The Bench Under the Banyan Tree

Every Sunday morning, 10-year-old Ayaan and his father, Imran, would walk down the dusty path behind their home in the village and sit on the old wooden bench under the banyan tree. It was their little ritual—no phones, no distractions—just the two of them, and stories.

“Baba, tell me that story again,” Ayaan would say, swinging his legs.

Imran would smile, eyes twinkling. “The one about the paper boat?”

Ayaan nodded eagerly.

Imran began, “When you were just three, there was a flood. Our house was surrounded by water. You didn’t understand what was happening. You just found an old newspaper and started folding it into a boat. You floated it in the floodwater and clapped as if it was a toy. I was scared that day… but you made me laugh. In that moment, your tiny paper boat reminded me that even in storms, joy can float.”

Ayaan never got tired of hearing it.

Years passed. The walks grew fewer. School, friends, homework—life got busier. The bench grew older. One day, Imran fell ill. The strong man with calloused hands and endless stories was now tired, quieter.

On his 18th birthday, Ayaan sat next to his father on the same bench. Imran handed him a small, folded piece of paper—it was a boat.

“I kept this,” he whispered. “To remind you… even when life feels like a flood, remember the boat.”

Imran passed away that winter.

Months later, Ayaan left the village for university. But every time he visited home, he would sit on the bench, unfold the paper boat, and talk aloud as if his father were still beside him.

People often saw him there, smiling through tears. The boy who once listened, now telling his own stories—to the wind, to the banyan tree… and to the memory of a father’s love.