A Young Boy Selling Umbrellas in a Rainy Village

Rain had a way of transforming the small mountain village. The dusty paths turned dark and glossy, the smell of wet earth rose into the air, and the sound of raindrops on tin roofs became a soft rhythm that echoed through every narrow lane. For most villagers, the rainy season meant staying indoors, waiting for the clouds to tire themselves out. But for twelve-year-old Rafi, it was the most important time of the year.

Each morning, long before the rain began, Rafi helped his mother sweep the front yard of their small clay house. Afterwards, he carefully arranged a bundle of colorful umbrellas he kept wrapped in a plastic sheet. Some were decorated with bright flowers, some with simple stripes, and a few were plain black—the kind adults preferred. He took great pride in keeping them clean and dry, as if each umbrella held a bit of sunshine trapped inside it.

Rafi had inherited the little umbrella-selling spot from his late father, who used to sit beneath a neem tree near the village market. His father always said, “Rain can flood the fields, but it also brings opportunity.” Rafi didn’t fully understand the meaning when he was younger, but now, standing in the same place where his father once worked, he finally did.

As the first drops of afternoon rain began to fall, villagers rushed through the market, pulling shawls over their heads or holding their hands above their faces. That was Rafi’s moment. He opened the largest blue umbrella he owned and lifted it over himself and his stall—just a small wooden table his uncle had built for him. The colors of his umbrellas glowed under the silver light of the rain.

“Umbrellas! Umbrellas for the rain!” he called with a voice that tried to sound strong and confident, though he was still shy around adults.

The first customer of the day was an old shepherd named Karim. His clothes were already soaked, and he held a slightly annoyed expression, though it vanished the moment he saw Rafi.

“You’re early today,” the shepherd said, wiping rainwater from his beard.

“Rain will be heavy all afternoon,” Rafi replied. “You should take the black one. It’s the strongest.”

Karim chuckled. “You talk just like your father did.”

Rafi handed him the umbrella with both hands. The shepherd paid him with a grateful smile, then slowly walked away with his goats trotting behind him. That small exchange filled Rafi with an unexpected warmth. He loved those moments—the small connections, the shared understanding, the kindness hidden beneath everyday words.

Soon, more villagers approached his stall. A group of schoolchildren stopped by, arguing playfully over which umbrella was the “coolest.” A young woman bought a yellow one, saying it reminded her of sunlight. A farmer purchased two for his daughters. And with each sale, Rafi felt a sense of purpose, even pride. He wasn’t just selling umbrellas—he was offering comfort in troubled weather.

But as the rain grew heavier, so did the wind. Dark clouds moved lower, swallowing the tops of the hills. A sudden gust knocked over one corner of Rafi’s stall, and the umbrellas nearly spilled onto the muddy ground. Rafi grabbed them quickly, hugging them close to his chest.

He looked up, worried. Rainstorms in the mountains could grow fierce without warning.

Across the market, people were beginning to hurry home. Shops closed their wooden shutters. The air turned colder as thunder rolled through the valley. Rafi knew he couldn’t stay much longer, but he still had several umbrellas left—and he needed the money for his mother’s medicine.

Just as he started packing up, he noticed a little girl crying under a tree. She wore a thin dress, now wet and clinging to her arms. No one seemed to notice her in the rush.

Rafi approached her, holding the large blue umbrella over them both.

“Why are you standing alone?” he asked gently.

“I lost the money my mother gave me,” she sobbed. “I can’t go home without an umbrella.”

Rafi looked at the small bundle of umbrellas in his hands. He hesitated only for a moment.

“Here,” he said softly, selecting a small red umbrella with white dots. “Take it. Your mother won’t be angry if you come home safely.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “But… I can’t pay.”

“You don’t need to,” Rafi replied. “Just go home before the rain gets worse.”

She thanked him in a whisper and hurried off, the umbrella bobbing above her like a bright red lantern in the stormy gray afternoon.

When Rafi finally returned to his stall, he realized he had very few umbrellas left—but he didn’t regret giving one away. His father used to say, “Some profits can’t be counted with coins.” Now Rafi understood.

The rain slowed as evening approached. The village began to shimmer under the soft glow of lanterns. Rafi packed the remaining umbrellas, carefully tied them in their plastic cover, and slung the bundle over his shoulder. Though he had sold fewer umbrellas than he hoped, his heart felt strangely full.

Walking home through the quiet, rain-washed village, he smiled to himself. The rainy season had only begun, and there would be many more storms—and many more chances to help the people of his village.