Chapter 3: The Lost Umbrella
The rains arrived early that year, catching the town off guard. One moment, the sky had been a pale sheet of blue, and the next, it was swallowed whole by a blanket of thick grey clouds. Thunder rolled across the rooftops like distant drums, and raindrops began falling with a vengeance, soaking the streets, rooftops, and the red soil that turned instantly to slush.
Amrita stood under the narrow porch of the school gate, her uniform sticking to her back. Around her, students huddled in clusters, their umbrellas forming a patchwork of colours—reds, blues, checkered greens—like mushrooms sprouting from the concrete.
But Amrita had no umbrella.
She had left it at home that morning in haste. Her father's back was still bothering him, and her mother had been called in for an emergency shift at the clinic. In the flurry of packing her own lunch and tying her shoelaces with wet fingers, she had forgotten.
It wasn't just any umbrella either. It had belonged to her grandmother—a sturdy black one with a carved wooden handle, more walking stick than rainshade. Her grandmother had said it was lucky, that it had weathered more monsoons than Amrita had lived. And now it was sitting at home, dry and useless, while she stood shivering in the storm.
She looked out at the rain, thick and relentless. Her bus stop was a good five-minute walk down the street. There was no covered path, and the rain was getting heavier. She sighed and hugged her arms around herself, mentally preparing to get drenched.
"Here," came a quiet voice behind her.
She turned. It was Tushar. He stood with his own umbrella open, its canopy large enough for two small people if they didn't mind walking close. His school bag was wrapped in a thin plastic cover, and droplets clung to his glasses like tiny pearls.
"You'll get wet if you wait much longer," he said, stepping closer.
She looked at him, unsure. "But won't we both get soaked under one?"
He shrugged. "Better than one of us getting completely soaked."
She hesitated. "You don't have to—"
"I know," he interrupted, his voice softer now. "I want to."
And just like that, he moved closer, angling the umbrella above her head.
They stepped out into the rain together.
The road was muddy, and their shoes squelched with every step. The umbrella barely shielded both of them, but neither complained. Amrita clutched her bag close to her chest and tried to ignore the cold water slipping into her socks.
Tushar walked steadily beside her, holding the umbrella high and tilted slightly toward her side.
"You'll get drenched," she said again, looking at the damp spot growing on his left shoulder.
He smiled. "I've been wetter."
She laughed, despite herself. "You sound like my grandmother."
"She sounds wise."
"She was."
For a few seconds, all they heard was the patter of rain on the umbrella and the distant honk of rickshaws struggling through the water-clogged street. Then Amrita asked, "Have you ever lost something that mattered?"
Tushar looked thoughtful. "Yes. Once I lost my sketchbook. My favorite one. I thought I'd never see it again."
"What happened?"
"A teacher found it on a bench in the staffroom. She returned it three days later."
She nodded. "I lost my umbrella today."
"I know."
"I feel stupid for being so upset about it, but it was hers. My grandma's. It's old, and it's not pretty, but I loved it."
"It's not stupid," he said simply. "Sometimes things carry people in them."
She looked at him, surprised by the weight of his words.
They turned the corner toward the bus stop. A few students were already there, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their wet faces. The bus hadn't arrived yet.
Tushar stopped walking and handed the umbrella to Amrita. "Wait here."
"What? Where are you going?"
"Just wait."
Before she could protest, he darted off, his feet splashing through puddles, his thin frame quickly vanishing into the wet blur of the street.
Amrita stood there, confused, holding his umbrella, water now dripping off her own bangs. The bus came and went—her bus. She let it pass. Ten minutes. Then fifteen. And just when worry began to settle in her chest, she saw him returning.
In his hand was a long, black object—her umbrella.
She gasped. "How did you—?"
"I asked the watchman. He said someone found it near the assembly hall and gave it to the lost-and-found."
He was panting slightly, soaked to the bone. His shirt clung to him, and his glasses were foggy, but he smiled like it was no big deal.
Amrita looked at the umbrella, then at him, and something warm rose inside her, defying the cold rain and wet socks.
"You're crazy," she said.
He shrugged. "You'd do the same."
She didn't reply. Instead, she opened her grandmother's umbrella and held it above him, handing his own back.
They stood there, grinning under the cover of an old black umbrella that had somehow found its way back, like some small miracle returned.
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Moral of the Chapter:
True friendship is not measured by grand gestures, but by small acts of kindness—the shared umbrella, the walk through the rain, the effort to return what was lost. It's about showing up, even when no one asks you to.