My name is Jeevan. I’m twelve years old, and I live in a small village. But people at home often say I don’t behave like a typical twelve-year-old because of some intellectual disability, they say. Maybe that’s why they don’t let me out much. They say I can’t mingle with society and that no one really wants to play with me. I have no friends.One day, a ball rolled into our house. A small boy came looking for it. When he asked for it, I handed it over. He smiled at me—laughed, even. I didn’t understand what was funny. That night, I asked my mother, “Amma, what’s wrong with me?” She said nothing, just hugged and kissed me like she always does. When I asked why no one else treats me the way she does, her face filled with pain. I didn’t want to see her like that, so I never asked again.The whole day felt heavy. Amma noticed, and the next morning, she gave me the biggest gift of my life: Bujji.She said he was small and sweet, so she named him Bujji. From that day, he became my only friend. He couldn’t speak, but that didn’t matter. I talked to him every day. I felt peaceful around him. I’d sit beside him with my toys, tell him stories, and lose track of time. I felt calm and cozy.Years passed. I turned eighteen. Bujji had grown taller than me, but he was still my Bujji. When I was young, I used to play with him inside the house. But as he got older, Amma told me to play with him outside. That was fine. I’d climb onto him, sit on his shoulders, and he never complained. He had the patience of the earth. Sometimes, I even used to sleep beside him.Sitting under his shade felt cool and comforting. Sometimes, he’d drop mangoes from above—Amma said those were his droppings. I never understood how they were so sweet. Maybe it was because of his pure friendship and the way he tried to talk to me.The way Bujji speaks to me is through his leaves and fruits. He gently lets them fall on me like gifts from the sky. But sometimes, when he’s upset with me, he throws down dry twigs as if scolding me from above.And me? I tease him back in a silly way. I pee on his roots and laugh—like a child picking a fight with the only friend who will never walk away.Because that’s what Bujji is—my friend. My only one. The one who listens without words and loves without judgment.Then came the rains.One day, I heard a strange noise. I ran outside and saw workers cutting down Bujji. Government men were there with axes and ropes. I rushed to him and clung to his roots, sobbing. They paused, then tried pulling me away. I refused to let go—with all my strength, my voice, and my heart. A strong man finally lifted me up and carried me home to Amma.I thought she would fight along with me. Instead, she held me and cried. They said Bujji had to go—he was in the way of new electrical lines. Amma tried telling them that Bujji was my friend, but they thought she was mad too. She gave up. She knew it was useless to argue with people who couldn’t understand a love that doesn’t speak in words.And just like that, Bujji was gone. For electricity, they took away my only friend. Only Amma, Bujji, and I knew what he truly meant to me.I cried for an entire day. My heart felt empty.A week later, Amma and I moved to a new home—a big house with a huge garden. There, I met new friends like Bujji. They became my friends. They were kind, curious, and warm. They reminded me of Bujji in small ways.One afternoon, Amma brought me a mango. She smiled and said, “Here. Grow your Bujji again.”I planted it with care, pressing the soil the way I used to hug his roots. I told my new friends about him. They wanted to meet him. I told them they would—soon.And this time, Bujji wouldn’t grow alone.This time, he would grow with me, with my friends, in a place where no one would cut him down.And our friendship? No one can ever take it away again.