The Umbrella Woman

The umbrella woman’s job is to take you from one point to the other without getting you wet in the rain. You pay her a pittance for this service. She always carries three umbrellas hooked on one arm and only appears when the sky looks ready to cry. More often than not, her presence foretells the rain. Whenever you see her lounging around the corner of your apartment building, you know that it’s time to bring the laundry in.

It is an easy job, but not a lot of people want to do it. The rain is the main reason why. It is a fickle deity—it teases, delivers, withholds, spends, and rages on, yet ultimately always stops. The rain is the friend and enemy. The rain provides and takes away. The rain pours for one day and ceases for two weeks. The rain keeps the umbrella woman alive while slowly killing her.

Besides, being an umbrella woman is not by choice.

Oh, there is no umbrella man. He doesn’t exist. He would rather be doing something else.

A good umbrella woman knows her spot. She knows the surrounding buildings. She has in her mind eye the exact distances among these buildings. She sees in her sleep the buildings with awnings, jutted roofs, open spaces, balconies, and tents. She frets about the seemingly encroaching trend to keep everything indoor in this country including its roads. She monitors the perimeter looking for blocked drainages and avoids them at all costs. She prays to the gods in the temple every Friday to give more rain and donates a stalk of lotus flower each time.

She is always old—older than you, at least. It seems that being an umbrella woman is only an occupation for the elderly. If you wonder why, perhaps the answer lies in the bones. The old bones feel the incoming rain much better than the young bones.

She is also always wet. All of the umbrellas are for her customers. She walks or runs alongside the customers in the rain. Sometimes she holds the umbrella above their heads because their arms are so, so busy with something else.

She doesn’t speak much. She listens. She sees.

Leather shoes—cannot take that road, got puddles. Heels with a pair of slacks—see first how the lady walks, splat spat or not. Better take pedestrian walk, not so many holes. Branded bags—why take something so pretty out in a rain? Here, a plastic bag to cover your bag. White skirt? White shoes? Why?

The umbrella woman doesn’t have a face one remembers, but her instruments are something else altogether. The umbrellas are often big and brightly colored. Pink is the best as it stands out against the gloom of the pouring shower. Pink with neon motifs—stripes, plaids, polka dots, floral—is even better. It stops traffic. It gives the customer a sense of entitlement. It infuses spring into their steps. But some customers, especially the men, try to be conservative. They want the grays, the blues, the blacks, the colorless. Like their ties. They don’t want to be taken for a fool. The umbrella woman understands—she always keeps one boring umbrella ready at hand.

In contrast to the gaudy umbrellas she parades, the umbrella woman dresses in dark colors to hide the stains. Her pants are never longer than mid-calf, her sleeves always full and long. She gets creative with her outerwear—sometimes a cut of tarp, sometimes a discarded poncho she found. She tries to look as harmless as possible; there’s no point looking like a beggar and scare potential customers away.

The umbrella woman doesn’t have a name. She is called ‘Auntie’ all the time. She is never anyone else.

Sometimes one or two customers ask her—“Why do you do this, Auntie?” She has a plethora of lies at her disposal but in the end she always tells the truth. She cannot explain why life brings her to this point where she cannot eat if she doesn’t get wet. The bills are paid because her bones rattle so hard after a long rainy day. The sounds they make still itch in her ears. Her room she usually shares with another umbrella woman, and both have the same look on their faces when the beginning of the month comes around. Will they have enough for rent? Will today be the day the landlord throws them out? He is complaining about the smell—the ever musty smell coming out of their room, the smell of wet clothes and skin drying in a closed space, the smell of fear and livelihood. That smell is decreasing his property value, he says while pocketing their money. 

Umbrella women stick close to each other. They know herbal teas like no other; they swear by ginger under their tongues; they splurge on medicinal oils, which they rub on the shoulders, bellies, backs and legs to ward off the chill. They tie red strings around their wrists for protection. They eat fried tofu with green chilies crushed between their teeth. They buy young chicken and make soup for special occasions. They watch soap operas and know the characters as well as they know themselves. They pool money when one of them needs a doctor—and more money when one of them dies. Funerals are expensive affairs. The umbrella women usually do not have families of their own. No husbands, no sons, no daughters, no grandchildren. These family members may exist somewhere, but not for the umbrella women. They are leftovers. Leftovers take care of each other.

When there’s no rain, they wait. Sometimes they seek other jobs. Selling tissues is popular and has been a profession they can always count on. When they are not umbrella women, they are the tissue ladies who roam hawker centers, bus centrals, and subway stations. Or they distribute brochures. ‘Buy 1 get 1!’ ‘Sale 50% For All Merchandise!’ ‘Exclusive Facial Massage Package!’ ‘Shape Your Eyebrow in Five Minutes, No Waiting!’

But the moment the rain comes they revert to being umbrella women. They follow the rain. They are a different breed from and can never be mistaken for the real tissue and brochure ladies. That’s a story for next time.

When an umbrella woman dies, her umbrellas are circulated among her peers. Those closest to her have the first pick. Some of the umbrellas have changed hands three, four times. They are usually the brightest among all. The ones nobody wants are kept just in case a new umbrella woman appears because she needs all the help she can get.

An umbrella woman usually has a shorter life expectancy than those of other people. She works four to five years before succumbing to sickness of the lungs, the blood, the bones, the brain, the liver, the heart, the ovaries, you name it. They all know it’s old age accelerated.

There is no record of suicides among the umbrella women. They all serve until they die natural deaths or of sickness.

When an umbrella woman dies, it always rains. When an umbrella woman dies, she regains her name. When an umbrella woman dies, she goes to the sea, body and soul.

But nobody is ever born an umbrella woman.

She is made.

The first step of her creation is abandonment. She has to be thrown out by husbands, lovers, children, grandchildren, siblings, parents, cousins, or anyone for that matter. She has to have nothing at all and her poverty is bone-deep. The second step is disappointment. The deeper the disappointment is the faster she arrives at the third step—anger. The ideal umbrella woman is usually angry at herself. She blames no one but herself and will seek similar women. From their collective wrath—because becoming an umbrella woman is a community effort—determination emerges. No more, they say. No more.

It burns, having lost so much.

The rain is magic to them and it beckons these women to come out. Whenever they feel it coming, the umbrella women rush outside and welcome the tears with open arms. They live only during the rain where all hurt and pain are unleashed and the fires inside cooled. Drenched in water, they weep and nobody sees.

And this is where they begin to search for umbrellas and complete their transformations.

They have a song, these umbrella women. It goes like this:

It’s raining, missy,

wet, cold and lonely

sun’s gone suddenly

why did I not see

umbrellas of mine

not only for show

it may come around

for you tomorrow

They repeat these words over and over again in the same tune while they work. This is a mantra to remind them of the lives they have left behind and the one they’re carrying now.  Whenever they ferry young ladies they sing it a little louder. Sister, sister, little sister. Look at us. Look beyond the now. Look at what you may become.

One might ask, what do they yearn for, these brides of the rain god?

When I posed that question to an umbrella woman I know, she answered, “More rain.”

“More money.” I nodded.

“No, money not important. It’ll be good if it rains every day.”

“There will be flooding all over,” I said, thinking of an article on flash flood I read a couple days ago.

She looked at me, her eyes weary. “So be it.”

Sometimes I wonder if the umbrella women hate the rest of the world, if they envy the warmth. Do they, deep down, blame us for what they have to endure? Do they wish for biblical flood to sweep the lands and wipe all souls out? Do they huddle together and dream of never ending rainy days? Do they rejoice when water claims lives?

Perhaps no one will ever know, except for the women themselves.

Perhaps we don’t want to know.

Perhaps none of us are ready for the answer.

Instead we abide our time and let the umbrella women hold their garish umbrellas above our heads while they walk alongside us, soaking and softly singing a reminder that everything is fragile.

One day.

One day it could be us. 

Singapore
October 2011