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Title: The Bench Beneath The Old Tree

The story revolves around an old, unremarkable bench beneath a tree that serves as a silent witness to the lives of various individuals who visit it. Each character, from Mrs. Jaleel to Arman and Mr. Akhtar, brings their own stories and emotions, finding solace and connection in its presence. Ultimately, the bench symbolizes the importance of being a consistent, listening presence in the lives of others.

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Muhammad Behram Khan
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20 views1 page

Title: The Bench Beneath The Old Tree

The story revolves around an old, unremarkable bench beneath a tree that serves as a silent witness to the lives of various individuals who visit it. Each character, from Mrs. Jaleel to Arman and Mr. Akhtar, brings their own stories and emotions, finding solace and connection in its presence. Ultimately, the bench symbolizes the importance of being a consistent, listening presence in the lives of others.

Uploaded by

Muhammad Behram Khan
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd

Title: The Bench Beneath the Old Tree

There was a bench beneath the old tree that no one ever really noticed. It wasn’t new or polished or
particularly pretty. The paint had chipped off in a dozen places, and one of the wooden planks had a
slight bend that made it uncomfortable if you sat on it too long. But for some reason, the bench had
stories to tell, if only someone were quiet enough to listen.

Each morning, a crow would land on the backrest and caw once, as if declaring the bench open for
business. On Mondays, it was Mrs. Jaleel who arrived first, clutching her blue handbag and a slightly
wrinkled newspaper. She’d sit and mutter things about rising prices and reckless drivers and how
“kids these days don’t know hardship.” The bench never replied, but it understood.

On Wednesdays, after school, a boy named Arman would plop down with his backpack and unwrap a
sandwich. He never finished it. Half would go to the pigeons, and a quarter would fall to the ground.
The rest he would nibble while sketching in his notebook. No one ever saw what he drew, but
sometimes, if you passed by close enough, you could see strange creatures and tall buildings on the
page—places that didn’t exist here, but maybe did somewhere else.

Then there was old Mr. Akhtar, who came every Friday afternoon, rain or shine. He carried a
chessboard under his arm and placed it on the bench beside him. He played both sides, murmuring
strategies aloud and chuckling at his own clever moves. Occasionally, someone would join him—a
young college student or an office worker on break—and they’d spend an hour in quiet competition.
No words, just moves.

Seasons changed. Leaves turned amber, then fell. Rain soaked the earth. The bench stayed. It
watched people grow older, fall in love, argue, leave, return, disappear. Sometimes it went weeks
without anyone sitting on it. Other times, it had to bear three people at once, creaking under their
weight but never breaking.

One winter morning, a little girl in a yellow coat came running to the bench. She was crying. She sat
there for a long while, wiping her tears with sleeves too long for her arms. When her mother found
her, the girl didn’t want to leave. She said the bench made her feel better. “It’s like it’s listening,” she
whispered.

And maybe it was.

After all, some things in life don’t need to move or speak to be alive. They simply need to be present,
consistent, and open. Like the sky. Or an old friend. Or a crooked wooden bench beneath a silent,
sprawling tree.

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