There was an unusual silence in Mr Rathwa’s household. Unusual because silence was never a part of this household, at least as long as Mr Rathwa was alive.
Mr Rathwa was a man of talkative nature and everyone liked to hear him. If people passed from the corridor of Mr Rathwa’s apartment at the right hour, they would be sure to know he was there in his home speaking on the phone.
Mr Rathwa loved people and people loved him. But sadly, what eventually comes to us all came to him as well, he passed away one day. He was in the park looking at flowers when the heart attack came. He was found lifeless, on a park bench, his black umbrella was lying on the floor.
Now, the umbrella was lying on the central table of the drawing room with Mr Rathwa’s children sitting around.
“Should have cremated it along with him,” said Mr Rathwa’s daughter Arunima. She was married and had come with her son from another state to attend her father’s last rites.
“I couldn’t, he would forget his wallet and even eyeglasses when he went out but never the umbrella. I wanted it to be with us,” said Hitesh, Mr Rathwa’s elder son who used to live abroad but came back to the country to live with his father upon his mother passing away. Everyone tried to convince him against doing so but he did not listen to anyone on the matter.
“You are always too sentimental. What would happen after us? Will our children take care of it? It will remain lying somewhere and one day someone will just throw it out, as is the end of everything non-living,” said Utsav, Mr Rathwa’s younger son who had come from abroad.
“I will keep it in good condition for as long as I live and that is the end of the discussion,” said Hitesh and no one said anything else regarding the topic.
The umbrella was special in many ways, Mr Rathwa kept it with great care. It also worked as a cane in the older years of Mr Rathwa.
“This umbrella marked the point of success in my life,” Mr Rathwa had once told at a family gathering, “My father made a decent living but he had a drinking problem which often left us with nothing. Then my father passed away and we were without money or any clue of what to do next. Me and my two sisters, we started working early at whatever wage the work was available at.
My sisters were married off and me and my mother once again found ourselves with no money and two less earning members. There was no way my earnings could support the household. Then one day this umbrella arrived, I had forgotten about it. It was the prize of a poetry competition. I had read about it in a newspaper and wrote a poem and sent it. I was happy, I could sell this premium quality umbrella for a good price and I would have if not for the paper which fell out of the package. The newspaper would pay me to write a poem for them once every week.
… and I wrote poetry not only every week but, every day, I got a book published, it didn’t sell well but it created a base for my next book to succeed. And rest is history.”
Hitesh recalled it vividly in his mind and then he spoke, “Well we never did have a lot of wealth until all three of us siblings started working as well, but I will never forget those days when father walked me to school in the rain, with the umbrella open over our heads. Laughing and talking we would go. He did have a lot to say, more than what many father’s have to say to their children and maybe one day I will leave the car behind and walk my daughter to school in the rain with the umbrella above our heads and there will be an exchange of many words to make the memory more special.”
Written by Anuran Chatterji
Shelter of Memories
Early Morning Memories 
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