The Last Bench

-Anaya Khan

As I climbed the stairs of the second floor of the school hallway, the first sound that greeted me was the chatter and giggle of students from the adjacent classroom. The second sound, was that of my own rising heartbeat. I glanced at my dusty shoes for a second and entered the classroom, only to notice the last bench waiting at the back of the classroom. It was pressed against the wall where the sunlight arrived late and the dust settled early. It was the perfect spot for me. I did not choose the last bench, it was the only seat left for me. The surface of the bench was carved with initials, dates, names and unfinished phrases—evidence of those who had passed through it before and learned how to belong nowhere fully. On the first day of class, other students entered the room with excitement. Bags were placed on particular spots and spaces claimed with full confidence. I realised that the choice was not made by me, it was imposed.  Slowly, my frame faded in the background and found its place in the last bench.  From the next day, the last bench waited for me and for those who either arrived late or did not have the entitlement of belonging to the upper class. The classroom looked different from last bench. The teacher's voice faded in volume until it reached me, the blackboard felt distant and letters blurred. Even the roll call was divisive. Names were called quickly at first and answered loudly. Towards the end, the teacher's voice slowed down.

"Last bench?" she said while turning the page of the attendance register.

"Yes ma'am", I replied.

The last bench was not a place of resistance, it was a place of quiet adjustment. The people who sat there were the ones that were late, quiet, distant or already dismissed by the upper-class society. As time passed, I stopped trying to move, the place became familiar to me. I shared this bench with various people across the year, all of them with their own stories and reasons for why they were chosen by the last bench. Hamid, who worked part-time in the evening and came to class half asleep; Neha who left school midway because her family got her married; Another student who dropped out due to lack of resources to pay the fees. We exchanged half-written notes and sometimes food, not out of friendship but out of necessity. The last bench was not a place of competition, but cooperation to manage the present without losing the will to live.

At home, my amma asked about school as she served rice topped with lentils. I told her it was fine, and she nodded with relief shining in her eyes. I could not bring myself to break her hopes. Education was supposed to be the solution to get out of this poverty, not another cause for worry.

Next morning, the principal announced a new rule during assembly. "There will be no back benches from now on. We believe in equality, " he said. The very next day, the last bench was gone. The space it had occupied looked empty, as if something was removed before it was ready to leave. I stood at the back with Hamid, unsure and confused.

"Why are you both standing? There is a lot of space”, the teacher said, so we moved towards the benches in front.

"Can I sit here?" I hesitated and asked softly. It felt weird, as if I was trespassing in someone else’s territory. A girl quickly glanced at my dusty shoes and shifted her bag a little but not enough to make proper space. Regardless, I squeezed in while being careful not to touch anyone and placed my bag on my lap. I turned and looked at Hamid sitting on another bench, one of his legs dangling outside the bench due to lack of space. I ignored it and looked back at the board. At first, it seemed clear, the words were understandable and I could hear the teacher's voice clearly. I told myself this was important, this was equality. But why did this improvement not feel welcoming? When I asked for notes, the girl beside me hesitated. When I leaned to write, the boy behind me muttered that I was blocking the view. During lunch breaks, nobody even glanced at my lunch. Conversations stopped when I joined the bench and whispers increased. No one said anything rude openly. That was the problem. There was nothing to respond to, fight about or defend myself against. Only subtle gestures reminding me that I was an intruder. In the next few days, more of us from the back tried to come early. We smiled often, apologized too quickly and took up as little space as possible.  Still, we did not fit.

During lunch breaks, front-benchers stayed and giggled while sharing lunches. Meanwhile us last-benchers occupied the place near the window with our tiffin boxes.

"This was supposed to be better," Hamid said while munching the chapati with sliced onions.

"I guess," I replied, wondering whether sitting on the floor would look improper. May be improper but at least not unwelcoming. Teachers seemed satisfied as they were convinced that everyone was now equal. But equality, I realized had only changed our position, not our place.

The next morning when I arrived early, my eyes noticed the faint outline of the last bench on the floor at the back. Dust had piled up unevenly there, tracing a clear shape. I placed my bag down and sat on the floor within that outline. The floor was dirty and cold yet comforting. After a moment, Hamid joined me. Then Pooja came and sat beside. We all simply sat where we used to belong.

"What are you doing back there ?" The teacher asked rigidly as soon as she entered the classroom.

"There aren't enough seats and we don't fit in the front" I said steadily. The classroom fell silent. Some students shifted uncomfortably, some looked embarrassed and some annoyed. The teacher stared at us for a moment and then turned back to the board to continue the class.

We sat on the floor for the next three days. Our knees ached and backs felt numb, but no one moved. Sitting there was less tiring than pretending to be comfortable in a place we did not belong. On the fourth day, a bench was placed at the back. It was not the same, but more narrow and rough. We sat on it quietly. Everything else was the same as before. We were still the last names on the register, we still did not hear the teacher clearly yet the space we occupied was acknowledged. I understood then, the margin is not erased and equality is not implemented just by removing the last bench. That had only made them harder to see. Asking us to adjust in another space means asking us to disappear. The last bench did not make us unequal, instead it revealed the uncomfortable truth that inequality existed in people's minds. When I sit on the last bench now, it does not feel forceful but a choice. I have become aware of the way I enter the room, how I place my bag and how I grab my seat. I sit there each day, because it is a space which feels earned, an acknowledgement and something real in a room that pretends it treats everyone equally.

About the Author:

Anaya Khan is a final-year student pursuing a Master's degree in English at the University of Lucknow. She is an aspiring writer and explores the emotional landscape and inner world of human mind. Her writing involves reflective narratives to examine the concepts and limitations which are often overlooked or dismissed as insignificant.