It was the time of our rain festival, when the river goddess was honored with colors. Women drew radiant kundans (designs) on their foreheads with powders of turmeric and vermilion. By the temple steps, the old pharmacist offered remedial pastes.
I helped Meena paint her cheeks with saffron, and she looked back at me in the mirror, wearing a shy grin. Then one of my friends, Usha, slipped a petal into my hand – a small, blood-red rose. Her eyes were wide, her mouth moving as if she had something hidden.
I realized Usha was a Sudra, and I am also from a lower caste, but our boyish game of stealing sweets from the feast had no caste barrier. Yet tonight, as we sat with other children in a circle listening to a priest chant in the smoke, Usha's friend Naeem, taller and leaner, came between us. Usha's petal fell to the ground with a whisper.
After the chants, when the priest left, Usha accused Naeem of grabbing the petal from her hand out of jealousy. Naeem denied it fiercely. The conflict grew like a torn clap of thunder in my heart. Both were my friends.
I took a deep breath, the torches hissing around us. Under the dim light of lamps, I realized the argument was like a festering sore, hurting more than anyone deserved. Quietly, I let a truth flow from my lips: "Naeem would not take joy from Usha's hands. Usha, you must see he meant no harm."
Naeem blinked. Usha's face softened. He put a hand gently on her shoulder and whispered an apology. Usha nodded, wiping tears at the corner of her eyes.
We walked home together under lantern-lit lanes, my heart fluttering. The gift had sewn peace between my friends, not with force, but a small shift, a revealed truth that they felt themselves. They left the petal on the temple steps as an offering to the goddess, who I believed smiled down on that honesty.