Raincoat

A little kid, not older than ten, goes stoically through the raincoat-stock of another shop. His parents stand a little away, admiring the confidence with which their son talks — in English, that too! — to the shopkeepers.

He is done.

“I didn’t like any of them” he declares.

“Buy any one. We’ve already been to all the other shops,” entreats his mother.

“No. I’ll buy something next year.”

“The rainy season has already begun. Your books get wet,” his father reasons. His bag is positively wet. His floaters are muddy and his (unironed but meticulously washed) shirt is damp.

“I’ll put them in a plastic bag next time. We’ll buy a really nice one next year. Pukka!”

The three of them exit the store. It’s sprinkling outside. He takes out their only umbrella from his bag. His mother holds it over them—mostly over him. His father walks a step ahead of them, worrying about mending the small hole in the umbrella even when his old shirt and trouser have quite a few more.