We were all of 14 when my friend from school, Palak Malviya, called out to me in our classroom and said, “Pande, cover me.” She then proceeded to remove a long, steel rectangular case from her backpack and pulled out a syringe, a sealed glass vial and some alcohol wipes.
As I stared, she prepped the syringe with the correct dosage, lifted her school uniform’s skirt to expose a rather bruised thigh, and looked up at me.
I lifted my skirt from the sides to give her cover and watched as she expertly injected herself.
“Diabetes, type-1,” she said matter-of-factly, “and the things it makes you do.”
I nodded quietly, understanding that it was an insulin shot, and letting the reality sink in.
When most kids at that age worry about the approaching boards, puberty, and crushes, Palak had to do what she could to keep her sugar levels under control, to stay alive.


