How Far Friendship Travels

 How Far Friendship Travels ☕️❤️

Zoom out: Kolkata.

Friendships weren’t declared, they just were — forged in mango-sticky afternoons and fights over kul (sour plum), sealed by pinky promises and whispered secrets. My earliest BFFs were family: Dida (grandmother), Mama (maternal uncle), and Chhoto Kaka (father’s youngest brother) — the ones who told stories, were my caregivers and babysitters, and were there when the world felt too big to handle.

Summer vacations back in Kolkata stitched those bonds tighter — my first cousin would patiently take out fish bones from my plate, gently mending our out-of-practice bond from Delhi. Friendship, after all, often looked like small acts of care.

Cut to: Delhi.

Friendships cemented over twelve years of school — secret crushes, Saraswati Puja celebrations where we dressed in saris, making us feel grown-up, heard, and seen, and student council politics fought with more passion than any exam.
College days meant sneaking out of lectures to catch the latest Bollywood blockbuster — usually a first-day-first-show — followed by hours at the canteen, dissecting the plot like it was the most urgent group project. Chai that was never quite hot enough, samosas that vanished too fast, and dreams that felt entirely possible when shared with the right people.

We bunked classes like it was a competitive sport, plotting chai plans more seriously than our syllabi.

Pan into: San Diego.

New timezone, but the same beautiful chaos.
We battled the Las Vegas sun beneath one flapping dupatta, like heroines in a filmi song caught between celebration and meltdown. Dared the wild Pacific waves like rebels in a runaway scene — fearless and unstoppable.

RV camping shenanigans deepened our bonds in ways only shared space, open-air kebabs, and all-night gossip can. We turned dumb charades into absurd mashups of Hollywood action flicks and Bollywood melodrama. From Thanksgiving tables to Diwali get-togethers — in full Indian battle regalia, saris and kurta-pajamas flying — our friendship folded itself into every memory, a patchwork of laughter, late-night texts, and backup plans.

Every meltdown — ours or our kids’ — added another twist to the saga: hosting Mad Scientist nights with wild experiments, adventuring for Odyssey of the Mind, orchestrating Science Olympiad battles like tactical generals, juggling FLL (First Lego League) carpool spreadsheets that rival Wall Street tickers, and clearing cul-de-sacs and back-alley basketball courts after spontaneous Nerf wars.

We packed each other’s kitchens, fixed broken faucets and cooking ranges, and staged homes before cross-country moves — friendship tucked into every cupboard, suitcase, and every last unexpected to-do. That kind of friendship deserves a superhero cape — or at least a cup of chai brimming with love and gratitude.

Across states and miles, that friendship remains both literal and heartfelt — my one-time next-door neighbor and all-time bestie in San Diego feeds me liver curry when I visit, mindful of my hemoglobin count, as if I’d never left. Physical care and emotional warmth — thoughtfully delivered, time and again. My visits to San Diego give us the perfect excuse for get-togethers galore — long walks on the beach, sunsets over that same Pacific Ocean, lunches, dinners, gossip sessions, and nourishing boosts from close-knit friends who pack homemade food for my week of work travel.

After all, it’s a friendship if you can say:
“Yeh dosti, hum nahi todenge.”
(This friendship, we won’t break.)

Fade into: Milwaukee.

Milwaukee was a new scene — fresh scripts, unfamiliar faces, and the challenge of making new friends from scratch. But as the kids grew, so did our friendship — from FLL to robotics tournaments, navigating teen independence, and surviving the ever-looming AP coursework plot twists. We cheered basketball, baseball, tennis, soccer, and track and field games, and sat through band and orchestra performances — off-key notes becoming the soundtrack of our shared madness — celebrating milestones as our kids graduated from elementary to middle school, and soon, from high school.

Now, the carpools have slowed. The teens are claiming their independence (at least on paper), and our texts have quietly shifted from “Who’s bringing snacks?” to “Why is this house suddenly so silent?”

These days, it’s Lake Michigan hikes that feel like scenes from a filmi montage — quiet reflections by the water, cricket games ending with pulled hamstrings and triumphant cheers, chai parties that start with a casual “just drop by” and stretch into five-hour marathons. Bong adda thrives at lakeside picnics — thunder and rain providing the soundtrack, with impromptu song, dance, and a sisterhood bonded by flying puris, laughter, and stories fit for a screenplay.

Because friendship doesn’t just last — it evolves.

From grandparents and uncles to friends who were chosen family, to rediscovering friendship with my mom and dad once I outgrew teen angst.
With my brother, friendship was Bengali folk songs transcribed into Hindi and English, afternoons spent caring (and squabbling) for each other in Delhi’s heat, and years later, care packages sent across continents — from Delhi to Milwaukee — bridging the distance with love.
With my husband — built on co-parenting marathons and navigating life’s chaos side by side.
And now, with my teen sons — in MLB trade-off explanations, brunch appointments, long walks, and rare, tender, and prized conversations.

Friendship — tested across time zones, toddlers, teen moods, and thunderclouds — still holds.
If you’re lucky enough to have one of those ride-or-die, pick-up-where-we-left-off kind of friends — or if you've found friendship in unexpected corners of your family — tag them and tell them they matter.

After all, distance is just the ultimate test of how far friendship can travel — and like any filmi heroine, we say,
“Picture abhi baaki hai, mere dost!”