Special Edition: Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal

Bench Secrets

The bench sat quietly on the riverbank, half-hidden between the sprawling branches of two ancient poplar trees. It had the wrath of the wind, rain and storms. The wooden planks once closely nailed, unseen to the naked eye, had a smooth silky surface. Over the years gaps developed in them.  Raised wooden flakes often caught the edges of dupattas and sarees, leaving big tears.  That did not desist visitors who sought refuge in this peaceful spot on the riverbank, listening to the murmur of the river flowing lazily, contained within concrete embankments. Its surface changed colours as the day progressed. Glistening in the sunlight, that filtered through the branches of the trees, turning muddy brown at dusk and then resembling a black ribbon after dark.  

The crispness in the air and the thinning branches hinted at the coming of winter.  Dried brown leaves, stirred by the wind, took flight floating up in the air, swirling and landing softly on the ground and water, like confetti from a burst birthday balloon. The bench had seen it all before: the changing seasons, the migrating birds, the soft hum of insects in the summer. The bench was privy to many conversations between lovers, between children and parents, between gangly schoolboys arguing, while taking drags from half-smoked cigarettes, salvaged from ashtrays at home.  The bench remembers clearly the people who found solace and connection with it, particularly the woman who visited the most.

Just a few years back she had sat on the bench, her white saree wrapped tightly around her. Her gaze was distant, fixed on the slow-moving river but her thoughts elsewhere. She had been coming to this bench for years, ever since she had lost her husband in the Kargil war. It was her place of reflection, a spot where time seemed to pause, offering her a reprieve from the world. For her…

moments drifted like stars

eternal, yet fading still

time stood quiet here.

As a new bride, she was a frequent visitor accompanied by him, spinning dreams of a family they would have.  Two girls and a boy. Never mind if it was the other way round.  Never mind if all were girls.  Three kids are what they wanted. A complete family. And then he was summoned to the front.

For Captain Dharam Veer Kapoor, the war was not just about reclaiming lost territory but defending the sanctity of the land he loved. As the commander of his unit, he was known for his bravery and compassion, the kind of soldier who thought of his men as brothers and never backed down.

Uma, his wife, scanned the news, her heart pounding as she watched images of battlefields and burning bunkers flash across the screen. The last letter from Dharam had arrived weeks ago, written in his usual steady hand, saying he was unsure when the war would end. To have patience. To trust in God.

Of course, she trusted in God. But there was a fear she could not shake off, a fear that whispered in the silence of the night when the world outside her window was dark and still. In her heart, she knew that Dharam would do his duty, no matter the cost.  After an agonisingly long wait of six months, two men in uniform approached her home, to break the news of Captain Dharam Veer Kapoor’s bravery and his ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty. 

The world around her collapsed. The words echoed in her ears, but they felt distant, as though they were meant for someone else. Her Dharam, her husband, her love—gone. The life they had dreamed of building together on that bench, the future they had planned, everything shattered in an instant. The bench had joined her in grieving the martyred son, her husband.   

Uma’s sorrow was a quiet, enduring thing, like the mountains of Kargil. Silent, unmovable, and eternal. Sitting on the bench, she would weave tales to her son, of the fish that swam beneath its surface, the spirits of the forest that watched over the trees, and the adventures that awaited those who dared to explore its banks and of his father who never returned from the war. And stories about the strength she found in nature and the peace she always discovered here, on this old bench by the river. Both served to remind her, of their timelessness.  

Meanwhile Dharam junior grew up into a fine lad, following in the footsteps of his father.  Joining the army to serve the nation he loved. With Dharam Junior’s departure, Uma stopped going to the riverside, comforted by the thought that the bench would be here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next—waiting, as it always had, for those who needed a quiet moment by the river…

flowing silently...

carrying the sky, 

whispers to the earth 

of the past 

As the years passed, something inside her shifted. It was small, almost imperceptible, but there was a stirring, a quiet nudge in her soul.  She had come to terms with her grief.  With that realization, all her dammed emotions were set free. The river carried them downstream. The bench never saw her again and though it could not speak, it seemed to understand her decision not to visit. It would only reopen the wounds, somewhat healed over time. But there would be others sitting on the bench, pinning their hopes and dreaming of a better world, for future generations.  

as light breaks through the clouds

promising of a rising dawn

hope renews the soul

….

Bio: Snigdha Agrawal is Bengali born, raised and educated in a cosmopolitan environment, with exposure to the Eastern and Western cultures, imbibing the best of both worlds.  With more than two decades of experience working in the corporate sector, her outlook on life is balanced, as reflected in her writings. A versatile writer, she writes all genres of poetry, prose, short stories, travelogues, and hotel/restaurant reviews on TripAdvisor. Her writings are regularly featured in online journals published in India and overseas.  A published author of four books, the latest titled TRAIL MIX, is a book of short stories for all mindsets.

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Setu, September 2024