Story Time

THE UMBRELLA

Mr. Lakhicharan Ghosh hummed a Rabindrasangeet as he jauntily threaded his way through other pedestrians and hawkers selling assorted wares. His humming reached a crescendo every time he jumped over an uneven patch on the footpath or he narrowly avoided stepping into something nasty. It was six o’ clock in the evening on a late April day and the Howrah Bridge was bathed in the colours of the bleeding sun. In his own opinion, Mr. Ghosh was an ordinary man, living an ordinary life. He was fifty years old and worked as a clerk in Writers’ Building. His appearance would have as well described innumerable men in Calcutta, namely short, bald and stout. He had been married more or less happily to his wife for the last thirty-five years and his only son lived and worked in London. Yes, Mr. Ghosh was indeed an ordinary man, for whom a good, strong cup of tea and hilsa in mustard was enough to make his day. But something very extraordinary was about to happen to him. And it was to happen on the historic Howrah Bridge itself.

Mr. Ghosh had nearly covered three fourths of the bridge when he suddenly stopped. A strange tingling sensation slid up his backbone like a moving snake. A black umbrella hung hooked to the railings of the bridge to his left. It was a beautiful umbrella. Its black body gleamed like an opal and it ended in a wickedly sharp end. Its curved handle was in the shape of a swan’s head whose wooden eye seemed to observe its surroundings with a disdainful air. Mr. Ghosh took a quick look around. Streams of busy people hurried past him, totally oblivious to him and the umbrella. Strangely enough, there were no vendors sitting near that portion of that bridge. No beggar children were scampering around, trying to procure alms by their pathetic appearance. No one seemed to be aware of the umbrella’s existence. Mr. Ghosh had never stolen anything in his life. He had been scrupulously honest at his work for the past thirty years. Yet no power on earth could have stopped him from reaching out and taking the umbrella, running his hand along its smooth ebony handle, a strange thrill running through his body like a current of electricity.

Mr. Ghosh returned home rather late that evening. Mrs. Ghosh’s sharp eyes immediately registered the umbrella and enquired as to its origin. Mr. Ghosh said that it was a gift from a friend. This was the first time he had ever lied to his wife.

Mr. Ghosh stood the umbrella against the shoe rack before going to bed. He couldn’t help admiring its beauty and stoking its streamlined body as he bade it good night. According to Mr. Ghosh, every Bengali gentleman worth his salt (or hilsa fish) required a black umbrella to complete his persona. And now, Mr. Ghosh felt complete. With this happy thought he retired to bed and was soon deep in slumber.

Mr. Ghosh was usually a sound sleeper but tonight, he woke up abruptly with a strange sense of foreboding. He opened his eyes and in the silvery light of the moon he saw the umbrella hanging over his head from the bedpost.

Mr. Ghosh dismissed last night as an episode of his own forgetfulness. He reasoned that he himself had probably hung the umbrella from the bedpost. But he clearly remembered standing it against the shoe rack…

That evening Mr. Ghosh was waiting to cross the India Exchange Place crossing. He had taken the umbrella to office that day to be met with rave reviews and compliments. The day had been grey and gloomy with the clouds gathering in the sky and bursting to give unseasonal rain. It was drizzling when Mr. Ghosh began to cross the road, with the umbrella opened above his head. Like most of Calcutta’s pedestrians, Mr. Ghosh did not believe in crossing with the lights. So he started off across the road when there was a large gap between the oncoming cars. Then it happened. Halfway across the road, the umbrella snapped shut on his head. Mr. Ghosh was blinded, trapped in a dark canvas world. He could hear chaotic honking and the squeals of screeching brakes, as he stood unmoving in the middle of the road.

Stumbling blindly, Mr. Ghosh somehow managed to get to the other side of the road. The umbrella then miraculously relinquished its hold and Mr. Ghosh hurried home with it tucked under his arm, shaken and stirred. That night Mr. Ghosh locked the umbrella into his now unused son’s bedroom. He had been so disturbed that night that he had been unable to enjoy his dal with fish-head. Something inside him urged him to get rid of the umbrella but a part of him fought against the voice in his head. Just like the night before, Mr. Ghosh woke up with a start in the middle of the night. The umbrella was hanging over his bed, like a roosting bat.

Mr. Ghosh was at the Metro station, umbrella clutched firmly in hand, waiting for a train to take him to office. His mind was plagued with the memories of the previous day and yet he was unable to let go. The umbrella was just too beautiful. The train was coming. Mr. Ghosh heard the rails rattle and saw the approaching light. Without warning, the umbrella began pulling Mr. Ghosh closer and closer to the edge of the platform. The umbrella seemed to possess enormous strength and Mr. Ghosh was unable to pull himself and it away from the edge and nor was he able to let go of the umbrella. It seemed as if the umbrella had a death grip on him. Mr. Ghosh could see the train now, it was hurtling towards him and he was being pulled towards the edge of the platform and beyond onto the electrified rails. Mr. Ghosh with a superhuman effort, managed to pull himself and the umbrella away from the edge of the platform just as the train pulled in before him.

That evening, Mr. Ghosh was walking rapidly on Howrah Bridge. No Rabindrasangeet issued from his mouth, no smile hovered near his lips. Then he stopped at the part of the bridge where he had found the umbrella. He steeled himself with a deep breath. Fear was coursing through his veins. He walked to the railings and looked down at the rippling waters below. The waters of the Hooghly were stained blood red with the colour of the dying sun. He had to do this. Mr. Ghosh took the umbrella and with a tremulous hand, flung it into the waters below. The umbrella disappeared into the waters as if it had never existed, the river swallowing it up like its many secrets.

Mr. Ghosh was a very happy man that night. He enjoyed his meal and asked for second helpings. His eyes had lost that tortured look and he was humming as he drifted off to sleep.

A prickling sensation that spread from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes woke Mr. Ghosh from the depths of his slumber. The umbrella was hanging above his head, gleaming softly in the night. The eye of the swan glinted at him evilly…