Walking to the school, one of the two that the town had, via the same route that hugged the railway track, was how Lala and Kabir first became friends. Kabir would be walking, satchel sling over his shoulder, talking to imaginary friends in fantasy situations when, at the crossing that leads to the main market place, at precisely 8.20 a.m. Lala would come along.

Wordlessly, one would wait for the other, fall in step before they strolled off together to the school. Day after day this became a pattern , these two, one taller the other shorter, a regular sight along the rail route.

As the years passed, and these two young confidantes shared precious growing up moments together, adolescent dilemmas were also shared.

In the midst of these adolescent connivings and cravings, events of the outside world had begun to intervene. In this town lived, whiffs of tales of bravery of Bhagat Singh and Chandrashekar Azad fired eager discussion among these two. Gandhi’s salt march was spoken off in awe too, taking off from what they heard the elder’s in the family say.

Suddenly, the space for their regular meanderings had begun to be interrupted, the time and air had begun to be charged with something more ominous, something bordering on hatred and violence. Never before had lala’s folks questioned him on who his friends were, where they met, what they talked about and so on.
One day when the two met, Kabir burst into tears. On the way to meet his friend, he had been stopped by a group of five-six hunks who had fisted him repeatedly. What had hurt him more than their fisticuffs was their word’s “Salle, you still have the guts to roam our streets! When you are traitors, demanding Pakistan?”

“I don’t want to go anywhere, Lala,” the eleven year old Kabir repeatedly said,” haven’t we promised each other that we would be together till our marriages?” Lala, frowning did his best to console his little friends.
Suddenly, the latent and hidden tension split out in the open. The freedom for which the old and young had dreamed, even blessed their leaders was coming, but accompanied by brutal bloodshed. Kabir and his family were terrified. The partition line drawn in cold blood at the Viceroy’s palace ran through Amabala and was forcing (even against their will) all the Muslim families of this area to the new country, Pakistan.

The family did not want to leave. Kabir and Lala were heartbroken and terrified about what events beyond their control were doing to their dreams, hopes and fantasies.
One dark night, Lala heard a knock at his door, it was Kabir trembling, terrified come to his friend for succour and safety. there had been repeated taunts and attacks on Kabir’s home and the family was convinced that their lives, and the honour of their daughters was under threat. Kabir looked appealingly into Lala’s eyes.

After being silent for a moment Lala walked resolutely to his father’s cot. Gently walking him , he quietly, shivering with fear. made his urgent request. He expected outrage to pour from his father. Instead there was silence. For long moments father looked at son. Then he only nodded.

Kabir’s family, smuggled into Lala’s house later spent a heart wrenching three nights and four days. The air charged with venom, there was danger for their protectors as well. On the fourth night, after lengthy discussions between the elders of both families, Kabir’s families hurriedly packed all their worldly belongings into three trucks and six cloth bundles. Before they were escorted by Lala’s elder cousin to the station, Lala and Kabir were allowed fifteen minutes together.

No words came to these two friends as they clutched each other’s hand tight. What was there left to say?