by Ruskin Bond
‘That’s a lady’s umbrella,’ said Ram Bharosa. ‘That’s only for memsahibs. Where did you get it?’
‘Someone gave it to me—for my necklace.’
‘You exchanged it for your lucky claw!’
Binya nodded.
‘But what do you need it for? The sun isn’t hot enough, and it isn’t meant for the rain. It’s just a pretty thing for rich ladies to play with!’
Binya nodded and smiled again. Ram Bharosa was quite right; it was just a beautiful plaything. And that was exactly why she had fallen in love with it.
‘I have an idea,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘It’s no use to you, that umbrella. Why not sell it to me? I’ll give you five rupees for it.’
‘It’s worth fifteen,’ said Binya.
‘Well, then, I’ll give you ten.’
Binya laughed and shook her head.
‘Twelve rupees?’ said Ram Bharosa, but without much hope.
Binya placed a five-paise coin on the counter. ‘I came for a toffee,’ she said.
Ram Bharosa pulled at his drooping whiskers, gave Binya a wry look, and placed a toffee in the palm of her hand. He watched Binya as she walked away along the dusty road. The blue umbrella held him fascinated, and he stared after it until it was out of sight.
The villagers used this road to go to the market town. Some used the bus, a few rode on mules and most people walked. Today, everyone on the road turned their heads to stare at the girl with the bright blue umbrella.
Binya sat down in the shade of a pine tree. The umbrella, still open, lay beside her. She cradled her head in her arms, and presently she dozed off. It was that kind of day, sleepily warm and summery.
And while she slept, a wind sprang up.
It came quietly, swishing gently through the trees, humming softly. Then it was joined by other random gusts, bustling over the tops of the mountains. The trees shook their heads and came to life. The wind fanned Binya’s cheeks. The umbrella stirred on the grass.
The wind grew stronger, picking up dead leaves and sending them spinning and swirling through the air. It got into the umbrella and began to drag it over the grass. Suddenly it lifted the umbrella and carried it about six feet from the sleeping girl. The sound woke Binya.
She was on her feet immediately, and then she was leaping down the steep slope. But just as she was within reach of the umbrella, the wind picked it up again and carried it further downhill.
Binya set off in pursuit. The wind was in a wicked, playful mood. It would leave the umbrella alone for a few moments but as soon as Binya came near, it would pick up the umbrella again and send it bouncing, floating, dancing away from her.
The hill grew steeper. Binya knew that after twenty yards it would fall away in a precipice. She ran faster. And the wind ran with her, ahead of her, and the blue umbrella stayed up with the wind.
A fresh gust picked it up and carried it to the very edge of the cliff. There it balanced for a few seconds, before toppling over, out of sight.
Binya ran to the edge of the cliff. Going down on her hands and knees, she peered down the cliff face. About a hundred feet below, a small stream rushed between great boulders. Hardly anything grew on the cliff face—just a few stunted bushes, and, halfway down, a wild cherry tree growing crookedly out of the rocks and hanging across the chasm. The umbrella had stuck in the cherry tree.
Binya didn’t hesitate. She may have been timid with strangers, but she was at home on a hillside. She stuck her bare leg over the edge of the cliff and began climbing down. She kept her face to the hillside, feeling her way with her feet, only changing her handhold when she knew her feet were secure. Sometimes she held on to the thorny bilberry bushes, but she did not trust the other plants which came away very easily.
Loose stones rattled down the cliff. Once on their way, the stones did not stop until they reached the bottom of the hill; and they took other stones with them, so that there was soon a cascade of stones, and Binya had to be very careful not to start a landslide.
As agile as a mountain goat, she did not take more than five minutes to reach the crooked cherry tree. But the most difficult task remained—she had to crawl along the trunk of the tree, which stood out at right angles from the cliff. Only by doing this could she reach the trapped umbrella.
Binya felt no fear when climbing trees. She was proud of the fact that she could climb them as well as Bijju. Gripping the rough cherry bark with her toes, and using her knees as leverage, she crawled along the trunk of the projecting tree until she was almost within reach of the umbrella. She noticed with dismay that the blue cloth was torn in a couple of places.
She looked down, and it was only then that she felt afraid. She was right over the chasm, balanced precariously about eighty feet above the boulder-strewn stream. Looking down, she felt quite dizzy. Her hands shook, and the tree shook too. If she slipped now, there was only one direction in which she could fall—down, down, into the depths of that dark and shadowy ravine.
There was only one thing to do; concentrate on the patch of blue just a couple of feet away from her.
She did not look down or up, but straight ahead, and willing herself forward, she managed to reach the umbrella.
She could not crawl back with it in her hands. So, after dislodging it from the forked branch in which it had stuck, she let it fall, still open, into the ravine below. Cushioned by the wind, the umbrella floated serenely downwards, landing in a thicket of nettles.
Binya crawled back along the trunk of the cherry tree.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the nettle clump, her precious umbrella held aloft. She had nettle stings all over her legs, but she was hardly aware of the smarting. She was as immune to nettles as Bijju was to bees.
3
About four years previously, Bijju had knocked a hive out of an oak tree, and had been badly stung on the face and legs. It had been a painful experience. But now, if a bee stung him, he felt nothing at all: he had been immunized for life!
He was on his way home from school. It was two o’clock and he hadn’t eaten since six in the morning. Fortunately, the Kingora bushes—the bilberries—were in fruit, and already Bijju’s lips were stained purple with the juice of the wild, sour fruit.
He didn’t have any money to spend at Ram Bharosa’s shop, but he stopped there anyway to look at the sweets in their glass jars.
‘And what will you have today?’ asked Ram Bharosa.
‘No money,’ said Bijju.
‘You can pay me later.’
Bijju shook his head. Some of his friends had taken sweets on credit, and at the end of the month they had found they’d eaten more sweets than they could possibly pay for! As a result, they’d had to hand over to Ram Bharosa some of their most treasured possessions—such as a curved knife for cutting grass, or a small hand-axe, or a jar for pickles, or a pair of earrings—and these had become the shopkeeper’s possessions and were kept by him or sold in his shop.
Ram Bharosa had set his heart on having Binya’s blue umbrella, and so naturally he was anxious to give credit to either of the children, but so far neither had fallen into the trap.
Bijju moved on, his mouth full of Kingora berries. Halfway home, he saw Binya with the cows. It was late evening, and the sun had gone down, but Binya still had the umbrella open. The two small rents had been stitched up by her mother.
Bijju gave his sister a handful of berries. She handed him the umbrella while she ate the berries.
‘You can have the umbrella until we get home,’ she said. It was her way of rewarding Bijju for bringing her the wild fruit.
Calling ‘Neelu! Gori!’ Binya and Bijju set out for home, followed at some distance by the cows.
It was dark before they reached the village, but Bijju still had the umbrella open.
Most of the people in the village were a little envious of Binya’s blue umbrella. No one else had ever possessed one like it. The schoolmaster’s wife thought it was quite wrong for a poor cultivator’
s daughter to have such a fine umbrella while she, a second-class B.A., had to make do with an ordinary black one. Her husband offered to have their old umbrella dyed blue; she gave him a scornful look, and loved him a little less than before. The pujari, who looked after the temple, announced that he would buy a multicoloured umbrella the next time he was in the town. A few days later he returned looking annoyed and grumbling that they weren’t available except in Delhi. Most people consoled themselves by saying that Binya’s pretty umbrella wouldn’t keep out the rain, if it rained heavily; that it would shrivel in the sun, if the sun was fierce; that it would collapse in a wind, if the wind was strong; that it would attract lightning, if lightning fell near it; and that it would prove unlucky, if there was any ill luck going about. Secretly, everyone admired it.
Unlike the adults, the children didn’t have to pretend. They were full of praise for the umbrella. It was so light, so pretty, so bright a blue! And it was just the right size for Binya. They knew that if they said nice things about the umbrella, Binya would smile and give it to them to hold for a little while—just a very little while!
Soon it was the time of the monsoon. Big black clouds kept piling up, and thunder rolled over the hills.
Binya sat on the hillside all afternoon, waiting for the rain. As soon as the first big drop of rain came down, she raised the umbrella over her head. More drops, big ones, came pattering down. She could see them through the umbrella silk, as they broke against the cloth.
And then there was a cloudburst, and it was like standing under a waterfall. The umbrella wasn’t really a rain umbrella, but it held up bravely. Only Binya’s feet got wet. Rods of rain fell around her in a curtain of shivered glass.
Everywhere on the hillside people were scurrying for shelter. Some made for a charcoal burner’s hut, others for a mule-shed, or Ram Bharosa’s shop. Binya was the only one who didn’t run. This was what she’d been waiting for—rain on her umbrella—and she wasn’t in a hurry to go home. She didn’t mind getting her feet wet. The cows didn’t mind getting wet either.
Presently she found Bijju sheltering in a cave. He would have enjoyed getting wet, but he had his school books with him and he couldn’t afford to let them get spoilt. When he saw Binya, he came out of the cave and shared the umbrella. He was a head taller than his sister, so he had to hold the umbrella for her, while she held his books.
The cows had been left far behind.
‘Neelu, Neelu!’ called Binya.
‘Gori!’ called Bijju.
When their mother saw them sauntering home through the driving rain, she called out: ‘Binya! Bijju! Hurry up and bring the cows in! What are you doing out there in the rain?’
‘Just testing the umbrella,’ said Bijju.
4
The rains set in, and the sun only made brief appearances. The hills turned a lush green. Ferns sprang up on walls and tree trunks. Giant lilies reared up like leopards from the tall grass. A white mist coiled and uncoiled as it floated up from the valley. It was a beautiful season, except for the leeches.
Every day, Binya came home with a couple of leeches fastened to the flesh of her bare legs. They fell off by themselves just as soon as they’d had their thimbleful of blood, but you didn’t know they were on you until they fell off, and then, later, the skin became very sore and itchy. Some of the older people still believed that to be bled by leeches was a remedy for various ailments. Whenever Ram Bharosa had a headache, he applied a leech to his throbbing temple.
Three days of incessant rain had flooded out a number of small animals who lived in holes in the ground. Binya’s mother suddenly found the roof full of field rats. She had to drive them out; they ate too much of her stored-up wheat flour and rice. Bijju liked lifting up large rocks to disturb the scorpions who were sleeping beneath. And snakes came out to bask in the sun.
Binya had just crossed the small stream at the bottom of the hill when she saw something gliding out of the bushes and coming towards her. It was a long black snake. A clatter of loose stones frightened it. Seeing the girl in its way, it rose up, hissing, prepared to strike. The forked tongue darted out, the venomous head lunged at Binya.
Binya’s umbrella was open as usual. She thrust it forward, between herself and the snake, and the snake’s hard snout thudded twice against the strong silk of the umbrella. The reptile then turned and slithered away over the wet rocks, disappearing into a clump of ferns.
Binya forgot about the cows and ran all the way home to tell her mother how she had been saved by the umbrella. Bijju had to put away his books and go out to fetch the cows. He carried a stout stick, in case he met with any snakes.
First the summer sun, and now the endless rain, meant that the umbrella was beginning to fade a little. From a bright blue it had changed to a light blue. But it was still a pretty thing, and tougher than it looked, and Ram Bharosa still desired it. He did not want to sell it; he wanted to own it. He was probably the richest man in the area—so why shouldn’t he have a blue umbrella? Not a day passed without his getting a glimpse of Binya and the umbrella; and the more he saw the umbrella, the more he wanted it.
The schools closed during the monsoon, but this didn’t mean that Bijju could sit at home doing nothing. Neelu and Gori were providing more milk than was required at home, so Binya’s mother was able to sell a kilo of milk every day: half a kilo to the schoolmaster, and half a kilo (at reduced rate) to the temple pujari. Bijju had to deliver the milk every morning.
Ram Bharosa had asked Bijju to work in his shop during the holidays, but Bijju didn’t have time—he had to help his mother with the ploughing and the transplanting of the rice seedlings. So Ram Bharosa employed a boy from the next village, a boy called Rajaram. He did all the washing-up, and ran various errands. He went to the same school as Bijju, but the two boys were not friends.
One day, as Binya passed the shop, twirling her blue umbrella, Rajaram noticed that his employer gave a deep sigh and began muttering to himself.
‘What’s the matter, Babuji?’ asked the boy.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Ram Bharosa. ‘It’s just a sickness that has come upon me. And it’s all due to that girl Binya and her wretched umbrella.’
‘Why, what has she done to you?’
‘Refused to sell me her umbrella! There’s pride for you. And I offered her ten rupees.’
‘Perhaps, if you gave her twelve...’
‘But it isn’t new any longer. It isn’t worth eight rupees now. All the same, I’d like to have it.’
‘You wouldn’t make a profit on it,’ said Rajaram.
‘It’s not the profit I’m after, wretch! It’s the thing itself. It’s the beauty of it!’
‘And what would you do with it, Babuji? You don’t visit anyone—you’re seldom out of your shop. Of what use would it be to you?’
‘Of what use is a poppy in a cornfield? Of what use is a rainbow? Of what use are you, numbskull? Wretch! I, too, have a soul. I want the umbrella, because—because I want its beauty to be mine!’
Rajaram put the kettle on to boil, began dusting the counter, all the time muttering: ‘I’m as useful as an umbrella,’ and then, after a short period of intense thought, said: ‘What will you give me, Babuji, if I get the umbrella for you?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the old man.
‘You know what I mean. What will you give me?’
‘You mean to steal it, don’t you, you wretch? What a delightful child you are! I’m glad you’re not my son or my enemy. But look, everyone will know it has been stolen, and then how will I be able to show off with it?’
‘You will have to gaze upon it in secret,’ said Rajaram with a chuckle. ‘Or take it into Tehri, and have it coloured red! That’s your problem. But tell me, Babuji, do you want it badly enough to pay me three rupees for stealing it without being seen?’
Ram Bharosa gave the boy a long, sad look. ‘You’re a sharp boy,’ he said. ‘You’ll come to a bad end. I’ll give you two rupees.’
&
nbsp; ‘Three,’ said the boy.
‘Two,’ said the old man.
‘You don’t really want it, I can see that,’ said the boy.
‘Wretch!’ said the old man. ‘Evil one! Darkener of my doorstep! Fetch me the umbrella, and I’ll give you three rupees.’
5
Binya was in the forest glade where she had first seen the umbrella. No one came there for picnics during the monsoon. The grass was always wet and the pine needles were slippery underfoot. The tall trees shut out the light, and poisonous-looking mushrooms, orange and purple, sprang up everywhere. But it was a good place for porcupines, who seemed to like the mushrooms, and Binya was searching for porcupine quills.
The hill people didn’t think much of porcupine quills, but far away in southern India, the quills were valued as charms and sold at a rupee each. So Ram Bharosa paid a tenth of a rupee for each quill brought to him, and he in turn sold the quills at a profit to a trader from the plains.
Binya had already found five quills, and she knew there’d be more in the long grass. For once, she’d put her umbrella down. She had to put it aside if she was to search the ground thoroughly.
It was Rajaram’s chance.
He’d been following Binya for some time, concealing himself behind trees and rocks, creeping closer whenever she became absorbed in her search. He was anxious that she should not see him and be able to recognize him later.
He waited until Binya had wandered some distance from the umbrella. Then, running forward at a crouch, he seized the open umbrella and dashed off with it.
But Rajaram had very big feet. Binya heard his heavy footsteps and turned just in tune to see him as he disappeared between the trees. She cried out, dropped the porcupine quills, and gave chase.
Binya was swift and sure-footed, but Rajaram had a long stride. All the same, he made the mistake of running downhill. A long-legged person is much faster going up hill than down. Binya reached the edge of the forest glade in time to see the thief scrambling down the path to the stream. He had closed the umbrella so that it would not hinder his flight.