Chapter 4: The Birthday Card
The morning sun spilled golden across the windows of Class 7B, but inside the room, there was the usual Monday silence—a mix of sleepy yawns and the rustle of notebooks. Amrita sat by the window as always, her chin resting on her palm, her mind elsewhere.
Today was her birthday.
Not a major milestone—just twelve—but still, a birthday. At home, it had started like any other day. Her mother, exhausted from her night shift, had forgotten until halfway through packing Amrita's tiffin. Her father, still on bed rest, had mumbled a tired blessing and kissed her forehead. No sweets, no new dress, no school treats. Just a quiet "Happy birthday, beta" and a rushed walk to the bus stop.
She hadn't expected much. But somehow, the emptiness of the morning stuck to her like lint on a sweater. At school, no one had remembered. No cards, no birthday bumps, not even a joke from Nidhi or a smile from Rekha.
She had hoped—just a little—that Tushar would say something. But as always, he had boarded the bus in his usual calm silence, taken out his sketchbook, and stared out the window. No "Happy birthday," no mention at all. She hadn't reminded him.
She couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.
They didn't talk much that morning. During the first two periods, Amrita barely spoke. She doodled absentmindedly in the margins of her notebook and forced herself to smile when the teacher cracked a joke. The bell for recess rang like a distant bell tower, faint and disconnected from her mood.
She didn't go to the playground. Instead, she went to the far side of the school garden, under the champa tree where few students ever sat. It was quiet here, and she liked the way the branches bent low, making the world feel smaller.
Tushar found her there.
He walked up without speaking, carrying both his lunch and hers—she must have left it behind on her desk. He handed it to her, then sat cross-legged on the grass, pulling out a neatly wrapped package from his bag.
"I meant to give this to you before recess," he said quietly. "But I couldn't figure out how."
Amrita looked at him, confused.
He placed the package—flat, rectangular, wrapped in brown paper—into her hands.
She opened it slowly, careful not to tear the corners. Inside was a hand-drawn card. The front was covered in sketches—tiny moments from the past month: her laughing near the water fountain, the two of them walking under his umbrella, a doodle of her holding her grandmother's black umbrella like a sword. In the middle, in fine pencil letters, were the words: "To Amrita – The Girl Who Talks in Rainbows."
Her throat tightened.
Inside the card was a longer message, written in Tushar's neat, blocky handwriting:
> "Happy Birthday. You make things brighter just by being around. I don't say things easily. But I notice. Every joke, every time you waited for me, every time you remembered what I didn't say out loud. I don't have sweets or balloons. Just this card. And a promise: even if no one else remembers, I will. Every year."
Amrita blinked fast.
She looked up at him. "You remembered."
"Of course I did," he said, looking down at his lap. "I just didn't know how to say it without making it... weird."
Her lips quivered. "It's not weird. It's perfect."
She turned the card over again and again, as if afraid it might disappear. "You really drew all of these?"
He nodded. "Last week. I asked Nidhi your birth date. She told me, but I pretended like I forgot today. I didn't want to give it too early."
"You asked Nidhi?" Amrita raised an eyebrow, grinning now. "You talked to Nidhi?"
He gave a mock shudder. "Just once. It was terrifying."
She laughed—really laughed—and wiped her eyes before any tears could fall.
They ate lunch together under the champa tree, with her card lying carefully on her open notebook. Amrita offered him half of her sweet peda, which her mother had packed after all, tucked deep into the last section of her tiffin box. He took it like it was made of gold.
"Next year," she said as they finished eating, "I'm getting you the biggest return gift."
He raised an eyebrow. "Return gift?"
"You gave me a card. So next time, I'm giving you something back."
"I didn't do it to get anything."
"I know," she said, softly now. "But that's why it matters."
The last bell rang, and they walked back into class with the warm glow of something unspoken still hovering around them. That card didn't just say "Happy Birthday." It said I see you. You matter. And for Amrita, that was more precious than any cake or candle.
When she got home that evening, she placed the card beside her pillow. It would be the first thing she saw when she woke up the next day.
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Moral of the Chapter:
Sometimes, the smallest gestures—drawn with care and wrapped in thought—can mean more than the grandest gifts. True friendship is remembering someone's quiet days and choosing to make them feel seen.