The yellow school bus rumbled into the narrow lane, its horn echoing through the morning mist like a call to arms. Crows scattered from the electric wires above, and the smell of wet earth still lingered in the air after a light drizzle. Children lined the roadside, adjusting their backpacks, their parents fussing over last-minute tiffin boxes and forgotten handkerchiefs. Amid this daily commotion stood Amrita, her ponytail bouncing as she craned her neck for a glimpse of the bus's familiar headlights.
She stood a little away from the other children, holding her bag tightly to her chest. Her mother had left early for work, and her father, as usual, had already disappeared into the murk of another long shift at the textile mill. But Amrita didn't mind. She liked standing alone. She liked the quiet moments before the noise and chaos of the school day.
The bus finally squealed to a halt, and the door opened with a metallic gasp. The driver, a gruff man with a paunch and peppered beard, gave her a curt nod. She climbed aboard, stepping over the mud-caked floor and dodging swinging lunchboxes. As she made her way down the aisle, she scanned the rows for an empty window seat—her favorite place. The left side, second from the back—her seat—was taken.
Her heart sank. A boy sat there, hunched over with a comic book. His glasses were slightly crooked, and his shirt was too large for his wiry frame. He didn't look up. The seat beside him was empty, but it wasn't the window seat.
She hesitated.
The bus jerked as more students climbed aboard, pushing and chatting. Time was running out. She could sit next to one of the talkative girls up front, or she could sit beside the boy. Amrita slid into the seat next to him without a word.
For a few minutes, they sat in silence. The boy continued reading his comic, lips moving silently. Amrita leaned slightly toward the window, trying to catch glimpses of the world outside between the foggy glass and his elbow.
"You like the window too?" he asked suddenly.
Amrita turned her head. His voice was soft, almost unsure.
"Yes," she replied, blinking. "I always sit here."
The boy looked surprised. "I didn't know. I'm new."
That explained it. She hadn't seen him before. "I'm Amrita," she said, after a pause.
He pushed his glasses up. "Tushar."
They sat in silence again, but it was softer now. Not awkward—just quiet, like two people who didn't yet know how to speak to each other, but didn't mind sharing the silence.
Outside, the world rolled past in hazy greens and browns. Rain-drenched trees shimmered in the morning light. Cows ambled through the fields, and puddles reflected fragments of the sky. Amrita pressed her fingers to the glass.
"What are you reading?" she asked finally.
Tushar turned the comic toward her. "Phantom. The Ghost Who Walks."
She nodded, pretending to know. "He looks scary."
"He's not. He's brave. He fights pirates and protects people."
Amrita smiled. "Do you like pirates?"
Tushar shrugged. "They make good villains. They have boats and swords and funny hats."
She laughed, and to her surprise, so did he.
As the bus turned into the main road, the driver hit a speed bump a little too fast. They both bounced slightly in their seats. Tushar clutched his comic. Amrita grabbed the edge of the seat.
"Morning rollercoaster," she said, giggling.
Tushar gave her a sideways look. "Do you always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like everything is a joke."
Amrita frowned. "Not everything. But sometimes things are funnier when you laugh at them."
He seemed to think about that for a moment, then nodded.
A few stops later, the bus halted again. A group of older boys climbed in, loud and boisterous. One of them, tall and lanky, shoved past the others to reach the back seat.
"New kid!" he called, spotting Tushar. "You're in our seat."
Tushar looked confused. "But—"
Before he could finish, the boy grabbed the edge of Tushar's comic and yanked it out of his hands. "Reading these ancient things? What are you, from the 80s?"
Amrita stood up.
"That's his comic," she said sharply. "And it's not your seat."
The older boy raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You're the seat police now?"
"Driver uncle says seats are first come, first served," she said firmly, looking the bully square in the eye. "You came late."
The boy snorted and threw the comic back. "Whatever."
He and his friends moved to the back, muttering.
Tushar picked up his comic, fingers trembling slightly. "Thanks."
Amrita sat back down. "Don't let them bother you. They're always like that."
He nodded. "Do you fight everyone?"
"Only the ones who deserve it."
He smiled then, a real smile. "You're brave. Like Phantom."
She laughed. "No. I'm just Amrita."
The bus pulled into the school gates, and students began standing up and stretching. Amrita got up too, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
"Do you want to sit here again tomorrow?" she asked casually.
Tushar looked up. "Yes. If it's okay with you."
She gave a short nod, almost shy. "Okay. But window's mine."
He grinned. "Deal."
And just like that, it began—not with promises or shared secrets or matching friendship bands, but with a window seat, a comic book, and the quiet comfort of someone who didn't make the world seem so lonely.
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Moral of the Chapter:
Friendship often begins in silence, in simple gestures, and in the small courage it takes to offer someone a place beside you—even if it means giving up your favorite seat by the window.