Some magic requires no wands. It is a quieter craft—the gentle, persistent pull that keeps scattered stars in the same constellation. For three decades, in our constellation of schoolyard souls, that magic has been Preeti. She is the weaver whose hands never tire of tending the threads between us all.
Her spells arrive as gentle phone buzzes. “Thinking of you.” “What’s up?” In a world of frantic broadcasts, her messages are like storybook golems—little clay figures of concern, animated by her will, showing up at our digital doors to whisper, “You are remembered.”
She defies the cruel arithmetic of adulthood—that we may have already lived most of our shared face-to-face time. Preeti creates new deposits in our memory bank. Every drinks and dinner she orchestrates, every reunion she summons, is a rebellion against time’s slow drift. She is the keeper of our light, fighting the quiet fade with RSVPs and group photos.
There is an alchemy to her gatherings. We arrive carrying the weight of our separate worlds. Then, under the laughter and teasing, the years dissolve. We are, all at once, the adults we’ve become and the children we were. Laughter echoes with the same timbre it held in the schoolyard; we are making something new from the old, together.
I once watched her, the effortless life of every party, with awed envy. Her magnetism seemed like a superpower. But three decades have translated that envy into an extreme, tender fondness. Now, when I look at her, I see clearly the happy-go-lucky ten-year-old who shared her tiffin without a second thought. A thirteen-year-old who lent her favourite very cool hand-knit red cardigan to me, because I loved it, without any hesitation. Her magnetism is the hearty laughter that comes from gregariousness, patiently grown to encompass an entire universe of friends. From school yard to adulthood corridors.
She makes me want to believe that community is not an accident. It is a choice, renewed daily. Conscious. Micro decisions.
I may never be like that. But the world needs a Preeti more than it needs a Neer, for sure 🙂
Here’s to you, our weaver. Thank you for the quiet magic of showing up, for keeping our constellation bright. My story is richer for your hand in it.