Part 1: The Bench by the Lake (John’s Story)

My name is John Fernandes. I’m 72. And I’ve lost count of how long I’ve been alive without really living.

These days, I don’t carry much—neither in my hands nor in my heart. There isn’t much to look forward to. I eat, I sleep, I sit, I irritate people. That’s what a purposeless life does to a man—it sharpens his bitterness and dulls everything else.

This morning felt like most others, only heavier. Like I was done waiting for things to change. So I walked out—no plan, no destination. Just a whisper inside that said, “Enough.”

The lake isn’t far. It’s the greenest part of our old town—one of the few places untouched by noise and glass. Saritha and I used to visit often. Especially on Sundays, when she was still strong. Before the chemo. Before everything became about tubes and tablets and slow heartbreak. She loved that lake. Said it reminded her of God’s patience.

There are a few benches lined up under tall eucalyptus trees. That smell… it still brings back her laughter. On the far side, a couple sat close, the girl resting her head on the boy’s shoulder. Near the cricket pitch, a young father was showing his son how to hold a bat. Another elderly couple sat holding hands across the water—still together.

And then there was me—alone on the middle bench.

Someone called out from behind.

“Uncle, can I sit here?”

A boy, probably ten, in a white and blue checked T-shirt and shorts.

A bright yellow plastic tiffin clutched in one hand, and a red Spider-Man water bottle swinging from the other.

He looked around, then walked up.

I nodded.

He plopped beside me, legs dangling, shoes muddy. He fidgeted with his tiffin box for a moment, then said, “I’m hungry. Are you?”

I was about to decline. But before I knew it, I nodded again.

He opened his box like he was unveiling treasure—two neatly wrapped chapatis and a small portion of golden fried potato bhaji. The smell hit me first. Then his gesture—he tore one chapati in half and handed it to me, no hesitation.

I took it.

He poured water from his bottle. “Have some, Uncle,” he said.

I drank. Why? I don’t know. But everything about this felt… right. Like I was no longer steering the moment—just floating with it.

He introduced himself. “My name is Anirudh. But everyone calls me Ani,” he said, smiling.

He did most of the talking—about school, his mummy, his best friend who cried last week because he lost a pencil.

I think I laughed a couple of times.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I did that.

There was a lightness to him—nothing forced, nothing pretentious. Just presence. Honest and whole.

We finished the food. I helped him pack the tiffin. He stood up and said, “I should go now. Mummy will shout if I’m late.”

He took a few steps away.

Suddenly, I felt a strange sadness creep in—like something warm had been pulled from me too soon. I wished—quietly, desperately—that he’d turn around.

And he did.

About ten steps away, he stopped. Turned. Looked right at me.

And smiled.

I couldn’t help it—a wide, foolish grin spread across my face.

Then—he ran back.

He hugged me. Tight. Like he’d known me forever.

I froze. And then I melted.

Tears in my eyes?

I don’t remember the last time anyone hugged me.

He said nothing more. Just waved and ran off again.

But I didn’t feel alone anymore.

The lake shimmered brighter. The birds sounded happier. Even the air seemed to hum.

I walked home—lighter than I had been in years. Maybe I was humming. Maybe even dancing a little? Who knows.

At the door, I rang the bell. My son opened it, eyes wide. He saw something had changed and asked,

“Appa, where were you? You look… good.”

I didn’t answer immediately.

He asked, “Coffee?”

I nodded.

While he was pouring coffee, I muttered—almost to myself,

“I feel better today.”

I paused. Smiled.

My son was watching me curiously.

Then I added softly,

“I met God today…”

Another pause.

“…He was much younger than I expected.”

⸻

Meanwhile…

In a small apartment across town, a boy with muddy shoes and a yellow tiffin box walked into the kitchen.

“Mummy!” he called, excited.

“You’re late again, Ani!” she said.

He sat down with a big smile on his face, ignoring her scolding.

His mother noticed something different about him.

“Where were you?” she asked again. “Did you find something?”

“Yes. I met Krishna today.”

“You know what, Mummy? He was much older than I thought.”

Then he added proudly,

“And he had the best smile in the world.”

Click to Read Part-2