The Bench by the Road

It was a Sunday afternoon when I saw him again—sitting on the same old bench near the bus stop, beneath the shade of a neem tree. He looked older, thinner, but that gentle curve in his smile hadn’t changed.

I hadn’t seen Baba Yaqoob in nearly seven years. Back then, I was a teenager who used to walk that road every day to college. He was always there—on that same bench—with his walking stick, worn-out slippers, and a pocket radio playing faint ghazals.

He never asked for money. Never stopped anyone. But everyone knew him. Some called him "Pagal Baba," others "Radio Baba." For me, he was just Yaqoob Baba—the man who used to nod at me every day and sometimes say, "Padh likh ke kuch ban ja, beta."

The first time we actually spoke, I was in a terrible mood. I had failed a math test. Angry and tired, I sat on the bench next to him. I didn’t expect him to speak, but he did.

"Sab kuch theek ho jaata hai, jab dil saaf ho aur niyat sachi," he said without even looking at me.

I looked at him, surprised. I hadn’t told anyone anything. But somehow, he knew.

That became a habit. Every few days, I’d sit beside him. He would tell me little things. Not long stories, just small pieces of his life—how he once worked in a post office, how he lost his wife early, and how his only son left one day and never came back.

"Zindagi rukti nahi kisi ke liye," he’d say, smiling.

Then, suddenly, he disappeared.

I asked around. The fruit vendor said he hadn’t seen him. The tea seller said he might have gone to live with relatives. But nobody really knew. And slowly, life moved on.

I graduated. Got a job. Moved to a bigger city. But every time I visited my hometown, I glanced at that bench—always empty.

Until today.

I walked slowly toward him, heart pounding strangely, like I was meeting a forgotten part of myself.

“Baba…?”

He turned his head. His eyes were weaker, but he recognized me.

“You came back,” he smiled.

I sat beside him, just like old times. He didn’t ask where I had been. Didn’t ask what I did. Just sat there, smiling, as if nothing had changed.

I offered him tea from the nearby stall. He took a sip and said, “You look tired.”

I nodded. I was tired. Tired of deadlines, fake friendships, and the noise of city life. Tired of pretending everything was fine.

We didn’t talk much. Just sat.

Then he said, “You know, this bench… it listens. It remembers more than people do. All the tears, laughter, silence… it keeps it all.”

That sentence hit me harder than I expected.

He then reached into his kurta pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “I wrote this when I thought I was dying,” he chuckled. “But I’m still here. I want you to keep it.”

I hesitated, then accepted it.

When I got home, I opened the paper.

It said:

> If you ever feel lost, come sit by the road. Not to escape the world, but to remember who you are without it.

— Baba Yaqoob

Tears filled my eyes. Not from sadness, but from the deep truth in his words.

The next time I visited the city, the bench was empty again. And it has remained that way since.

But now, I don’t walk past it. I sit there. Even if for five minutes. I let the world slow down. I breathe. I remember a man who had lost everything, yet gave wisdom for free. A man whose presence was small but whose impact was endless.