The borrowed umbrella

The rain began just as Arun reached the bookshop door. He stood under the awning, trying to remember whether the weather forecast had mentioned this part.

“Take the blue one,” the bookseller said. An umbrella leaned beside a bucket of wrapping paper.

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

“Whenever the rain lets you.”

Tomorrow became Tuesday. On Tuesday, Arun remembered the umbrella but forgot the book he had promised his niece. He stopped at a café on the way and found a student at the door, protecting a sketchbook with her jacket.

He handed her the umbrella. “It belongs to the bookshop on the corner.”

By Friday, he had decided to buy the bookseller a replacement. But when he arrived, the blue umbrella was back beside the wrapping paper. A paper tag hung from its handle.

Someone had drawn the bookshop in the rain. There was the awning, the crowded window, and the little bucket by the door. In the picture, every person on the pavement carried a blue umbrella.

The bookseller pinned the drawing above the till.

“Did you know it would come back?” Arun asked.

“No,” she said. “But I had another umbrella.”

Outside, the afternoon was clearing. Arun bought the book for his niece, then stood for a moment in the patch of sunlight by the door.