The House Hunt
“Ridiculous! Who even invented this? This is tough! I can’t do this!”
Abishek’s voice echoed across the quiet classroom as he stood there, fingers in his mouth, trying once again to whistle. The little boy had been at it for a while now, long before the bell was about to ring. His friend Mukthar stood next to him, trying hard not to laugh.
“Yo !, just relax your lips,” Mukthar said, demonstrating for what felt like the hundredth time.
Abishek inhaled deeply, puffed his cheeks, and blew. Nothing came out—except a spray of spit that landed right on Mukthar’s face.
“Eww! You’re not whistling, you’re watering me!” Mukthar groaned, wiping his cheek.
Abishek frowned, frustrated. “How do you even do it, man?!”
“Okay, okay, listen carefully. We’ve got four minutes before the bell rings. Try again, but this time—make your mouth dry. Take a second, breathe through your mouth, dry it up. Go slow.”
Abishek nodded, determined. He inhaled through his mouth, feeling the air dry his tongue and lips. For a second, everything around him went quiet—the noise of the other kids packing up, the teacher’s chalk scraping on the board—it all faded away.
He placed two fingers in his mouth, curled his tongue just right, closed his eyes, and blew with all his strength.
Pheeeeeeeeet!
A sharp whistle sliced through the air—right at the same time the school bell rang.
For a heartbeat, no one realized it wasn’t part of the bell’s echo. Then Mukthar’s eyes widened. “You did it! You actually did it!”
Abishek stood frozen, stunned. He looked at his fingers like they had just cast a spell.
The teacher didn’t hear anything over the chaos of the closing bell. Maybe she thought it came from the playground outside. But the two boys knew what had happened—and that was enough.
“That was insane! You did it, you little cockroach!” Mukthar shouted, jumping with excitement.
They burst out laughing, hugging each other like they’d just won a football match. Bags swung onto their shoulders, books barely zipped in, they ran down the corridor toward the gate, their joy louder than the bell itself.
As they reached the gate, Mukthar suddenly stopped and pulled a small, crumpled paper from his pocket.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” he said, handing it to Abishek. “Here’s a map I drew. It’s to my house. You know I live two streets away from yours, right? I’ve marked all the landmarks. When you reach the samosa shop, take a right. I wrote everything down, so you won’t get lost. Come at seven o’clock sharp. And hey—” he grinned, “when you reach my gate, don’t forget to whistle. You’ve got a surprise waiting.”
Abishek took the paper, eyes gleaming. The day had already given him one victory—his first whistle. He couldn’t wait to see what came next.
Abishek’s excitement was through the roof. All he needed to do now was rush home, wash his face, change his clothes, grab his cycle, and head to Mukthar’s house. Simple enough — except his heart was racing with excitement, faster than his thoughts.
He pedaled down the street with all the energy his little legs could muster. The map Mukthar had drawn fluttered inside his pocket — a ridiculous-looking thing that any adult would have crumpled and tossed away at first glance. It was so childishly drawn that even Mukthar himself would probably struggle to explain it the next day.
Once home, he washed his face, changed into fresh clothes, and sat down to study the map like an explorer decoding an ancient treasure route — more like Indiana Jones on a grand adventure. He memorized every turn, folded the paper neatly, stuffed it into his little pocket, and hopped onto his cycle. His surprise awaited.
For the first few minutes, the ride was quiet. His neighborhood, usually alive with kids and kites, had fallen into an eerie calm. The only movement came from the ironing men stationed at every corner — heads bent, hands gliding smoothly over shirts and pants. They looked like undercover agents guarding the streets, silent and watchful.
In Abishek’s eyes, they really were heroes — “your friendly neighborhood Spider-Men.” Ironically, his own favorite superhero was Iron Man. Why? He had no idea. Maybe it was because everyone said Iron Man was the coolest, and like most kids, Abishek simply agreed.
The thought made him grin as he pedaled faster. His excitement was impossible to contain. Whatever surprise Mukthar had promised — it had to be something big. Not a gift, but something even better. Something worth showing off. He couldn’t wait. He pushed harder on the pedals, speeding down the empty road.
All of a sudden, he slammed the brakes. His heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing — horror, confusion, shock.
“How on earth could this happen? Am I on the right track? Am I dreaming?”
Abishek froze, staring ahead. Where the samosa shop was supposed to stand — lively, fragrant, and familiar — there was now nothing but an empty stretch of land. The sight hit him harder than he expected. Without the shop, the whole street looked… wrong.
It was the first time he’d seen the road this way — bare, quiet, and stripped of its usual warmth. When he and Mukthar used to stop by in the evenings, the place had always been alive — people chatting, kids laughing, the smell of fried samosas filling the air. But now, everything felt off, as if someone had taken a piece of the street’s soul away.
He stared for a long moment, trying to process what he was seeing. That’s when it struck him — we never really notice things until they’re gone. A single shop could change how an entire street felt. He smiled faintly to himself, realizing something deeper. “This feels different,” he whispered. “I should tell Mukthar about this.”
Pulling out the crumpled map from his pocket, he checked it again, tracing the lines with his finger. He already knew he was on the right path — still, he wanted to make sure. After all, he and Mukthar were just two boys from seventh grade, their school only two streets away from his house.
Satisfied, he stuffed the map back into his pocket — not bothering to fold it this time — and gripped the handlebar again. The paper rustled against the wind as he pedaled forward, the wheels rolling toward whatever waited ahead.
Abishek was the kind of boy every teacher adored — quiet, well-mannered, and always prepared. He finished his homework on time, scored good marks, and loved to read. More often than not, his name appeared at the top of the class list.
Mukthar, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. A natural athlete — no one could beat him in football. He played basketball and kabaddi with the same fire, collecting medals and certificates like they were candy wrappers. He wasn’t the top student, but his discipline and respect earned him every teacher’s admiration.
Their friendship began back in sixth grade, on the very first day Abishek joined the school. He was the new kid — quiet, unsure, and a little awkward. When he entered the classroom, most of the seats were already taken, and for no reason at all, no one seemed to make space for him. Everyone just turned away, pretending not to notice.
Everyone, except Mukthar.
He moved his bag aside, smiled, and said, “You can sit here.” That simple gesture changed everything. From that moment on, Abishek cherished him like a brother.
Abishek wasn’t good at sports, so most of the kids never picked him for games. But Mukthar never let him feel left out. When others laughed or teased him, Mukthar was always there — a shield, a voice, a friend who stood tall for him every single time.
He looked after Abishek as if he were family. Their bond was simple, pure, and rare — the kind of friendship that felt too good for this world.
Abishek hit the brakes again.
“The board wasn’t supposed to be here… what board is this?” he murmured under his breath.
A blue street sign stood ahead — “Dr. B.R Ambedkar Street.”
“Wait… this is it!” he whispered, a small smile tugging at his lips. Relief washed over him. He was finally on the right track. Still, he couldn’t help but frown at the new board — it hadn’t been there before. The corporation had replaced the old one a week ago after it broke, and Abishek, being the observant boy he thought he was, hadn’t noticed it until now.
He had already learned two lessons that day:
One — if a shop disappears, a whole street can look unfamiliar.
And two — streets can change too; nothing stays the same every day.
This little adventure was turning into a life lesson. According to the map, he had to take a right, and so he did.
The road ahead was empty — no people, no kids, just a few stray dogs wandering lazily under the fading sun. Abishek felt a flicker of fear. Stray dogs sometimes chased bikes and cycles for no reason. But Abishek had what he proudly called his “superpower” — he could sense whether a dog would attack or not. Just by a glance, he knew this pack wouldn’t. They looked tired, strolling like kings of the street, too lazy to bark.
He pedaled past them, took a left, and entered a narrow lane. His excitement built again — he knew he was close. The last turn was right ahead.
He slowed down, scanning both sides of the street — left, right, left again. The cycle glided so slowly it almost floated, like Marty McFly on a hoverboard — smooth as butter. His eyes darted between house numbers. 293… 294… 295!
“That’s it!” he gasped. He found it.
Energy rushed through him. It was already five in the evening — a time when he’d usually be exhausted after school — but not today. Today, he was buzzing with joy. The thought of Mukthar’s surprise filled him with restless curiosity.
A new cycle? A badminton set? Maybe some toys? Or… a PlayStation?
He laughed to himself. No, wait — why would he ask me to whistle from the street if it’s a PlayStation?
Still, whatever it was — he knew something exciting awaited.
He took a deep breath, curled his fingers the way he remembered, and pressed them gently inside his mouth. Lips tight, he blew — a soft rush of air, a squeak, then silence. He frowned, tried again, adjusting his fingers slightly.
This time, the whistle pierced through the quiet air — sharp, clear, and louder than he expected. He grinned. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.
But before the smile could settle, the world around him came alive — not with applause, but with barking.
The whistle echoed through the still street, waking the silence. One bark, then two, then a chorus. Dogs from five different houses started growling, barking, throwing themselves against their gates. Chains rattled, paws scratched, the sound was deafening.
Abishek froze. Only one dog wasn’t chained — barking wildly, but staying inside the gate. Still, he couldn’t move. His heart raced. Sweat trickled down his face. Fear gripped him like never before. He wanted to run, but his legs refused.
“Jesus, help me…” he whispered.
And maybe Jesus heard — because help arrived.
From the corner of the street, the ironing man — Abishek’s “Iron Man” — looked up from his work. Hearing the chaos, he dropped his iron cloth and ran towards the boy. His white shirt fluttered, his veshti swayed with every step, and the rudraksha beads around his neck swung as if urging him faster.
He looked like a man who could take on three people at once.
Reaching Abishek, he waved his hands, scolding the dogs with loud shushes. One by one, the barking quieted. The dogs recognized him — a familiar face in the neighborhood — and retreated.
The man folded the corner of his veshti around his waist, tying it firm like someone ready for action, and looked at Abishek.
“Why are you crying, da? They’re gone. Don’t cry. They won’t bite. Be brave — be a man,” he said, voice calm but firm.
Those words struck something deep inside Abishek. Simple as they were, they carried weight — like advice from life itself. For a moment, he felt transformed, like the world had just opened a new door for him. His tears slowed. His chest lightened.
The man wiped Abishek’s cheeks and patted his shoulder.
“Smile,” he said.
Abishek gave a small smile.
“Bigger!” the man said with a playful grin.
This time, Abishek smiled wide — still shy, still teary-eyed, but with warmth spreading across his face.
Just then, the gate beside him creaked open.
A boy stepped out, holding a chain — and at the other end was a small dog, a Shih Tzu, trembling a little but calm.
Abishek looked up and saw, it was Mukthar walking toward him — and beside him trotted a small dog. Wait… Mukthar never had a dog before, he thought, his eyes widening. That must be it. That’s the surprise he wanted to show me! A rush of excitement filled him. His eyes sparkled, unable to hide his joy. Inside, he was jumping with happiness — the little dog was so cute that Abishek couldn’t stop smiling as Mukthar came closer.
“I heard your whistle!” said Mukthar, grinning. “That was awesome — louder than I expected!”
Behind him, another voice called out. The gate opened wider. Mukthar’s father stepped out.
“What happened, Vijay?” he asked, looking at the man.
“The boy whistled, and all the dogs went mad,” Vijay said, chuckling. “He got scared and cried a bit. Poor fellow. Look — still got his nose dripping.”
Mukthar’s father — Fatha Mohammed — smiled softly. He had known Vijay since their own childhood. They grew up on this very street. Vijay had taken over his father’s ironing stall, while Fatha had followed his passion, becoming a professional photographer for a multinational company.
“That’s Abishek, Mukthar’s classmate,” Fatha said, stepping closer. “Just like us back then, remember?”
He crouched down to check on Abishek, wiped his face again, and smiled. “You’ve got a new friend,” he said, pointing at the Shih Tzu. “His name is Munch.”
Abishek looked down. The tiny dog looked back up — tail wagging, eyes bright. Abishek knelt, reached out, and patted Munch gently. The dog responded with a wag so fast it was almost a blur. they both were truly happy — the kind that comes from deep within.
Mukthar watched the two of them, smiling wide.
“Go on, play now,” Fatha said, waving them off. “And Abishek — don’t be afraid of dogs. You’re a man now. Go have fun!”
The boys laughed and ran down the street, Munch trotting beside them. They didn’t know where they were going — only that they were happy, free, and together.
Vijay stood watching them, then turned to Fatha.
“I wish we were twelve again,” he said quietly.
Fatha smiled, eyes still following the boys as they disappeared into the blur of the evening light.
“I never had friends like you after that age,” he said. “You’re right. I wish we were twelve again.”
They stood there, two men lost in memory — remembering the laughter, the streets, the simple joys of being young.
Just like the line from the movie "Stand by Me" —
“I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve.
Jesus, does anyone?”
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