The man wore a large brimmed hat, like a Mexican sombrero

I was walking through a densely populated residential area in Mumbai.

The voices of the children who had been noisily surrounding me just moments ago had faded without me noticing. They had probably run off into another alley. In the sudden quiet, the buzz of the city seemed to dim. Only the relentless sunlight continued to beat down on my shoulders.

Partway down the alley, I noticed a large bag lying by the side of the road. I couldn't tell what was inside. The edge of the fabric flapped gently in the breeze.

Standing right next to it was a man in a tank top. A wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his face--it looked just like the ones I'd seen in Mexico.

The Mumbai sun is not one to joke around.

Its glare scorches the skin, and sweat from the forehead gradually trickles down the neck. Yet, surprisingly few people here wear hats. Most simply walk through the streets, exposed to the sun, without so much as a grimace. I didn't see a single person carrying a parasol, either.

Come to think of it, I remembered something.

In India, umbrellas aren't really considered part of everyday life. Historically, an umbrella was a symbol of authority--something held over kings and gods, not an object for common use.

Even today, that perception might still linger. When the monsoon arrives and the sky unleashes torrents of rain, many still don't use umbrellas. They get wet when it rains, and they wait quietly under shelter until the rain stops.

The man with the hat stood there, somehow out of place in this Indian landscape. But what he was thinking beneath the brim of that hat--I had no way of knowing.

He just stood there, under the blazing sun, beside the bag in the alley.

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