The Yellow Umbrella

Three minutes walk

Every day, I come home around 8 p.m.

The auto drops me at the main road, and from there it's a three-minute walk to my house. Three minutes doesn't sound like much until you're a girl walking through a dark lane where the streetlights seem to have a personal grudge against electricity.

So every evening, about five minutes before I reach, I call my Maa.

And every evening, she waits for me at the top of the lane.

Not because the walk is long. Not because I can't walk alone.

Because she knows I get scared.

Today was different.

I logged out at 7 p.m., and it started raining. Not enough to worry about, just enough to make me take out my umbrella, put on my headphones, and wait for an auto.

Halfway home, the rain turned into a proper storm. The kind with thunder and lightning.

A small part of me was enjoying it. I was getting wet, and Maa never lets me enjoy the rain for more than thirty seconds before declaring me a future pneumonia patient.

Then I realized something.

I had forgotten my favourite yellow umbrella at home.

The rain kept getting heavier.

As usual, I called Maa.

My sister picked up.

"Maa went to the neighbour's house for puja. She's probably stuck there. She didn't take an umbrella, and Baba isn't home yet."

Then she asked, "What will you do?"

Trying very hard to sound brave, I replied,

"Oh, don't worry I'll manage."

For the record, I was lying.

Maa has always told me that if I get late, I can wait at the nearby shop and she'll come get me.

Today, even the shop was closed.

No shelter. No people. Just rain.

So I started giving myself motivational speeches.

"It's only three minutes."

"There are people inside their houses."

"If something happens, I can shout."

"Nothing will happen."

Then, just before I reached the lane...

the lights went out.

And just like that, the brave girl inside me resigned without notice.

I stood there thinking:

Should I call my best friend?

Should I wait?

Should I just become invisible?

The auto left.

I took a few tiny steps.

I wasn't scared of ghosts.

After years of horror movies and true crime documentaries, ghosts felt like the safer option.

I was so scared and the lane was so dark that I just stopped walking.

Then I looked ahead.

Someone was slowly walking towards me.

At first, all I could see was a silhouette and an umbrella moving through the darkness. The rain was still falling, the lane was still dark, and my heart was still racing.

Then she came a little closer.

And suddenly, I knew.

A familiar walk.

A familiar smile.

My Maa.

Holding my favourite yellow umbrella, the one I had forgotten.

I don't know how to explain what I felt in that moment.

Nothing around me changed.

It was still raining

The lane was still dark.

But the fear was gone.

Just a few seconds ago, every shadow looked suspicious and every sound made me nervous.

Now, all I could see was my Maa walking towards me as if she had always known exactly where to find me.

Maybe that's what mothers do.

They don't make the storm disappear.

They simply walk into it so you don't have to face it alone.

The moment I saw her, I smiled.

"Maa, ami bhoy pacchilam."

She looked at me, almost surprised.

"Keno? Ami toh ashboi. Ami toh achi."

(Why? Of course I would come. I'm here.)

And that's the thing about mothers.

When you're little, they hold

your hand because you're afraid of the dark.

When you grow up, they still do the same thing.

They just use umbrellas instead.