The Hindi Translation of “The Blue Umbrella” by Ruskin Bond.

‘The Blue Umbrella’ story by Ruskin Bond has been translated into Hindi, and the text is included in the Class 7 Lavender English textbook for CBSE and ICSE board students.

Related links:
The Blue Umbrella Story Notes: Summary, Meanings, Characters
The Blue Umbrella – Questions and Answers for Lavender Class 7

The Blue Umbrella by Ruskin Bond

By early October the rains were coming to an end. The leeches disappeared. The ferns turned yellow, and the sunlight on the green hills was mellow and golden, like the limes on the small tree in front of Binya’s home. Bijju’s days were happy ones, as he came home from school, munching on roasted corn. Binya’s umbrella had turned a pale milky blue, and was patched in several places, but it was still the prettiest umbrella in the village, and she still carried it with her wherever she went.

The cold, cruel winter wasn’t far off, but somehow October seems longer than other months, because it is a kind month: the grass is good to be upon, the breeze is warm and gentle and pine-scented. That October everyone seemed contented-everyone, that is, except Ram Bharosa.

The old man had by now given up all hope of ever possessing Binya’s umbrella. He wished he had never set eyes on it. Because of the umbrella he had suffered the tortures of greed, the despair of loneliness. Because of the umbrella, people had stopped coming to his shop!

Ever since it had become known that Ram Bharosa had tried to have the umbrella stolen, the village people had turned against him. They stopped trusting the old man, instead of buying their soap and tea and matches from his shop, they preferred to walk an extra mile to the shops near the Tehri bus stand. Who would have dealings with a man who had sold his soul for an umbrella? The children taunted him, twisted his name around. From “Ram the Trustworthy” he became “Trusty Umbrella Thief”

The old man sat alone in his empty shop, listening to the eternal hissing of his kettle, and wondering if anyone would ever again step in for a glass of tea. Ram Bharosa had lost his own appetite, and ate and drank very little. There was no money corning in. He had his savings in a bank in Tehri, but it was a terrible thing to have to dip into them! To save money, he had dismissed the blundering Rajaram. So he was left without any company. The roof leaked, and the wind got in through the corrugated tin sheets, but Ram Bharosa didn’t care. 

Bijju and Binya passed his shop almost every day. Bijju went by with a loud but tuneless whistle. He was one of the world’s whistlers; cares rested lightly on his shoulders. 

But, strangely enough, Binya crept quietly past the shop, looking the other way, almost as though she was in some way responsible for the misery of Ram Bharosa.

She kept reasoning with herself, telling herself that the umbrella was her very own, and that she couldn’t help it if others were jealous of it. But had she loved the umbrella too much? Had it mattered more to her than people mattered? She couldn’t help feeling that in a small way she was the cause of the sad look on Ram Bharosa’s face (“His face is a yard long,” said Bijju) and the ruinous condition of his shop. It was all due to his own greed, no doubt; but she didn’t want him to feel too bad about what he’d done, because it made her feel bad about herself; and so she closed the umbrella whenever she came near the shop, opening it again only when she was out of sight. 

One day towards the end of October, when she had ten paise in her pocket, she entered the shop and asked the old man for a toffee. 

She was Ram Bharosa’s first customer in almost two weeks. He looked suspiciously at the girl. Had she come to taunt him, to flaunt the umbrella in his face? She had placed her coin on the counter. Perhaps it was a bad coin. Ram Bharosa picked it up and bit it; he held it up to the light; he rang it on the ground. It was a good coin. He gave Binya the toffee.

Binya had already left the shop when Ram Bharosa saw the closed umbrella lying on his counter. There it was, the blue umbrella he had always wanted, within his grasp at last! He had only to hide it at the back of his shop, and no one would know that he had it, no one could prove that Binya had left it behind.

He stretched out his trembling, bony hand, and took the umbrella by the handle. He pressed it open. He stood beneath it, in the dark shadows of his shop, where no sun or rain could ever touch it. 

“But I’m never in the sun or in the rain,” he said aloud. “Of what use is an umbrella to me?”

And he hurried outside and ran after Binya.

“Binya, Binya!” he shouted. “Binya, you’ve left your umbrella behind!”

He wasn’t used to running, but he caught up with her, held out the umbrella, saying, “you forgot it—the umbrella!”

In that moment it belonged to both of them.

But Binya didn’t take the umbrella. She shook her head and said, “you keep it. I don’t need it any more.”

“But it’s such a pretty umbrella!” protested Ram Bharosa. “it’s the best umbrella in the village.”

“I know,” said Binya. “But an umbrella isn’t everything.”

And she left the old man holding the umbrella, and went tripping down the road, and there was nothing between her and the bright blue sky.


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