Rahul Shukla 1 The night was quiet, with only the occasional hum of crickets breaking the stillness, when Rivan Malhotra and Aaryel Sen sneaked out of their homes to meet beneath the old banyan tree at the edge of their neighborhood. They were twelve then, armed with nothing but a pocketknife borrowed from Rivan’s uncle and the unshakable certainty that childhood often gifts. The tree stood massive and eternal, its roots crawling across the ground like veins, its branches spreading out wide enough to hold their secrets. With fumbling hands and suppressed giggles, they carved their names into the bark—clumsy,…