The Autobiograhpy of An Old Umbrella

I was born six years ago, in an umbrella factory near Calcutta. For a while I was kept in the factory, and I slept most of the time there. Suddenly, one day I was packed in along with many of my friends. The monsoon had arrived, and every now and then the sky would turn dark grey. Thunder and lightning followed and then the rain would start to pour. An umbrella merchant bought many of us and displayed us in his shop. There I was looked at, opened, closed, then made to stand all day.


Once my master went to a religious meeting and kept me standing for hours in a corner. Quite suddenly a terrible looking man picked me up, and sold me to a cobbler in a noisy market.

My days of joy began. The cobbler treated me with great care and love. I know I must have been one of his treasures. We lived together in a small room for a very long time.


As I grew old, funny little holes started appearing on my body, but my kind, dear master soon patched me up, and I was as good as new. I never stop serving my master, even during the hot, summer days, for I am his best friend and I hope to stay like this forever.





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