The message appeared on our school WhatsApp group — a bolt from the blue. A common friend had shared the devastating news: “Reena passed away peacefully in her sleep. Please keep her in your prayers.”
I stood still, phone in hand, unable to comprehend it.
My schoolmate. My childhood best friend. Gone?
Reena and I had been inseparable during our school days. But with different career choices, we drifted — she moved into medicine, I took up journalism. For a few years, we stayed in touch. Then life took over. The last I heard, she had married a classmate during her post-graduation and moved overseas. She was working in a hospital there, raising a family.
I often thought of her — especially when flipping through old albums or when a memory surfaced. But I didn’t know anyone who could tell me where she was.
Then, two years ago, social media performed its quiet miracle. We reconnected. We exchanged numbers and fixed a time to talk. She had come to India on a short holiday with her family.
The moment she called, I was brimming with joy. We spoke of our children, our spouses, our parents. She had lost her father. I had lost my mother. There was so much to catch up on, but time was short, and she couldn’t visit. We promised to stay in touch, but our schedules and time zones got in the way.
And now, this message.
I felt a dull ache in my chest. My throat tightened. I couldn’t cry, but my mind kept returning to her children — how they would bear the weight of this sudden goodbye.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I took out an old sepia-toned album. And there she was — Reena, standing under a gulmohar tree, laughing, her hair falling across her face, sunlight dancing on her cheeks. That million-watt smile lit her entire being. The photo, clicked by a classmate, was one we had both kept — a piece of our childhood frozen in time.
The next day, her funeral was live-streamed. They had shared a link for the eulogies. I sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, laptop on a cushion, watching with a lump in my throat.
Soon, her portrait appeared on screen — the same radiant smile framed by marigolds. The priest chanted mantras. Incense smoke drifted across the camera’s view. Her husband sat silently near her photo. Their grown-up children, seated on either side, controlled their emotions with quiet strength.
The dreaded “C” had claimed a kind, bright soul.
Even as I watched, it felt unreal. That smile didn’t belong in a frame. It belonged in life — full of colour and mischief.
I whispered a prayer as the livestream ended.
She may have entered another realm, but to me, that portrait still breathes.
God called you back early, Reena, but your light still sits beside us.
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