They say angels exist. They are dressed in white, with wings and a halo. Not all men have the ability to identify their angel. My angel carries a red umbrella.


I see her everywhere. I see her all around me. I always see her with a red umbrella. She flutters away, and comes back with her umbrella. She lights my day, ends my night always clutching her umbrella tight. She sleeps only next to me and she kisses me to a good day. She walks with me, flies by my side, swings her arms to show her happiness and then shrugs her shoulders in shyness when I look at her and swirls around like a little tornado, with her red umbrella.

She has the most beautiful eyes. Her eyes speak to me. She never utters a word. Her eyes do the talking. They are heavily lidded and mesmerizing. Once I make a connection with them, words cease to exist. Everything including me seems more beautiful if her eyes reflect them.

She never leaves my side. She longs to hug and kiss me and hates it when I have people around me. She sits next to me at work and admires me holding that red umbrella. All that pours out from her gleaming innocent face is pure love. She blows kisses to me, kisses only I can see and feel. Her smile is alluring, contagious and as bright as her red umbrella.

She is my little wandering alarm clock. She points at the clock to remind me when it is time for my lunch. She stays by my side and enjoys watching me eat, playing with her red umbrella all the time.

I can spot my little angel in the distance with her red umbrella. The umbrella moves to her tunes. It jumps along with her when she is in joy. It shines bright when she is happy and is stays shut when she misses me. Her umbrella to me is like a reflector of her moods.



Mine isn’t the tale of two states or cities. It is the tale of two worlds. I stay in both the worlds at the same time. While one world is commercial, polluted, populated, and hectic, built with pressures, the other world- my little world with her is full of pleasures. It is a pleasure to keep watching her. To digest in her innocence and to be taken aback by her beauty is my only entertainment.

We walk together. She doesn’t walk, she doesn’t fly she does both at the same time. For what better could a medium be than silence, for love to be conveyed to the souls hopelessly lost in each other? Her silence is enticing. In my world, she holds out the red umbrella for me. She keeps inviting me to share her umbrella and hold her close. Her dreamy eyes are tantalizing. Her passionate kisses complement my desires.

My Lady with her Red Umbrella jolts me back to the other world when needed. She knows right. She knows the best. She knows what is wrong and she guides me through, effortlessly cutting across all hindrances that I face. She is the reason behind what I am today.

I am often bemused by her. My queen is my only source of strength. Without her, I often find myself adrift and disoriented. She and her Red Umbrella are the only assets I own. They are also the only ones that delight me. Her appearance alone exhilarates me.


So who am I? According to those around me, I am a lunatic. I am insane and I am often out of my mind. I belong to the long list of idiots who are lost in love. They have certified me insane years ago. I was conferred with such a title as soon I lost her to an untimely accident. Little do they know that I lost all my sanity when I first saw her.

To this ruthless world, MY Lovely wife is dead. To me she is alert, active, loving, passionate and the most stunning woman ever born. She with her Red Umbrella is the final memory of her, to the mortals here before she was killed in the accident.

These worldly beings now attach her memory to a mere “photograph”. The photograph of her with the red umbrella stays in the walls of few houses including mine. To me, her very picture beautifies the wall of my house.

My angel, my love is the reason I exist.

I, my angel, her red umbrella and our love will remain as immortal as the Good Lord himself.



And there she was. Tiny and little, wrapped in sheets and held closely by the lady behind her birth. The lady admired the little baby’s fingers and the little one instantly caught her mother’s fingers and gripped them tight. Tears of happiness crept from the lady’s bright eyes as she looked at her offspring sleeping peacefully. She kissed the baby’s little fingers as she looked at me. She loved the moment and apparently was overwhelmed by the motherhood factor. Oh and I was happy to be what I was-the mirror in the wall.

A year later, there came my angel again. She was wearing a fluffy white frock on the eve of her first birthday, trying her best to walk with those tiny legs of hers. She tripped and fell and her mother caught her just in time. Her eyes were brimming with tears but got distracted by me. She was amazed by me. She came up to me and tried touching me. She could see her on the other side doing the same thing. She smiled and the other girl staring back at her smiled. She clapped her hands, and so did the other girl. She rejoiced it and from then on, every other day, she was found playing with me. Oh and I was happy to be what I was- the mirror in her wall!


Days flew past and my little doll had learnt to speak and fondly called me ‘Miro’. She always smiled at me only to see her smiling back at her. The big day had arrived and my baby doll was all dressed. It was her first day to school and she was staring at me all through the time her mother dressed her up. At the end of the exercise, the output was the most adorable little child with two little ponies that had been softly put up on the either sides of her head with flashy bands. She carried a little bag and a water bottle and had a handkerchief pinned to her uniform. My darling left to school and I missed her already. But I was happy to be what I was-the mirror in her wall!

I witnessed her growth. From a little doll to the teenager she was. I saw brilliance replace the innocence in her light-toned face. I saw the change happening right in front of me. I witnessed her in the best of all her moods. One day she was all excited because her friend was coming for a sleepover and the next day she cried because her parents had scolded her. I saw the excitement (of owning her first mobile phone), giving a pink blush to her cheeks, I also saw her cheeks turn red when she was fighting with her parents. She admired her slender figure in front of me every day and I can assure you, she was the most beautiful girl you would have ever come across. I was indeed happy to be what I was-her mirror in her wall.

The days of despair crept in. She was hardly at home. She was working and she now had a guy in her life. She had someone to be admired more than her. She was stunning with the gown she wore to her first date. The string of pearls around her neck only added on to the shine in her pretty face. And then came the big day of my girl’s life- the day of her marriage. The to-be bride stood in front of me and I knew instantly that her man was the luckiest person in the world. I also knew that seeing her henceforth would be an infrequent phenomenon. I was only half happy at being what I was- the mirror no more in her wall.

She visited me once in a while. I was happy to see her. She soon had a bump in her tummy and the day came when she, looked identically like how her mother once did. She had a baby in her hand and was enjoying motherhood, exactly like her own mother did. I was overwhelmed at the sight of her and I knew I would soon witness the growth of another angel in this world. Yet I missed my darling and was not all that happy at being what I was- the mirror away from her.

Time raced past and before I could realize, she had worn out. She had wrinkles creeping in on the sides of her eyes. She disliked looking at me because I did not show her what she wanted. I no more reflected to her, the same beautiful and perfect woman. I now happened to reflect a woman with creases of worry lining her forehead, wrinkles crawling on her skin, untold misery reflecting in her eyes. She had lost both her parents. She had shifted to this house with her daughter and the no-longer-caring husband. She was haunted by the memories of her parents and gobbled by the worries of her marriage and concerns over her daughter’s attitude. She had no time to look at me and one fine day when she did, she was disgusted at the sight that she witnessed and never returned to me thereafter. That is when realization dawned on me. I was no more happy being a mirror. I was not loved anymore because I was not tricky. I did not know to appease her.

For, no human would love to be always told what they are. I could only reflect what I saw. What I reflected at a point, was what she loved and today what I reflect seems to be disliked by her. I am unbiased in any manner whatsoever and I do not know to manipulate. I cannot echo her thoughts. I cannot produce the output one wants. All I can do is stay the same – straightforward as always- but that does not seem to augur well anymore.

Fabrication seems to be the order of the day


-The Mirror
that stands dumped today in a waste,
still reflecting the ugly looks of the bin.