The annual inter-house debate competition was a big deal at their school — a day when the dull morning assemblies were replaced with fanfare, and students dressed in house colors more proudly than on Sports Day. The auditorium transformed into a battleground of ideas, and teachers watched with a mix of amusement and scrutiny.
This year's topic was a tough one: "Technology is replacing human emotion."
Amrita had signed up weeks ago. She loved words — the thrill of speaking, of crafting arguments that hit like arrows. She was representing Green House and had already drafted her speech in careful cursive, underlined key points, and practiced in front of the mirror. Her voice was strong, and her thoughts were even stronger.
Tushar, on the other hand, hadn't even planned to attend the event — not until Amrita casually mentioned, "I wish you were speaking too. You'd be brilliant."
He had laughed. "Me? On stage? No thanks."
But the next day, a boy from Blue House dropped out due to illness. Their house captain was desperate. Tushar was cornered in the corridor and pressured into filling in.
"I'm not good at speeches," he told Amrita that afternoon, pacing under the gulmohar.
She raised an eyebrow. "You talk to me like you're telling a story. That's all a speech really is."
He sighed. "What if I freeze? What if I make a fool of myself?"
"Then I'll clap the loudest," she said simply. "Even if you stammer the entire time."
So he did it — for her, but also for the quiet voice inside him that had always wanted to be heard.
On the day of the debate, the auditorium was packed. Banners hung from the balcony, and the echo of footsteps mixed with the occasional feedback squeal from the microphones. Amrita sat in the front row, her hair tied neatly, the Green House badge gleaming on her blazer. She looked calm, poised.
Tushar was fourth in line. He sat backstage, his hands cold, clutching his crumpled notes.
When Amrita's name was called, a hush fell. She walked up, chin raised, her voice clear. Her opening lines were sharp: "If emotion is the soul of humanity, then technology is just a clever imitation. We swipe to 'like,' but we forget to listen. We video call, but forget to cry together."
She painted pictures with her words — stories of digital disconnect, of parents lost in phones, of friends replaced by group chats. Her closing line earned a thunder of applause: "We are more than algorithms. We are heartbeats. Let's not let machines forget that."
Tushar stared at her, wide-eyed. She had owned the stage.
And then — it was his turn.
He stepped into the spotlight, his feet feeling like lead. For a second, the paper in his hands blurred. But then he looked out and saw her — sitting in the front row, eyes locked on his, a small nod of encouragement on her lips.
He began softly. "I'm speaking for the motion — that technology is replacing human emotion. And maybe that's not always bad."
There was a rustle in the audience.
He continued. "When I couldn't talk to anyone at home, I found someone online who listened. When I missed my grandfather who passed away, I watched his old videos, and it felt like he was still with me. When I was too scared to talk to my best friend, I texted her, and that helped me say what I couldn't."
He paused. "Technology didn't steal my emotions. It helped me feel safe expressing them."
His hands stopped trembling midway. He even smiled.
When he ended with, "It's not about the tool — it's how we use it," the applause wasn't thunderous like Amrita's. But it was warm, real.
After the event, they met behind the building. He was still flushed, half-nervous.
"You were brilliant," Amrita said.
"I didn't win," he shrugged.
"You won something bigger," she replied. "You found your voice."
They both knew then — debates didn't just happen on stages. They happened in the heart, in the tension between fear and courage, silence and expression.
That day, they didn't just speak — they heard each other more clearly than ever before.
Moral: Friendship inspires courage — not by pushing you forward, but by standing with you while you find your voice.