MY
COUSIN Advaith is a strange guy. He’s tall and gangly. His legs seem to stretch
right upto his shoulders. Is that because he’s from Shimla, which is in the
sub-Himalayan foothills? Does the cold make you grow and grow and grow? He’s
constantly muttering strange stuff under his breath. “What’s that?” I asked him
yesterday. He blinked, then shrugged. “Nothing, pipsqueak,” he said in a
superior 14-year-old way, “just composing a song in my head.”
Advaith
is a whiz at the keyboards. He just listens to a song once, then plays it right
off. Is that fair, when my fingers get entangled in the guitar strings every
time I try to strum? He’s our guest right now because his Ma’s in America.
This
morning, I rose before the sun did. All because of Advaith. “That’s the best
time to go for a run,” he declared last night, almost getting under the
blankets with his track shoes on. I had to stifle a giggle as I watched. What
if he refused to let me run with him?
Huff-huff, pant-pant, sniff-sniff, I go, trying to keep pace with Advaith, two steps to
every one of his. I don’t look up at the leaves or sky too much. What if I fall
far behind? Will Advaith wait for me? That’s when I feel the first drops of
rain on my forehead. “Advaith, shall we turn back?” I ask. “Rain can’t hurt
you!” he says, never breaking his stride. “You go back, if you want to…”
So I
do, sprinting extra hard for the porch before the skies began to pour. “Imagine
running with an umbrella held over you!” laughs a voice in my ear as I tug off
my wet shorts. It’s Iffy, my secret best friend, who’s appeared.
An Egyptian god under an umbrella |
“Did
you know that in ancient Egypt,
umbrellas were considered to be symbols of power?” asks Iffy. I don’t. So, I
quickly change into dry clothes, get under his invisibility cloak, and off we
go to the banks of the Nile.
“Aren’t
those carvings way out?” I say. Iffy replies, pointing to a figure, “Those
ceremonial umbrellas were said to represent the dome of heaven. Look at that
hieroglyph. Its umbrella-shape stood for a person’s shadow, which was said to
have secret powers that could bring the spirit back to life!”
Even
as questions bubble in my mind, Iffy and I arrive in ancient China. Iffy
looks at me sternly when I gawk at the chinky eyes and drooping moustaches
around me. “Don’t laugh,” he scolds, “can’t you see they’re dead serious?”
And
so they are. We watch Chinese processions walk by, each person under an
umbrella of gem-studded gold cloth. Airborne, Iffy and I glimpse one emperor
set out on a hunt. It’s so funny. Before him are 24 decorative umbrellas
carried by servants, just to announce his presence! Drifting away, we arrive in
Japan
where the Mikado (the old title for the Emperor) steps out of his palace with a
red umbrella, the symbol of absolute power, held before him.
“In
the Orient,” explains Iffy, “the dome shape of the umbrella was said to
symbolise the sky.” I look at the Mickey Mouse umbrella I clutch at. I’d never
thought of it that way!
Ancient
Greece
is our next stop. Its priests step out for a ceremony, shaded by umbrellas.
Iffy holds my hand as we take in a funeral, where the corpse is
umbrella-covered. Why, I ask. “That’s to keep the sunlight pure,” Iffy tells
me, “not to keep the body from decomposing.” I’d never have guessed.
In modern
Europe, we find the umbrella was ignored till
almost the 16th century. “Because the women in Greece and Rome
used lightweight umbrellas or sunshades, the men felt they’d be teased by their
friends if they followed,” Iffy explains. “But that’s until the church adopted
the umbrella. The Pope even declared that only he could confer the privilege on
those he chose!” Even my rainbow-hued umbrella, I wonder. That’s nuts!
What
were the early umbrellas made of? Iffy and I check out one of whalebone ribs
strung on wire, covered with oil-soaked cotton. It’s awful, I whisper. “But
that’s not all,” he replies, “it often let the rain drip through!”
Before
long, we watch what’s happening in the London
streets. One man has an acorn attached to the handle. “Since the acorn was
sacred to the thunder god, he hopes it’ll protect him from lightning,” says
Iffy. Another elderly figure holds an umbrella that doubles as a walking-stick.
But
why’s that fashionable lady sniffing at her handle? I nudge Iffy. “It’s filled
with perfume,” he replies, “while others held daggers, writing materials or
even flasks.” Isn’t that fantastic?
Suddenly,
we’re in 19th century Scotland. I’m puzzled until Iffy
ushers me into the writing room of Robert Louis Stevenson, as he pens ‘Treasure Island’. “He felt only ninnies and sissies
carried umbrellas. Or those who were scared of falling ill,” Iffy tells me.
“Others feared society would laugh at them for being too poor to afford a
carriage.”
I
know I’ve got to dash back home in time to get ready for school. But before
that, Iffy takes me on a quick trip to Ethiopia, where priests carry the
most gorgeous sunshades of red velvet with gold decorations during a ceremony.
I’m so dumbstruck that I can’t say a word. But I burst into laughter when I watch
a Frenchwoman in a tiny skirt walk through Paris yesterday under a see-through bubble
that’s her umbrella.
I
have a sudden urge to share our adventures with Advaith. But will he
understand? I’ll have to figure that out as Iffy and I gently drift home under
the shelter of my Mickey Mouse umbrella. And then he vanishes ~ until our next
trip together.