It was a fiercely rainy afternoon.
Rainwater had pooled across the pavement in front of the well-known hospital, forming little streams. Passers-by went about however they could — some under umbrellas, some huddled under sheets of polythene, others just running for the hospital gate.
I lay there in front of a street vendor's stall.
All around me lay other old things — bags, watches, books, a few toys, and a handful of umbrellas.
Now and then, the vendor would pick me up to show me off.
"Sturdy umbrella, this one. Old, but still works a treat."
I stayed quiet.
I had grown old, no doubt.
But in my heart, the memory of one old man hadn't aged one bit.
Sukumar Chatterjee.
How many years had it been!
I didn't know.
The last time I'd seen him was at that tea stall. He'd left me standing by the table and walked away.
And after passing through so many hands, look where I'd ended up today!
Perhaps this was where my story would end, too.
Perhaps some stranger would come along and buy me.
Right at that moment, I saw an elderly man approaching from a distance.
At first, I didn't recognise him.
His hair had gone far greyer than before.
Lines of age on his face.
Thick spectacles on his eyes.
His pace no longer as brisk as it once was.
And yet, that familiar way he walked...
Somewhere deep inside me, an old bell seemed to ring.
Could it be... Sukumar Babu?
Slowly, he came and stood in front of the vendor's stall.
He stood hunched a little, trying to keep out of the rain.
The vendor held me up.
"Take this umbrella, sir. Very sturdy. You won't get wet at all."
Sukumar Babu looked me over.
Then he reached out and took hold of me.
In that instant, I felt —
I had come home again.
His fingers ran gently over my curved wooden handle.
Once... twice...
Suddenly, his hand went still.
He brought the handle close to his eyes.
In the grey, rain-dimmed light, the two carved letters were still perfectly clear —
S.K.
He went completely still.
For a few seconds, it felt as though every sound in the world had stopped.
Not understanding what was happening, the vendor said,
"What happened, sir? You'll take it, won't you?"
Sukumar Babu gave no answer.
He just kept staring at the umbrella.
Then, very softly, he said,
"This mark here..."
He ran his finger over the two carved letters on the handle.
"I carved this myself!"
The vendor was taken aback.
"Your umbrella?"
Sukumar Babu now looked at me the way one looks at a long-lost loved one, found again after so many years.
"Yes..."
His voice grew heavy.
"This is my umbrella."
The vendor smiled a little and said,
"All the better, then! You've recognised it. Do take it."
This time, Sukumar Babu said nothing more.
He took some money out of his pocket.
He pressed into the vendor's hand more money than the man had even asked for.
The vendor said,
"Sir, you don't need to pay this much."
Sukumar Babu smiled faintly and said,
"Keep it."
Then he held me tightly in his hand.
After so many years, I was back in the grip of that hand!
He opened me up.
My old iron ribs trembled just a little.
The folds of my cloth unfurled.
And then, once again, I spread myself wide open.
Just like before.
In that same old rhythm.
Sukumar Babu stood beneath me.
Rainwater began falling on my black cloth.
Pit-a-pat... pouring down...
But this time, that sound brought me no sorrow at all.
If anything, it felt as though the rain itself were celebrating our reunion.
Sukumar Babu slowly began to walk.
After a little way, he stopped.
He looked down at my handle.
Then, with a faint smile, he said,
"So you've come back to me after all?"
I couldn't answer.
But if I could have, I might have said —
"I never wanted to leave you, Sukumar Babu. It was people who kept passing me from one hand to another. I only waited — for the day I'd be back in your hands again."
The rain was falling harder now.
But that day, it felt as though I had returned to the safest place in the whole world.
Right over Sukumar Babu's head.
In the familiar grip of his hand.
Walking with him, on the way home.
In the end, I had come back to exactly where my journey had begun, all those years ago.
That's when I understood —
some bonds need no address written on paper.
However far the world may fling them apart, some bonds always find their way back.
So many hands I had passed through!
Some had picked me up, some had bought me, some had received me as a gift, some had carried me off by mistake.
My colour had faded.
My iron ribs had grown old.
My wooden handle bore the marks of age.
But my true identity had never been lost.
Those two little letters —
S.K.
And an identity greater still —
I am Sukumar Chatterjee's umbrella.
Walking beside Sukumar Babu in the rain that day, it occurred to me —
People often think they have lost something they loved.
But perhaps that very thing is out there too, wandering the roads of the world, searching for its person all along.
And some lost things...
do, one day, truly find their way back.
Because whatever is bound by a true and honest attachment,
no matter how many hands it must pass through across this wide world, always finds its way home to its own person in the end. ☔❤️