It was sunny when you left home, so you didn’t take an umbrella. An hour later, you’re caught in a torrential downpour. You run into the first store you can find — it happens to be a dark, slightly shabby antique store, full of old artefacts, books, and dust. The shop’s ancient proprietor walks out of the back room to greet you. Tell us what happens next!

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The man was ugly—a dark, brooding chap with a faint air of menace. He smiled; I recoiled.

Yellow betel-stained teeth and the odor of beedis and paan assailed my visual and olfactory senses.

“Come in, you will get wet outside.”

I accepted, dour-faced. I had no intention of making my way home in this downpour.

I started to look around, if only to avoid eye contact with my host.

The shop smelt musty, like old books should.

I started to sneeze and quickly pulled out my kerchief.

“Are these books for sale?”, I inquired.

“Yes, sir, they are. They can also be returned at a discount. 85% if returned within 10 days, 75% within 20 and 60% within 30. Any later than that and you will be refunded 50% of the book’s value. Damages further.”

I smiled. This was a indeed a treasure trove in these days when the Internet and television have made the printed book a relic of the past.

And these were relics indeed!

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island and Kidnapped nestled side-by-side.

I jest! These were modern editions of the classics but still worth a dekko.

The rain outside had turned into a torrent and the asbestos roof was making a clattering sound that made shouting over the din a necessity to be heard.

“How much?”

“Two hundred. A Hundred each.”

“Sold.”

I fished out my wallet and paid the man.

“Do you have an umbrella, by any chance?”

“Yes. I have a spare one. You can return it to me when you come by the next time.”

“I sure will.”

He fetched me a red ladies’ umbrella from the back. I would normally be caught dead with such a loud, floral design but these were desperate times.

I picked up the books, wrapped in a plastic bag provided by the proprietor and quickly said my goodbyes.

Two classics to read on a wet, monsoon evening—what more could a guy need except perhaps a game of soccer in the rain?

I never paid another visit to the shop; the parasol did not survive the downpour.