The worn blue canvas fades

to a shimmering grey,

As the first flurries of snow fall

upon my old, faithful umbrella.

I remember walking to school under it,

sparring with Delhi’s tropical monsoon.

A child’s adult treasure,

Practical yet playful;

my umbrella was a masterful actor.

The king of make-believe

Of battles and treasure hunts,

It now shields me from real showers

that are not so pleasant any more.

My umbrella is aged but

its sturdiness remains,

Solid as an oak, Unyielding…

like the grandpa I thought was immortal.


Broken today like a new age doll,

there is something not quite useless about it yet,

Even though it is serviceable no more.

My broken umbrella misses life as I knew it.

The unfamiliar texture of snow–

It is enticing, not welcoming,

Unlike the cool warmth of an Indian April rain.

Destined to gather dust and reminisce,

about its days as a gun, a sword

And even Mr. Mell from David Copperfield;

My old companion is too naive

to the new storms I must face.

So I pack it up and put it away,

For someone to find it, someday,

for another game of pretend play


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