The Silk Umbrella of South Maada Street
=====================
— Dilip
The afternoon sun of Thanjavur lay heavy upon the red-tiled roofs, melting even the shadows into silence. The narrow agraharam lane shimmered in the heat; only the sound of a faraway nagaswaram drifted lazily from the Big Temple.
A figure appeared at the end of South Street — lean, white-veshti’d, and purposeful. He walked in short, precise steps, clutching under his arm a tattered black umbrella whose ribs jutted out like the bones of a saint who had fasted too long.
That was Krishnaswamy Iyer, clerk in the Collector’s Office — a man who had mastered the art of balancing dignity on a shoestring salary. His life moved in clockwork rhythm: dawn prayers, office files, morning The Hindu newspaper which bore headlines of an impending Indian Independence, and gentle surrender to his wife’s arithmetic.
Inside the house, Ambujam Ammal was inspecting the boiling rasam with military seriousness. A faint breeze carried the smell of tamarind and pepper.
“Ennaa!,” she called, “don’t forget to take your umbrella. The sun is cruel today.”
He appeared at the doorway, umbrella in hand — or rather, in fragments. “Ambu!,” he said, “this thing has no conscience left. It has holes, ribs, and a philosophy of suffering. When I hold it, even beggars pity me.”
She didn’t look up. “Appadi pesaatheengo. That umbrella will last ten more years if you open it properly. You’re the one who spoils everything.”
“But, Ambu,” he protested, “it gives shade only to my sins. My scalp is burning like the Ilupa chatti on Vaikunta Ekadasi!”
She tossed the coffee skillfully betwee the brass davara and tumbler, and said calmly, “Hold it properly! The sun will respect you if you respect your umbrella.”
The discussion ended there — as it always did.
**************
A week later, fate and the Thanjavur sun decided to test Ambujam’s thrift. She set out to visit her cousin on East Main Street, madisar neatly pleated, davara-tiffin swinging from her arm, and the same tragic umbrella above her head.
By the time she reached the bus stop, the umbrella had twisted itself into an abstract sculpture. A schoolboy passing by shouted, “Amma, that looks like a crow caught in a cage!”
Ambujam’s dignity cracked like a papad on hot oil. She darted into the nearest shop for shade — S. V. Natesa Mudaliar & Sons, Umbrella Merchants, Since 1898.
And there, like a divine vision in silk and brass, hung a black silk umbrella, gleaming as though it had just heard a "Varnam" sung in its honour. The brass handle curved elegantly; the silk shone darker than first decoction coffee.
Ambujam stood mesmerised. Her thrift whispered, “Four rupees, eight annas — terrible sin!” Her pride replied, “A respectable lady cannot walk like a famine refugee.”
After ten minutes of fierce inner battle, she sighed and said, “Let it go. Shade is also Lakshmi.” And she bought it.
********************
That evening, Iyer returned from office, his forehead laced with sweat and tiredness. As he walked into the Rezhi, he froze! A gleaming new Umbrella, right on the Oonjal! This seemed more holy than the Arudhra Darisanam for him at that moment.
“Di Ambu!” he exclaimed, eyes wide. “What splendour! Did the Collector gift it to you?”
She cleared her throat modestly. “No, I... bought it for you. For you only. The old one was a disgrace.”
He clasped his palms in awe. “Ambu, you are Annapoorani and Mahalakshmi rolled into one!”
The next morning, he strode down South Street under the new umbrella like a man who had just received the Sangeetha Kalanidhi title. His colleagues whispered, “What a miracle!” Even the peon saluted differently.
The peons saluted. The junior clerks nudged each other.
“New umbrella, ah?”
“Promotion on the way, sir?”
“Looks imported — Burma silk maybe?”
Iyer chuckled modestly, but brimmed with pride, inside. “My wife only... she has divine taste.”
At lunch, he went to Sri Lakshmi Vilas Coffee Hotel, placed the umbrella in a corner, and ate his curd rice with the peace of a saint.
He got up, went to the backside to throw away his used banana leaf for the benefit of the eagerly waiting cow, washed his hands with the help of the barss sombu, dried his hands.
He headed back to pick up his new trophy.
To his utter shock, the umbrella was gone.
“Where’s my umbrella?” he cried, running in circles.
The hotel boy shrugged philosophically. “Ayya, everyone has umbrella. Who knows whose is whose?”
Despair lit up his face. The umbrella had jsut vanished into thin air! Now, how will he face " Ambu"?
By the time he rjsuted home, his scalp was glowing like temple brass.
Ambujam took one look and gasped. “Where is the umbrella?”
“Gone, Ambu... stolen.”
Her face shifted colours — like the powders in her kolam box: white shock, yellow fury, red despair.
“Four rupees and eight annas gone to the wind? Even the British wouldn’t loot with such discipline!”
“Ambu don’t get agitated—”
“Agitated? Irungo! I’ll make Chidambaram tremble tonight!”
****************
Three days later, a man from the insurance company came to get Iyer’s signature. A cheerful fellow — and in his hand was a black silk umbrella with brass handle.
Ambujam froze.
The man said casually, “Ah, this? Someone left it at Lakshmi Vilas Hotel last week. No one claimed, so I took it. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Iyer’s eyes bulged. “That’s—”
Before he could finish, Ambujam’s toe landed squarely on his foot under the table.
Iyer whispered, “Ambu! that’s ours!” She hissed, “If you say one more word, I’ll feed you pazhaya saadham till Navaratri.”
With a glib smile, she tune to the man and said " Ayya! that umbrella, in fact is his! He had forgotten to pick it up after his lunch. Old age is intensifying his memory loss.
Hehehe! Thank you for bringing it back to us. So thoughtful of you!“.
Without giving him a chance, she quickly reached out to the umbrella, took it in her hands and walked back to the kitchen, waiting for the man to leave, patiently. She did not return to the main hall, fearing that the man could ask back for the umbrella.
**************
From that day, the grand silk umbrella never again saw the sun. It lay wrapped in an old veshti, deep inside Ambujam’s rosewood bureau — safe from heat, dust, and husband alike.
And every afternoon, as the Thanjavur sun poured molten gold upon his head, Krishnaswamy Iyer trudged to the Collector’s office under his faithful, broken relic, the old umbralla, muttering softly,
“Indha veettula suriyan kooda en pakkam illa.”
(Even the sun doesn’t take my side in this house.)
