Short story
1 min
The Church Window
Nirmal Bose
I had a belief.
If I left my books on the church window, if they rested there, soaking in something beyond my understanding—I would write my exam well.
My college church stood mighty at the center of the campus—firm, familiar, unshaken. It sat right along the walkway from my hostel to the college. I still remember the boys who muttered hurried prayers before exams, their fingers tracing invisible crosses on their notebooks.
Twenty years later, I returned.
Things had changed.
The old wooden benches were gone, replaced by polished ones—richer, darker in color, their texture unfamiliar. The flooring, once a simple stone surface, had been replaced with sleek granite and marble—cold, reflective, impersonal.
The murals on the walls had changed too. Where once they had been simple and open in their expression, they now felt rigid, more defined—perhaps even more exclusionary.
But the air smelled the same—aged wood, melted wax, the slow burn of incense whispering like an old prayer that refused to fade.
I walked to my favorite bench, the one near the window.
I used to sit there, looking out beyond the campus, to the hillock in the distance, where a small temple stood quietly, nestled among trees. That view had lifted me beyond religion, beyond rituals—it had given me something deeper. A sense of connection, not to any god, but to something vast and infinite.
Now, when I looked out, I couldn't see the hillock.
A tall concrete building stood in its place, eclipsing the temple entirely.
I exhaled.
I thought of that hillock, that temple.
In my college days, I used to climb that hill. From its peak, I could always see the church, standing strong among the trees.
Now, I wondered—if I climbed the hill today, would I still see the church?
I smiled, placed my hand on the wooden pew, and whispered—not a prayer, but something close.
Outside, the college bell rang—its rhythm, its tone unchanged.
At the window, a book lay open, its pages gently flapping in the wind. A boy leaned beside it, then hurried toward the college.
The books fluttered.
He too had a belief.
If I left my books on the church window, if they rested there, soaking in something beyond my understanding—I would write my exam well.
My college church stood mighty at the center of the campus—firm, familiar, unshaken. It sat right along the walkway from my hostel to the college. I still remember the boys who muttered hurried prayers before exams, their fingers tracing invisible crosses on their notebooks.
Twenty years later, I returned.
Things had changed.
The old wooden benches were gone, replaced by polished ones—richer, darker in color, their texture unfamiliar. The flooring, once a simple stone surface, had been replaced with sleek granite and marble—cold, reflective, impersonal.
The murals on the walls had changed too. Where once they had been simple and open in their expression, they now felt rigid, more defined—perhaps even more exclusionary.
But the air smelled the same—aged wood, melted wax, the slow burn of incense whispering like an old prayer that refused to fade.
I walked to my favorite bench, the one near the window.
I used to sit there, looking out beyond the campus, to the hillock in the distance, where a small temple stood quietly, nestled among trees. That view had lifted me beyond religion, beyond rituals—it had given me something deeper. A sense of connection, not to any god, but to something vast and infinite.
Now, when I looked out, I couldn't see the hillock.
A tall concrete building stood in its place, eclipsing the temple entirely.
I exhaled.
I thought of that hillock, that temple.
In my college days, I used to climb that hill. From its peak, I could always see the church, standing strong among the trees.
Now, I wondered—if I climbed the hill today, would I still see the church?
I smiled, placed my hand on the wooden pew, and whispered—not a prayer, but something close.
Outside, the college bell rang—its rhythm, its tone unchanged.
At the window, a book lay open, its pages gently flapping in the wind. A boy leaned beside it, then hurried toward the college.
The books fluttered.
He too had a belief.
نسعد بأن نشارككم جمال القصص القصيرة
We love sharing Short Stories
اختر اللغة التي تفضلها
Select a Story Collection
Select a Story Collection