The Broken Umbrella 🌂

The rain in Bhubaneswar during the monsoon or due to uninvited low pressure in the Bay of Bengal,  doesn't just fall; it claims the city. The wide avenues near Governor House turn into shimmering mirrors, and the scent of parched earth finally meeting water fills the air.

​Ishaan was a man of habits. Every Tuesday, he took the same route through Unit-9 to reach his coaching center, and every Tuesday, his umbrella, a temperamental thing with a loose rib would threaten to collapse.

​Today, the wind won. With a metallic snap, the umbrella turned inside out, leaving Ishaan stranded under the narrow concrete awning of a shuttered tea stall. He sighed, adjusting his glasses, which were already clouded with fog.

​"That umbrella looks like it’s seen better decades," a voice chuckled from the shadows of the awning.
​Ishaan turned to see a girl about his age, perched on a plastic crate. She was holding a thick, leather-bound book that looked suspiciously dry compared to the rest of the world.

​"It's a family heirloom," Ishaan joked, shaking the useless metal skeleton. "Passed down from my great-grandfather, along with his bad luck."

​Meera laughed, and it was a bright, clear sound that cut through the rain. "I'm Meera. I’m waiting for the 504 bus, which, according to my calculations, should have been here three monsoons ago."

​"I'm Ishaan. And the 504 doesn't run on Tuesdays especially when it rains," he said, leaning against the damp wall. "The driver has a 'sentimental' relationship with hot pakodas and chai at the depot."

​Meera looked at her book, then back at Ishaan. She saw the corner of a paperback sticking out of his bag, a dusty collection of Odia poetry.

​"You read?" she asked, her eyes lighting up.

​"Only when the world is too loud," Ishaan replied.

​For the next twenty minutes, the rain became a background thing. They didn't talk about their jobs or stress in life.

They talked about the best place in the city to find Dahi Bara Aludum which tastes close to the ones in Cuttack; both agreeing nothing can be compared to Dahibara in Cuttack, the hidden libraries in Old Town, and why the sea at Puri feels different every time you visit.

​When the rain finally slowed to a drizzle, the sky over Bhubaneswar turned a soft, bruised purple. A bus finally rumbled into view.

​"I have to go," Meera said, standing up. But as she stepped toward the bus, she stopped and handed him her leather-bound book. "Exchange?"

​Ishaan blinked. "But I don't know when I'll see you again to give it back."

​Meera climbed the steps of the bus, looking back over her shoulder with a wide, radiant smile. "That’s the point, Ishaan. Next Tuesday. Same broken umbrella stall. Bring me something you think I've never read."

​As the bus pulled away, Ishaan stood in the damp air, holding the warm book to his chest. The umbrella was still broken, but for the first time in months, he didn't mind the walk home in the rain at all.