The Bench of Whispers #MonologuePoem #PoeticMonologue

(An elderly woman, ELARA, with silver threads woven through her dark hair, sits on a weathered park bench in Delhi. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows, and the air carries the distant calls of vendors. She is turned slightly towards the empty space beside her, her hands clasped gently in her lap.)

Rohan… the air has that certain stillness again, doesn’t it? The kind that settles just before the evening prayers begin to drift from the mosques. You always said it was the city breathing out its day. Remember? You’d take a long, exaggerated sigh right here, on this very bench, and declare, “Ah, Delhi exhales!” Made me laugh every single time, you did. Such a silly man.

The pigeons haven’t forgotten us, have they? See, there’s that bold one, the speckled grey with the knowing eye. He used to land right on your knee, pecking at the crumbs you’d always sneak into your pocket. Said it was our little secret, feeding the city’s feathered folk. Now… well, now my pockets feel rather empty, don’t they? Just the weight of these old bones and a few loose coins. Not quite the same generosity, is it?

Look over there, Rohan. The children are still chasing after those bright orange butterflies. They flit and tease, just out of reach. You always admired their persistence, those little ones. Said it reminded you of your own relentless pursuit of that impossible promotion, all those years ago. Remember the day you finally got it? You came straight here, bought a whole bag of jalebis from that vendor near the gate, and we sat here, sticky fingers and triumphant smiles, watching the world go by. Such a happy day.

Sometimes… sometimes I think I can still feel the warmth of your hand right here, on mine. Especially when the breeze picks up like this, a little cool, a little sharp. Your hand was always so strong, so sure. It felt like… like holding onto the anchor of the world. Now, it’s just the smooth, cool wood of the bench. Solid, yes, but… different.

Do you remember that argument we had, right here, about the color of the bougainvillea? You insisted it was fuchsia, and I swore it was magenta. Such trivial things we used to bicker about, weren’t they? Now… now the bougainvillea blooms in a riot of color, and there’s no one to argue with. Funny, isn’t it? How the things that seemed so important then…

That old beggar woman, she still comes by with her tattered shawl. You always gave her a few rupees, Rohan. Said everyone deserves a little dignity. I try to remember, you know? But sometimes… sometimes my own pockets feel a bit thin these days. It’s harder now, doing things alone.

The sun is starting to dip below those ancient trees. They stand so tall and proud, haven’t they? Seen so many seasons, so many joys and sorrows unfold beneath their branches. Just like us, in a way. We had our seasons, didn’t we? The bright spring of our early years, the warm summer of raising our children, the gentle autumn of watching them grow… and then… then came the winter.

(Elara pauses, her gaze drifting towards the setting sun. Her voice becomes softer, tinged with a deeper emotion.)

You always said you’d wait for me, Rohan. On the other side. You promised, right here on this bench, under that very tree with the gnarled trunk. You squeezed my hand so tight, and your eyes… your eyes held such a fierce certainty.

(She looks down at her lap, a faint smile touching her lips.)

Well… I saw him today, you know. That young man who looks just like you did, all those years ago, when we first met. Same mischievous glint in his eyes, same way he tilted his head when he was thinking. He was walking with a woman, her hand tucked into his arm, laughing at something she said.

(Her smile fades slightly, a hint of sadness returning to her voice.)

For a moment… just for a fleeting moment… I thought… I thought it was you. Come back. Just for a visit.

(She looks up again, her gaze now fixed on the empty space beside her, a quiet resolve in her eyes.)

But it wasn’t you, was it? It was just a trick of the light, a whisper of memory in the evening air. And you… you wouldn’t come back. Not really. Because you’re waiting, aren’t you? And… and I realize now… you’re not just waiting for me, Rohan. You’re waiting with me. Right here. On this bench of whispers. Until it’s my turn to exhale one last time.

#TheBenchOfWhispers #MonologuePoem #DramaticMonologue #ProsePoem #PoetryOfLoss #LoveAndMemory #PoetryOfGrief #ElderlyVoice #NostalgiaInVerse #DelhiStories #ParkBenchTales #WhispersOfThePast #PoeticMonologue #EmotionalWriting