The Green Bench

There was a faded green wooden bench under a big old banyan tree. It stood near a small clearing that had quite a few assorted buildings around it. There was the grand old Municipal Office building which housed the mayor’s office, the beautiful temple with its towering spire, the little store with huge open sacks of assorted rice and pulses in complete contrast to the strings of shiny packs of over-processed potato chips hanging over them, a small café with snacks and sweetmeats with a lopsided name board that once used to be blue. And in complete contradiction, amidst all these buildings, stood the newly constructed shiny corporate office building, towering above the others, gleaming in its newness and sleekness. 

Despite all this disparity in aesthetics, the one thing in common that you saw if you looked around was an even wider assortment of various kinds of people all maintaining the same posture. Sitting, standing, or lounging, but everyone with their heads down staring intently into their phones. And that is where all stories probably come to an end. But then there is the Green bench in mine, which is why I have a few stories to tell. 

The middle-aged woman walking out of the mayor’s office has just been informed that her job there has come to an untimely end, as they were overstaffed. If only she looked up from her phone, she would see that the oldest store around the courtyard had the most number of customers, as they had withstood the test of time and were trusted for their experience. She would be inspired to begin anew because the experience that came with time was a precious commodity that she had in heaps and bounds. But she walked slowly towards the green bench unaware of her surroundings trying to speak to her because she was looking intently into her phone looking for something that it would not be able to give her. Under the old banyan tree, she sat down wearily on the green bench waiting to let the weight lift off her shoulders before she headed home. 

The merchant’s son in the grocery store was too engrossed on the phone to notice the crafty customer tucking away a pack or two of extra unbilled articles into her shopping bag while he had his attention elsewhere.  

The young couple at the little café were clicking selfies with each other and then spending the rest of the time editing it so they could post it on social media unaware that contentment was to be found in each other’s company and not on a social media platform. Not satisfied with the backdrop, they strolled over to the green bench and went back to clicking more pictures and withdrawing back into their phones. 

Out of the tall new building strode out a smartly dressed young woman who had just had her biopsy confirmed positive, and felt the wind had been knocked out of her. She was too preoccupied with the report on her phone to notice that just across from her, in the inner sanctum of the holy temple, her creator had more power than her doctors did. She didn’t realize where she was headed, walking blindly until she reached the green bench under the old banyan tree, which had just been vacated by the young couple.  

If only these people looked up and saw that the sun still shone after a long dark night, the flowers still bloomed after the pouring rains, that every cloud had a silver lining, that as long as we had breath, we had hope, then maybe there would be more happiness and faith to go around. After all, I was standing strong and tall after all these years, having weathered many storms and rains. Me, the old banyan tree over the fading green wooden bench.

Storyteller