The Bench Of Beginnings

Aditi woke before dawn, but the stillness didn’t reach her heart. The weight of an unspoken question—one she’d carried for years—pressed against her chest. She had thought returning to Kolkata would offer clarity, but all it had given her were restless nights and a clock that moved too quickly in the morning.

At 5 a.m., she opened her eyes and told herself, Just five more minutes.

When she woke again, sunlight was pooling through the curtains. 6:45.

Instead of rushing into her usual flurry of guilt, she smiled—a quiet, knowing smile—and let the moment settle. The city outside was already alive, but Aditi felt an unusual calmness, as though the morning had granted her permission to take her time.

The park was already busy when she arrived. Vendors brewed chai by the sidewalk, their kettles hissing like impatient whispers. Elderly walkers circled the pathways, their steps precise and measured. Aditi chose her favorite path, where the gulmohar trees arched like a cathedral above her.

That was when she saw him.

The jogi wasn’t new to the park; he was a fixture, like the trees or the breeze that seemed to carry his presence before you even saw him. Barefoot, a saffron shawl wrapped loosely around his shoulders, he sat cross-legged on a bench, his eyes scanning the horizon as though waiting for something—or nothing.

This morning, he saw her.

He stood as she approached and smiled, a quiet gesture that didn’t demand acknowledgment but invited it. “Shanti,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue like a blessing.

Aditi froze, not from fear but from the sense that this moment was somehow already written. She had no words, only a slight bow of her head. And then, as if compelled by the rhythm of the day, she walked on.

Further down the path, she found a bench under a flowering gulmohar and sat. The jogi’s greeting clung to her mind, soft and insistent. There was no logic to it, yet it felt as though he had spoken directly to the ache she carried.

She opened her bag and pulled out her notebook, flipping to a blank page. She hesitated, then began writing:

“Ham hans diye, ham chup rahe.”

The words felt foreign yet familiar, as if borrowed from a dream. They reminded her of the lullabies her grandmother used to sing—songs with no beginning or end, only the promise of peace.

That night, she dreamt of the jogi.

In the dream, he was no longer in the park. Instead, he stood in the middle of a river, the water rising to his knees. The sky above him was a muted gold, and his voice echoed through the air.

“Why do you carry it still?” he asked.

“Carry what?” she replied, her voice trembling.

He pointed at her chest, where a faint light flickered beneath her skin. “Your question.”

“I don’t know the answer,” she said.

“You do,” he replied. And then he smiled—the same quiet, knowing smile from the park—and disappeared.

When Aditi woke, the ache in her chest was gone. She couldn’t explain why, but the morning felt lighter, the day softer. She dressed quickly and returned to the park, hoping to see the jogi again.

But he wasn’t there.

Instead, as she sat on the bench where he had been, she noticed a single saffron flower resting on the seat. It wasn’t from the gulmohar trees—those flowers were red.

She picked it up, held it to her chest, and smiled. Ham hans diye, ham chup rahe.

Sometimes, life’s answers come in silence.