The Missing Call

“How do you respond to a missing call—not from the mind, but from the heart?”
This question lingered in my mind the moment I received my first missing call from an 8th-grade student—just the same day of  my farewell from Warwadey Middle School, the project school where I relived my childhood days.

It was the 4th of July, the final day I stood in the familiar school corridors, surrounded by students and teachers whose warmth had made me feel less like an outsider and more like one of their own. The farewell was deeply emotional. The love, trust, and respect I had received from the students and staff were beyond what I ever imagined. In every interaction, in every classroom, I saw a bond built not just through sessions—but through laughter, conversations, and joyful moments.

That day, I visited each class from 5th to 10th standard to express my gratitude and share parting thoughts with students. While I spoke, I noticed an unusual quietness—a silence filled with emotion. I invited them to share their feelings, and while some bravely stood up to speak, many were too overwhelmed. I gently encouraged them to write instead.

One 5th-grade girl handed me a note with her father’s phone number scribbled on it. Beneath it was a simple message:
“Mujhe aapki bahut yaad aaegi, Jab aapko bhi keri yaad aae to iss number par call krna. (I miss you too much if you miss me, call this number).”

That single sentence struck me deeply. It reminded me that connection doesn’t end with a goodbye—it transforms into a memory and sometimes, into a hope. Inspired, I wrote my mobile number on the classroom blackboard, inviting them to stay in touch. From that moment on, in every class I entered, I began writing my number without waiting for a request. Students eagerly copied it into their notebooks—as if holding onto a thread that still tied us together.

I never expected the very first “missing call” would come just a day after.
On 4th July at 6:58 PM, my phone rang from an unknown number. It was Kaushal, an 8th grade student. I remembered him vividly from farewell day—he had tried hard to hold back tears, but emotions overpowered him as I left his class.

In a choked voice, he said, “Aapki yaad aati hai… Aap dobara kab aaoge?”
I paused, not having a definitive answer. But I softly replied, “I will…”
Before we ended the two-minute call, he made me promise to return before he would leave school after the 10th grade. I gave him my word—I’ll try my best.

That call was the beginning. More followed. Students from different grades called, and though the words changed, two messages remained constant:
“I miss you.”
“When are you coming back?”

Each call left me in emotional reflection. While a part of me felt heavy with the goodbyes, another part stayed grounded in hope—hope that our paths would cross again. Their voices, full of love and longing, made me realize the true impact of my time at the school. I wasn’t just conducting sessions—I was building relationships.

These calls weren’t just “missed calls.” They were reminders that what we do as fellows goes beyond the classroom. We become part of a child’s memory, a reason they smile, and sometimes, someone they wish to meet again.

Even today, their faces flash before my eyes—their eager hands waving goodbye, their emotional glances, and their heartfelt words.
And deep inside, a voice keeps saying:
“It’s time to meet them again.”