Chapter 42: The Bench Beneath the Peepal Tree

"Some places don't hold memories. They become them."

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The bench had been there longer than Krish could remember.

Old wood. Chipped paint. One leg shorter than the rest, so it always rocked a little when someone sat down.

It lived beneath the peepal tree at the edge of the village— a tree so large, its roots crawled over the earth like forgotten veins.

Papa used to sit there. Every evening. Book in hand, or sometimes nothing at all. Just watching.

The road. The people. The sky.

Krish hadn't gone to that bench in months. Maybe more.

It felt too full. Too still. Too much like waiting.

But today, he found himself walking there. Drawn by a pull softer than thought, more certain than routine.

The peepal leaves rustled overhead, talking in whispers.

The bench looked the same. Tilted. Tired.

But somehow it still felt alive.

He sat. Felt it shift under his weight. He smiled. Papa always said the bench greeted you in its own way.

Krish looked up at the tree. Its leaves shimmered with wind and sunlight, a thousand tiny bells without sound.

He remembered: Papa used to tell stories here. Not grand tales. Just small moments made sacred by voice.

A dog once curled at their feet. An old man once left mangoes on the bench without a word. A child had once fallen asleep beside Papa's leg, and he hadn't moved for an hour, afraid to wake them.

Krish leaned back. Closed his eyes. Let the bench hold him. Let the air speak.

He began to remember in colors: the red of Papa's shawl, the blue of the village sky at dusk, the gold of tea in tin cups.

Ma had mentioned the bench once, said Papa used to call it his second house. Because it was where he thought best.

Krish pulled out his notebook. He had brought it without planning. It was just there. Like memory.

He wrote:

"Dear Papa, I'm sitting on your bench. It still rocks a little. Still creaks.

The tree still sings. The sky still leans down like it's listening.

I used to wonder why you loved this place. But now I know. It's where everything feels like it belongs. Even the broken pieces.

Maybe especially them."

He paused. Let the wind dry the ink. Let his breath soften.

Then he stood. Walked around the tree. Ran his fingers along the bark.

He found it: initials carved deep into the trunk— KP + MP.

Krish + Papa. The letters still there. Time hadn't erased them.

That night, he told Ma.

"I went to the bench."

She smiled. "He'd be happy to hear that."

Krish tilted his head. "Maybe he did."

They sat in the kitchen, two cups of tea between them. Ma brought out an old photograph— faded, but clear.

Papa on the bench. Krish beside him. Both looking away from the camera, as if watching something no one else could see.

She placed it on the table.

"He always said you were his best company. Even when you didn't speak. Especially then."

Krish nodded. "I think the bench remembers."

Ma didn't reply. Just looked at the photo. Then at him.

"You're becoming the kind of man he hoped you'd be. Not loud. Not flawless. But kind. Present."

Krish touched the photo. Felt the softness in his chest.

Later, as he lay in bed, he could still feel the bench beneath him. Still hear the peepal leaves.

And he whispered to the dark, "Thank you for keeping a place for me."

Because some benches don't wait for people. They wait for stories. And Krish had finally returned with one worth sitting down for.