The Milkman
I have always envied those who can wake up at unwakely hours such as five in the morning and still retain their sense of humor. Every time I have had to leave bed before eight, my sense of humor has been morbid at best. I have seen five o’clock in the morning or thereabouts several times in my life and that happened because I stayed awake the whole night.
Of course, when you are a young schoolboy, there isn’t much you can do about school timings. And if you live an hour-long bus-ride away from school, all the more grief for you.
It was 1986 and we were in Delhi at that time. My school was in Gole Market near Madras Hotel, which in turn was near the Connaught Circle. We lived in Sayyed Gaon; a village on the outermostskirts of Delhi as far as civilization was concerned. How far was it from school? An hour-long bus-ride away, as I have mentioned before.
At that particular point in time, we used to get fresh milk delivered to us every morning at half-past five. It had never occurred to me to find out who delivered the milk, where it came from, and other such trivial information. I loved milk and I was happy to have a glass every morning and every night without concerning myself too much about how the milk got into my glass.
Then, for a few days there was no fresh milk. So I used to trudge up to the shop around the corner to pick up packaged milk. But packaged milk just isn’t the same as milk fresh out of a buffalo. The taste of packaged milk was different, which meant it wasn’t to my liking. Ma added two spoons of drinking chocolate. Even then, I struggled to pour it down my throat. My soccer was suffering terribly. I felt the power leave my limbs and my shots on the imaginary goal were weaker then when I was having fresh buffalo milk. I was getting tired sooner and I had to spend more time studying since I seemed to be slower on the uptake.
Then on the fourth afternoon, the milkman’s son turned up. He was a little older than I was and we knew each other. Apparently, his father was a little under the weather and he himself had a lot to do. I don’t know how it happened, but at the end of the conversation I found myself volunteered to fetch the milk from their house every morning. I was in a hurry to play football so I nodded enthusiastically when my mom told me. It’s scary how a little passion for soccer can get you into a whole lot of cold weather.
The next morning I heard a knock on my door. It must have been the fiftieth knock because when I opened the door, my mom was looking very irritated and sleepy.
“It’s five o’clock. Wake up and go get the milk,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s five o’clock, go get the milk!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You happily agreed to the chore yesterday afternoon. The milk vessel is on the table in the dining room.”
I looked at her in disbelief. It was five o’clock … on a winter morning… actually, I’d argue it was still night.
“You want me to go out now? It’s January! I’ll get the milk at nine o’clock.” I pleaded.
“You wanted to go at five in the morning! At nine o’clock you will be in school. From tomorrow you set an alarm and get up yourself.”
Ten minutes later I stood outside the door with one of those aluminum milk vessels that dangle from a long handle. I was wearing a long trouser, a shirt, a woolen sweater, a jacket, and a monkey cap – everything I hated wearing. I looked like those funny-looking people shivering in the cold at 10 am.
It took me five minutes to cross our tiny front lawn and open the main iron-gate. In the still of the early morning, it sounded as if I was opening the huge front gateway to the Red Fort. After the sound died down, I started walking in the general direction of our milkman’s house. There was a fog suspended in the air – have you noticed how the fog always seems thicker in daylight than in the wee hours before dawn? The only sounds I heard were that of my footsteps and of little pebbles colliding with my shoes. I turned at every sound, of course, because it always felt like the sound was coming from behind me. That’s how quiet it is in the dead of the morning – every sound echoes from all around.
I made my way past a row of houses, happy that the streetlights were on. Right from my childhood my mind has had this ability to consider situations, weigh the problems and latch on to the positive aspects. So I smiled at the streetlights, which seemed happy that I was happy with their company. The eerie sounds of the pre-dawn were forgotten. Even my own footsteps ceased to scare me.
Of course, all bright things must come to an end on a lonely morning trail and so it was that I found myself facing a long stretch of small lanes once I entered the main village. There was an odd streetlight here and there, but it was mostly the darkness keeping me company. By the time milkman uncle’s house came into view I was glancing over my shoulder, to my left, and to my right alternatively. And then, all hell broke loose. A warm breath of air fanned my ankles just as a mass of cold, smooth flesh wrapped itself around my legs. I ran, my mouth open but no sound coming out of it. I turned but saw nothing and then I was inside the courtyard.
“Ah, you have come! I see you’ve met our dog.”
Dog? I turned to look at a dark bundle sniffing about my legs. The cold snout and the warm breath now felt reassuring. I knew I would feel stupid once I stopped feeling cold. The dog was simply happy to have new company and wanted to make friends.
I followed the milkman’s son into the inner courtyard where there were two buffaloes munching hay. The milkman was there as was a young girl who was cutting hay in a hand-wielded machine. The milkman took a steel bucket and started milking one buffalo, talking to her all the while.
“They are very gentle animals,” he told me.
I nodded my head since I was watching the milking process with fascination. It looked easy.
“How much milk does the buffalo give?”
“It varies from day to day but generally this one gives about half a bucket. The other one gives a little less.”
“What does the little baby buffalo drink if we take all the milk out?” I had noticed a calf in one corner. He seemed to be playing hide and seek with a bundle of hay.
“We never take the milk out before the calf drinks. After the calf has had breakfast, then we milk the buffalo. And we take only as much as we need.”
“Doesn’t the calf have lunch and dinner?”
The milkman started laughing and his daughter started laughing.
“The buffalo gives milk in the evening also. She always has milk for the calf.”
After a bit, he asked me: “Do you want to milk the buffalo?”
I shook my head. Then I nodded.
I sat down next to the milkman and he showed me how to hold the buffalo’s teats and where and how to apply pressure. For the first few seconds nothing happened. Then a couple of squirts came and I was elated. Then, again, nothing happened. The buffalo seemed amused. With further instructions, I managed a few more squirts.
The milkman measured one liter of milk and poured it into the aluminum vessel I had brought with me. I gave him money, thanked him, and headed back home. The vessel was chilled but the milk was somewhat warm – very relatively speaking, of course.
There were some streaks of light black or very dark gray separating from the black horizon. It was still only a quarter to six, but the dawn was on its way. The air was biting cold, the fog was thick, my footsteps echoed on the empty street behind me and the aluminum vessel creaked as it swung from its handle. It was as eerie a pre-dawn as any other I had ever seen. But I was excited about my lesson in milking. I felt one with nature and in awe of the magnificent buffalo. I had never really thought of the buffalo as magnificent. Actually, I hadn’t really paid much notice to buffaloes up until then.
Back home, I kept the milk vessel in the kitchen and went to my room to get ready for school. Ma was mighty surprised that I was bathed, dressed and ready to go by 7.15 without the usual fuss and complaints. I even had my breakfast without offering any argument. She was suitably impressed.
“I will go again tomorrow to get the milk,” I told her.
At 7.20, I left for the bus stand to catch the 7.30 bus to Gole Market. I reached school by 8.30. Assembly was at 8.45 am; classes started at 9.00 am.
For the next fortnight my existence was centered on my dairy morning errand. School, homework, soccer, reading comics… I was doing everything I usually did. But everything was leading up to the first forty-five minutes of the day.
I also discovered a lot about the milkman and his family. Apparently, the family had come to the outskirts of Delhi from the state of Uttar Pradesh several generations ago. They had been farmers who owned the land they tilled and they had lots of land. Some bad decisions, terrible management, and a whole lot of laziness and addiction to the good life had left them with very little of what they had once owned. Luckily, they had always had buffaloes and since buffaloes gave milk, they started selling some of that milk to supplement the household income. And now, the milk business was their main source of income with the farming produce providing the extra bit. The milkman who had been coming to our house every morning was the head of the household and apparently quite an important man in their community, one of the village elders. I felt humbled that such an important man took it upon his own self to deliver the milk to our doorstep.
My dad explained that the older generation, to which the milkman belonged, took great pride in labor. Coming from a humble background, my dad took great interest in the history of places, and the habits and culture of the people. I realized much later in life that this interest was part of the older generation’s way of life. They learned by listening, talking, observing and doing – the traditional way. No fancy classrooms, no big theories: just traditional wisdom. Very often, formal education leaves us with a false sense of pride, which gives us the idea of good work and bad work. It stops us from doing chores or errands or taking up vocations that the urban consider menial or not as worthy of educated folks. From where I stood, maybe we need a mix of both forms of education.
I was still jumping out of my skin every morning as I walked the lonely path to the uncle’s house, uncle being the milkman since I had started calling him uncle. But the fear was adulterated with excitement, so I was deprived of experiencing pure fear. One day I met a couple of stray dogs that half-crouched and growled at me. I stood rooted to the dirt road, knowing that if I ran they would tear me apart. But as I stood there I wondered if they would maul me anyway. Instinct was encouraging me to understand the different kinds of growls. I listened intently and my mind raced furiously to retrieve sound bytes of previous growls. And in a split second, I concluded that these two were merely testing me. I stared at them till they sat down and relaxed. Then I walked slowly away, the hair on my neck and legs standing like porcupine quills. If you notice and learn, you might notice that human hair is pretty much like a sensor. It acts as an early warning system against imminent danger. They also warn us of changes in the weather, the presence of other beings including humans, animals, and what mankind considers as supernatural. You will know winter is approaching a few days before winter actually sets in – your body hair will tell you that the wind has changed. Over the centuries, I guess we have just stopped listening to these sensors.
I also realized that I had an affinity towards animals and nature. Not that I wanted to raise buffaloes or have pets. It’s just that I started stopping to watch buffaloes wallow in pools of mud in the noon sun. They definitely enjoyed wallowing in mud and water.
I did not become an expert at milking buffaloes. But I learnt how to milk a buffalo. And I also learnt that it is not as easy as it looks. But I am glad I tried because now I can milk a buffalo even if it takes time. For the rest of my winter – and only that winter – I woke up early on my own. It was the only time during my school and college years, when I enjoyed a morning walk before even the birds were up, before God started painting the landscape, and before humanity happened upon the rest of the day. For that brief and wonderful winter fortnight, I was a milkman.
