Fiction: Just A Bench

Rachna Vinod

Every evening at exactly six, I, the venerable iron-and-wood marvel they call Bench Number Seven, perform my first ritual of the day: clearing my throat. At least, that’s how I like to imagine it because a bench has to dream big. The pigeons always take it as their cue to flap into the air in panic, the leaves seem to shiver and fall, and I settle in for my favourite hour—the hour of stories. You might think I spend my days quietly, stoically, holding the occasional stroller-straining toddler or the bored jogger’s water bottle. But no. My evenings are packed. Humans, bless them, are the most ridiculous creatures, and I see everything.

First came Mr. D’Souza, a retired accountant with a tie that could choke a goat. He sits exactly on my left edge, adjusts his hat at precisely 6:02, and starts muttering numbers under his breath. “Two thousand… three hundred… oh, no, wait, carry the—” he goes on until his wife arrives, waving her floral scarf like a victory flag. They bicker lightly—about the price of tomatoes, the correct pronunciation of ‘quinoa,’ or why the neighbour’s dog has better manners than their cat. I like them; they remind me of squirrels arguing over acorns. Then there’s the teenager, who plops down with dramatic flair right in the center of my slats, headphones on, staring at a screen as though it contains the meaning of life. Occasionally, he taps his foot, groans, sighs, or rolls his eyes—sometimes at me, I swear. Teenagers are a mystery. I’ve concluded that if they survive adolescence, they deserve medals.

By six-fifteen, the Yoga Ladies arrive, mats in tow. Their stretches and poses are a sight. The one with the bright pink headband always tries to balance on my right armrest. I pretend not to notice, though honestly, it’s exhausting supporting her tree pose. But she smells nice, and her laughter is contagious. At times, I imagine myself flexing along with them—though that would be a sight. Then, there are always the inevitable dog owners. Mr. Kapoor, with his poodle, insists on using me as the official “post office” for whatever correspondence the dog deems urgent. I nod politely. A bench has to maintain dignity, after all. By six-thirty, the park begins to calm, the chaos simmering down. It’s then I truly enjoy my privilege: the conversations humans don’t even know I hear.

“Oh, do you think he likes me?” whispers a voice one day. I glance at a young woman on my left. She fidgets with her scarf, unaware I have been silently judging her over several weeks. “Trust me, he’s thinking about his Instagram feed, not you,” I would have said, if benches could talk—though that might be considered rude.

And then there’s the philosophical fellow who always reads aloud to himself, muttering lines from books I’ve never heard of. “To be, or not to be,” he says dramatically one Tuesday, looking at a squirrel that isn’t even paying attention. I try to act impressed. After all, I’ve read the newspaper shredded by pigeons—an achievement, in my opinion.

I’ve had visitors from all walks of life. Once, a man in a neon tracksuit ran past so fast I swore he was auditioning for a superhero movie. Another time, a woman sat for an hour knitting something so complicated I suspected it was a sweater for a giraffe. And who could forget the duo of elderly gentlemen playing chess on the adjacent table, tossing gossip back and forth like confetti? Humans are endlessly entertaining. But the best part of my day is when nobody sits on me. That’s when I stretch my imagination. I think of myself as the throne of empires, the confession booth for secret affairs, the launchpad for runaway pigeons. I imagine I have fans, followers, a social media presence and thousands of likes pouring in. In truth, my only audience is the occasional curious squirrel, who doesn’t understand irony, and a stray cat that judges me with intense suspicion.

One evening, something unusual happened. A small boy approached, dragging a bright red wagon behind him. He stopped in front of me and, after a long deliberation, sat down with the sort of decisiveness only a five-year-old can muster. His mother shouted something about ice cream melting, but he ignored her. He leaned back, staring up at the sky, and sighed. “Bench looks so comfy.” , he said suddenly.

I do not have eyes, but if I did, they would have widened. Comfy? That’s the highest compliment I’ve ever received. Most humans only curse me for being sticky, wet, or slightly wobbly. This boy, however, talked like an old friend. I felt proud. And then he whispered another secret: “I think clouds are hiding today because they don’t like Mondays.” Ah, the honesty of children. Nothing is more refreshing. I stored that wisdom in my imaginary memory banks for future reflection.

By seven, the park lights flickered on. Shadows lengthened. Pigeons returned, confident the human dramas had paused. Leaves rustled. Mr. D’Souza’s wife yanked him away toward the bus stop, the teenager plugged in his phone charger, the Yoga Ladies rolled up their mats, and Mr. Kapoor tugged his poodle off my armrest. Silence descended, comforting and familiar.

I settled into it. My day’s work was done. I had listened, judged gently, fantasized, and occasionally inspired. I had borne the weight of humans and their quirks. I had laughed silently at their earnestness, their absurdities, their small triumphs. I had, in short, lived fully—even if from a slightly stationary position.

Tomorrow and subsequent days after tomorrow, the pigeons will flee. Leaves will tremble. Humans will arrive with their dramas, confessions, ambitions, and secrets. And I will be here, faithful, observant, and infinitely entertained. After all, someone has to witness the nuances of life while pretending to be just a bench.

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Setu, December 2025