Once I left Sukumar Babu's hand, it felt like I no longer had any fixed address in life.
The hand I had rested easy in for years — that hand was gone, and now I was moving along with a complete stranger.
Weaving through the market crowd, the man held me open over his head, walking fast.
He wore an old, faded shirt and torn sandals on his feet. From the way he walked, it was clear he knew the city's back lanes well.
As the rain eased a little, he closed me up and slung me over his shoulder.
Then, leaving the crowds behind, he turned into a narrow lane.
I had no idea where I was headed.
After a while, we reached an old market on the outskirts of town.
It wasn't an ordinary market.
Old things far outnumbered new ones here. Broken radios, old clocks, used bags, rusted iron scraps, old books — you name it, it was there!
The man set me down in front of a shop and told the shopkeeper,
"Want this umbrella? Good stuff."
The shopkeeper took me in his hands and turned me this way and that.
My black cloth was still in fairly good shape. All eight iron ribs were still sturdy too.
After some haggling, he finally handed the man twenty rupees.
That was when I first understood —
my worth had just been fixed at twenty rupees.
But then, can the value of a memory ever really be measured by a price tag?
Were all those years spent with Sukumar Babu really worth just twenty rupees?
I stayed silent.
That very day, a college-going boy bought me.
He seemed quite pleased, holding me in his hand.
The shopkeeper said,
"This umbrella's quite sturdy, mind you. It'll last you a good long while."
The boy smiled.
"That's exactly what I want. Buy a new one and it falls apart in a month."
Then he tucked me alongside his bag and walked off.
My new life began at college.
Every morning, the boy took me along when he left home.
The bus stop, the roads, the college corridors — I stayed with him everywhere.
When it rained, he'd hold me open over his head.
On sunny days, he'd sometimes just leave me hanging by his bag.
A few of his friends found me quite amusing.
One day, one of them said,
"This umbrella of yours looks older than your father, man!"
Another laughed and said,
"Will this umbrella keep off the rain, or is it holding up history?"
Everyone burst out laughing.
The boy laughed too.
I didn't mind at all.
Because I knew that even if I bore the marks of age, I was still every bit as sturdy.
Still, once night fell, I would feel low.
While the boy slept, I lay quietly in a corner of the room.
That's when I would think of Sukumar Babu.
The sound of his slow footsteps.
The familiar touch of his hand as he folded me up.
That corner of the verandah at his house.
And the sweet smell of the toffees he kept in his pocket.
Sometimes I would wonder —
had Sukumar Babu gone looking for me?
Had he gone back to the tea stall and been startled not to find me there?
Perhaps he'd asked the shopkeeper —
"Where's my umbrella?"
Perhaps he'd even waited around for a while.
And then maybe gone home and blamed only himself.
I didn't know.
I only wished, deep down, that one day I might feel the touch of his hand again.
But life doesn't run according to anyone's wishes.
A few months went by.
One evening, after college let out, the boy was heading to the bus stop. The sky had been clear, but dark clouds suddenly gathered in the distance.
Before anyone could react, a fierce storm broke out.
The boy opened me up and held me over his head.
The wind was blowing so hard that it became difficult to hold me steady.
I fought with all I had to stay grounded.
But suddenly —
a tremendous gust of wind!
My handle slipped clean out of the boy's hand.
I was swept up into the sky.
Once... twice... thrice...
Then the wind carried me off and dropped me onto a moving rickshaw.
The rickshaw-puller didn't notice a thing at first.
After going a little further, he glanced back and spotted me.
He stopped the rickshaw and picked me up.
Opening me up to take a look, he smiled and said,
"Well, well! Pretty sturdy, this one!"
Then he set me down at the back of the rickshaw and set off again.
That evening, he took me home with him.
His little daughter came running with delight the moment she saw me.
"Baba! An umbrella!"
The rickshaw-puller laughed and said,
"Yes, I brought it for you."
The girl wrapped both her arms around me.
In that moment, after so long, I finally felt —
perhaps I'd found a home again.
But I had no idea that my time with this little girl wouldn't last very long either.
Because the road ahead of me was still a long one.
And another strange turn lay waiting up ahead...