Raining under my umbrella

So what if you have to deal with a little bit of rain if you have to get your weekly shopping done? Ok... So you didn’t anticipate it and you step out and you feel the drizzle.

You contemplate if the drizzle is worthy of carrying an umbrella. After all you are from India and more so from a part of India that is blessed with rain almost all year through, so much so that it becomes a part of your life- like morning tea.

People don’t stop to consider if it’s raining. My aunt would forget her handbag, her husband and her children- but never her umbrella.

So I think all this and get quite wet. The drops fall slowly but surely. And I don’t know what rules apply to a wet passport and I don’t want to risk what I really do not know. So I walk back inside after opening two doors and look for the umbrella that came with the house.

Tiny umbrellas are the latest in India I heard. And I am not too pleased with the only offer I have. My grandpa had a better one… but well, enough of all this complaining. The shops close early here.

So I walk down, armed with an umbrella that can house an entire family- a conservative, listening to the government and investing in condoms family I mean.

Rain anywhere is beautiful.

In front of me walks an old lady; wispy white hair and all…

The drops glisten on her cobwebby hair…

I think of home and an incident of rain-kindness.

And pay it forward.

I walk forward and pause when my steps rhyme with hers. Slow and small… The edge of the umbrella moves sidewise, making her a part of my life of a few steps.

She looks surprised. Startled, I must confess.

Smile- the first language we have in common.

And we walk along. When it comes to the bus stop that she must get off, she touches my arm that holds the handle.

Touch- the second language we have in common.

That’s where I leave her, under the canopy of the bus stop at the corner of the street.

I hope I made her a good story to tell someone who would care to hear.

Its time to close the umbrella.