Chapter 3 – Cartoons, Benches, and Unspoken Promises

 

            Morning arrived the way it always did…without announcement, without apology. The school building stood quiet for a few minutes before the first bell, its long corridors breathing in the pale sunlight. Dust motes floated lazily near the windows, as if they too had woken late. The benches outside the classrooms were still cool from the night, their wooden surfaces bearing scratches carved by years of restless hands and unguarded boredom.

            Kamal arrived early that day.

            He did not know why.

            He placed his bag carefully on the bench near the banyan tree, the one whose roots had grown like frozen waves into the ground. From there, the entire courtyard was visible…the hand pump at the corner, the notice board with curling edges, the faded lines painted for morning assembly. He sat down, elbows on knees, eyes pretending to examine the sky while quietly watching the gate.

            He told himself he was waiting for no one.

            Yet every time footsteps echoed from beyond the iron bars, his heart leaned forward.

            The gate creaked open again.

            A group of boys rushed in, laughing too loudly, their shoes scattering gravel. Kamal looked away. Then the sound came…the softer rhythm of steps, unhurried, almost thoughtful.

            She entered carrying her bag loosely, hair tied in a way that never stayed neat for long. She paused at the gate for a moment, adjusting the strap on her shoulder, blinking against the sunlight as if the day had surprised her.

            Kamal felt something inside him loosen.

            She had arrived.

            She spotted him before he could look away. Her lips curved into a small smile…not loud, not intentional, but genuine enough to feel like it belonged only to him. She walked over and sat on the same bench, leaving just enough space to say she noticed him, but not enough to say she feared closeness.

            “You came early,” she said.

            “So did you,” Kamal replied, immediately regretting the simplicity of his words.

            She shrugged. “I had nothing else to do.”

            That was not true, and they both knew it. Childhood had always been full of things to do…games to invent, arguments to start, dreams to exaggerate. Yet here they were, choosing the quiet bench under the banyan tree instead.

            She opened her bag and pulled out a folded magazine, its edges worn, its cover creased by repeated handling. Colorful characters peeked through the folds.

            Kamal’s eyes widened. “Is that the new one?”

            She nodded proudly. “My cousin sent it from the city.”

            He leaned closer, forgetting the space between them. “Can I see?”

            She hesitated for half a second…the kind of hesitation that pretends to be careful but is really about importance. Then she handed it over.

            “Careful,” she said. “The last page is torn.”

            Kamal held the magazine like a sacred object. The pages smelled faintly of ink and something sweeter…perhaps the hands that had turned them so many times. He flipped through slowly, absorbing each illustration, each exaggerated expression.

            “They always win in the end,” he said, pointing at a fearless cartoon hero. “Even when everything goes wrong.”

            She rested her chin on her palm. “That’s why I like them. Real people don’t always win.”

            He thought about that longer than expected.

            “Do you think cartoons feel scared?” he asked.

            She smiled. “They must. But they don’t stop.”

            The bell rang then, sharp and commanding, slicing through the stillness. They both sighed, not loudly, but enough to hear each other.

            “Give it back after class,” she said. “Promise.”

            “I promise,” he replied, surprising himself with how serious he sounded.

***

            The classroom smelled of chalk and old books. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, landing unevenly across desks arranged in disciplined rows. Kamal took his seat, the magazine hidden carefully inside his bag like a secret heartbeat.

            Throughout the lesson, his attention drifted…not toward the window, not toward the blackboard, but toward the idea that something borrowed was waiting for him. He imagined the magazine tucked safely beside his notebook, imagined her trust resting quietly within its pages.

            When the teacher called his name, he startled.

            “Yes?” he answered, standing halfway before realizing he had no idea what was asked.

            A few students laughed. The teacher sighed and waved him down.

            Kamal sat, cheeks warm, but his thoughts returned stubbornly to the bench outside, to the banyan tree, to the way she had looked at him when she handed over the magazine.

            This, he realized vaguely, was new.

            During the break, he found her near the water tap, laughing with two other girls. She saw him approaching and subtly stepped away from them, as if drawn by a magnet neither of them acknowledged.

            “Did you read it?” she asked.

            “I tried,” he said. “But the bell came too soon.”

            She held out her hand. He placed the magazine back into her palm.

            “You didn’t bend the pages,” she observed.

            “I wouldn’t.”

            “I know.”

            The way she said it made his chest feel strangely full.

            They walked toward the back of the building, where the noise softened and the shadows grew longer. An old stone bench sat there, half-hidden by shrubs that had grown wild without permission.

            “This bench is broken,” she said, tapping one end with her foot.

            “It still holds,” Kamal replied, sitting down carefully.

            She joined him, testing the balance before settling.

            From there, the classroom windows looked distant, like something from another world. Birds hopped along the boundary wall, arguing loudly about invisible matters.

            She opened the magazine again, pointing at a panel where a group of characters sat together, sharing a single loaf of bread.

            “They look happy,” she said.

            “They’re together,” Kamal replied.

            She looked at him then, not quickly, not curiously, but steadily, as if measuring a thought she had not yet named.

            “Do you ever think,” she asked softly, “that some things are only meant to be shared?”

            He swallowed. “Like cartoons?”

            She smiled. “Like time.”

            The bell rang again, calling them back. They stood up reluctantly, brushing dust from their clothes.

            “Same bench tomorrow?” she asked.

            He nodded. “Same bench.”

            It felt like an agreement, small but unbreakable.

***

            Days followed that promise without questioning it.

            Every morning, the banyan tree waited for them. Sometimes Kamal arrived first, sometimes she did. Sometimes neither spoke for several minutes, content to sit and listen to the school wake up around them.

            The cartoon magazine was soon joined by others…older ones, borrowed ones, ones missing covers or endings. They passed them back and forth, debating favorite characters, inventing new endings when the originals felt unsatisfying.

            “This one should have apologized,” she insisted once, pointing at a stubborn hero.

            “He never apologizes,” Kamal argued. “That’s his nature.”

            “That doesn’t make it right.”

            Kamal considered this. “Maybe he didn’t know how.”

            She closed the magazine slowly. “Then someone should have taught him.”

            The words stayed with him long after the page was turned.

            Sometimes they spoke about school, sometimes about nothing at all. She told him about her fear of speaking in front of the class, about how her voice trembled even when she knew the answer.

            Kamal listened quietly, nodding.

            “You don’t laugh,” she said once, surprised.

            “Why would I?”

            “Others do.”

            He frowned. “They’re wrong.”

            She studied his face, as if deciding whether to believe him.

            “You’re different,” she said finally.

            He did not ask how.

***

            One afternoon, clouds gathered suddenly, dark and impatient. The air grew heavy, pressing against skin and breath alike. The teachers hurried students through lessons, sensing the coming rain.

            By the time the final bell rang, the sky had cracked open.

            Rain poured down without restraint, drenching the courtyard, flooding the pathways, blurring the edges of everything familiar. Students ran for shelter, laughter mixing with shouts and the splatter of water.

            Kamal stood under the veranda, watching the rain dance on the ground. He felt a presence beside him and turned.

            She was there, hugging her bag close, eyes bright.

            “My home is far,” she said. “I’ll get soaked.”

            He looked at the rain, then at the path leading out. “We can wait.”

            She nodded.

            They sat on the stone bench, rain drumming on the roof above them. The world narrowed to the space they shared, to the sound of water and breath.

            She opened her bag and pulled out a cartoon strip she had torn carefully from a magazine.

            “For you,” she said.

            He stared. “You said it was your favorite.”

            “It is,” she replied. “That’s why I’m giving it.”

            He accepted it with trembling fingers. “I don’t know what to say.”

            “You don’t have to.”

            Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and thoughtful.

            “I’ll keep it safe,” he said.

            “I know.”

            Rain slowed eventually, turning gentle, almost apologetic. When it stopped, the sky felt lighter, as if something heavy had been confessed.

            They walked toward the gate together, shoes squelching softly.

            “Tomorrow,” she said, before turning away.

            “Tomorrow,” he echoed.

            He watched her leave, holding the folded strip tightly, realizing with sudden clarity that waiting had become easier than not waiting at all.

***

            The realization arrived quietly, without ceremony.

            One morning, she did not come.

            Kamal sat on the bench longer than usual, telling himself she was late, telling himself there were reasons. The bell rang. He waited through it. When the courtyard emptied, something hollow settled inside him.

            In class, his eyes wandered to the empty seat where she usually sat. The teacher’s voice faded into a distant echo.

            At lunch, he carried the cartoon strip in his pocket, unfolding it again and again, tracing the lines with his thumb.

            “She’s absent,” someone said casually behind him.

            Kamal did not turn.

            The day dragged, stretched thin by worry. When the final bell rang, he walked past the banyan tree without stopping.

            The next day, she returned.

            She looked tired, her smile slower to appear.

            “Where were you?” he asked, the words rushing out before he could soften them.

            She blinked, surprised by his urgency. “I was sick.”

            “Oh.”

            Silence filled the space between them.

            “I missed you,” she said suddenly, almost whispering.

            He looked at her, truly looked, and felt something shift permanently.

            “I waited,” he replied.

            Her eyes softened.

            They sat on the bench, not opening any magazines, not speaking much. The unspoken promise between them felt heavier now, more real.

            Childhood had not ended.

            But it had begun to change.

            And somewhere between cartoons passed like treasures, benches worn smooth by shared silence, and promises never spoken aloud, innocence leaned gently toward affection…quiet, fragile, and undeniable.

***

            The days after Monica’s absence carried a quiet weight.

            Nothing visible had changed. The banyan tree still stood with the same patience. The benches still bore the scars of careless carvings. The bell still rang on time, demanding attention. And yet, for Kamal, the school no longer felt arranged the way it once had. Something invisible had shifted…like a familiar tune played in a different key.

            That morning, Kamal reached the bench first.

            He sat with his hands folded, eyes tracing the thick roots of the banyan tree as if they held answers. When Monica arrived, he noticed everything…the slight hesitation in her step, the way she adjusted her bag twice before sitting, the way her eyes searched for him even before she fully crossed the courtyard.

            “You’re early,” Monica said.

            “You’re on time,” Kamal replied.

            She smiled softly and sat beside him.

            Between them lay a cartoon magazine, unopened.

            A group of younger students ran past, shouting, chasing nothing important. Kamal watched them disappear behind the building.

            “We used to run like that,” he said.

            Monica nodded. “Without thinking.”

            “Without noticing,” he added.

            She turned to him. “Noticing what, Kamal?”

            He hesitated. Childhood had not taught him how to explain feelings that arrived without permission.
“When running stopped being enough,” he finally said.

            Monica understood. She always did.

            They sat quietly, listening to the wind stir the leaves above them. A dry leaf fell onto the bench. Monica brushed it away, her fingers resting on the wood longer than necessary.

            “Kamal,” she said softly, saying his name the way one says something important, “do you ever feel like school has become… smaller?”

            He smiled faintly. “Or maybe we’ve grown.”

            “Too fast,” she murmured.

            He didn’t disagree.

***

            That afternoon brought an unexpected change.

The teacher announced new seating arrangements…temporary, she claimed, though everyone knew such words rarely kept their meaning. Kamal felt a tightening in his chest as names were called.

            Then Monica’s name followed his.

            A few students exchanged looks. Someone whispered something half-amused, half-curious. Kamal felt heat rise to his ears, but when he glanced at Monica, she appeared calm…almost relieved.

            They sat side by side for the first time.

            Their elbows brushed accidentally.

            Both froze.

            “Sorry,” Kamal whispered.

            “It’s okay,” Monica whispered back.

            Neither moved away.

            The lesson blurred. Kamal noticed the gentle slope of Monica’s handwriting, the way she paused before certain words as if listening to them. When his pen slipped from his hand, she passed him hers without looking. Their fingers touched…light, unplanned, unmistakable.

            It lasted less than a second.

            It echoed much longer.

            After class, Monica leaned slightly toward him. “You forgot your pen.”

            “I didn’t,” Kamal said honestly. “I just wanted yours.”

            She laughed, surprised, covering her mouth. “You’re strange, Kamal.”

            “Only with you.”

            The words escaped before fear could stop them.

            Monica didn’t tease him. She lowered her gaze, her smile thoughtful, something gentle unfolding behind it.

***

            That evening, the corridor stayed alive longer than usual.

            The art teacher had announced a notice board project and asked for volunteers. Kamal stayed without thinking.

            Monica stayed too.

            They sat on the floor near the wall, paper and colors scattered around them. Old cartoon magazines were sacrificed for borders and shapes. Monica cut carefully while Kamal held the paper steady.

            “Don’t move,” she warned.

            “I’m not.”

            “You always do.”

            “I promise I won’t.”

            She paused, scissors hovering mid-air. “You promise too easily.”

            Kamal met her eyes. “Only when I mean it.”

            She resumed cutting.

            As dusk slipped in quietly, the corridor emptied. The building seemed to belong only to them now. Their laughter softened, their voices lowered, as if the walls were listening.

            “Do you think promises change people?” Monica asked suddenly.

            Kamal thought for a moment. “I think they reveal who we already are.”

            She smiled. “I like that.”

            When they stepped back to look at the finished board, it glowed brighter than the corridor itself.

            “We did well,” Monica said.

            “We did,” Kamal agreed.

            Near the banyan tree, they slowed instinctively.

            “My mother worries when I’m late,” Monica said.

            “So does mine,” Kamal replied, though it wasn’t entirely true.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, uncertainty threading her voice.

            “Yes,” he said quickly. Then softer, “I always do.”

            Her smile deepened.

***

            That night, Kamal lay awake longer than usual.

            The cartoon strip Monica had given him rested beneath his pillow. He unfolded it repeatedly, not for the story, but because it carried her presence. He realized something then…waiting had become natural. Her absence hurt more than scraped knees ever had.

            Childhood curiosity had crossed a line.

            Quietly.

            Without permission.

***

            The next morning, rain hovered in the sky, undecided. Kamal reached the bench early, calm in a way that felt new.

            Monica arrived, slightly breathless.

            “I thought you wouldn’t come,” she said.

            “Why?” he asked.

            “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Some things feel too good to remain the same.”

            Kamal stood up, facing her. “Then we won’t let them stay the same.”

            Monica searched his face. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean… even if everything changes, I’ll still sit here.”

            The banyan leaves stirred softly.

            “So will I,” Monica said.

            They sat together, closer than before, not touching, yet deeply connected.

***

            During recess that day, voices interrupted their quiet world.

            “You two are always together,” a boy said loudly, pretending indifference.

            “Cartoons are just excuses,” another laughed.

            Kamal felt anger rise…but Monica spoke first.

            “We like cartoons,” she said calmly. “Is that a problem?”

            The boys faltered.

            “No,” one muttered. “Just saying.”

            “Then say it somewhere else,” Monica replied.

            They walked away.

            “You didn’t have to do that,” Kamal said.

            “Yes, I did,” she replied. “I don’t like people deciding stories for me.”

            She reached into her bag and took out the cartoon strip.

            “I want this back,” she said.

            His heart tightened. “Did I do something wrong?”

            “No,” she said quickly. “I want you to return it to me.”

            He did.

            Monica folded it carefully, tore it in half, and handed one piece back.

            “Now we both keep it,” she said.

            “Neither of us loses it,” Kamal whispered.

***

            The final day before the short school break arrived too soon.

            Excitement filled the air, but Kamal felt an unfamiliar heaviness.

            Breaks once meant freedom.

            Now they meant distance.

            They sat on their bench longer than usual.

            “I’ll miss this,” Monica said.

            “So will I.”

            “Will you still come here after the break?” she asked.

            “Yes,” Kamal said without hesitation. “Every day.”

            “Even if I’m late?”

            “I’ll wait.”

            “Even if I don’t come?”

            He swallowed. “I’ll still sit.”

            Monica’s eyes shone. “Then I’ll come.”

            The bell rang.

            Before leaving, Monica placed her hand briefly over his.

            No one noticed.

            Except Kamal.

            As she walked away, he felt the torn half of the cartoon strip in his pocket and understood something clearly for the first time:

            This was no longer just childhood.

            It was the beginning of something that would remember him long after benches were empty and cartoons forgotten.