooming tree.
Moral: True friendship is not about where you sit, but how you feel when you sit together — safe, seen, and silent in peace.