One thing is certain, Indian mornings are always chaotic. While the kids and their dads get ready hurriedly, the mums rush in all household chores. If this is not enough for the nerves, well then you have an irritant ‘the constant buzz of the door bell’ - The newspaper person, then the car cleaner, then the cleaning ‘bai’ etc. Much has not changed from my days as a kid, but I do miss one individual amongst this frenzied morning atmosphere the ‘doodhwala’ or the milkman.
He was always peculiarly dressed. Clad in messy and about to tear apart dhoti, a contrasting sparkling white kurta and black mojries adorning his feet. A red cotton cloth called gamcha was always with him, the most multipurpose apparel I had seen. He would sling it around his neck while pouring the white liquid in the container and then tie it around his head when he was ready to leave. This could wipe Spilled milk efficiently and sweat during peak summers. Rajdoot was the official carrier of all the milkmen in town, with noise loud and clear to make us all aware of the arrival. Our milkman’s education level was rudimentary but he still applied the laws of physics very well by balancing the level of milk in each container stationed either sides of his bike to prevent any fall. A daily ritual he used to pour a fixed amount of milk in the container and if we wanted any change in the quantity prior notification was must. Mum used to take the milk and dutifully write the amount taken adjacent to the date in the calendar hanging in her kitchen. In the end, the doodhwala’s bill was tallied with the jotted readings on the calendar. While this was checked, his words were enough to accept the purity of the milk poured. It was the most peculiar relationship where trust and suspicion went in tandem.
The quality of the milk was never questioned on seeing the viscosity of the liquid or the cream it produced on boiling but by any deterioration of health or delay in the increase of height in the household kids. Another constant threat to the precious milk was that did the milkman mix water in it and if yes hopefully not tap water. To this, the milkman in his theatrical best use to tell ma that he shall give up milking cows and go to the himalyas if water was ever found in his milk. In addition, if one day the cow was sick or the milk man got late in milking it we had to do away with powder milk that came in the most repulsive package and was equally repulsive in taste. We shared Joys and sorrows with him. He got new kurta and mithai on festivals and joyous occasions and a lending ear for his sorrows. He brought special ghee for us sometimes stating it was good for the brain during exams.
Today, I see a completely new milkman emerging, he no longer runs pillar to post to sell his milk. He has contracts with dairies and large corporations who buy his cow’s entire yield. In addition, we have succumbed to convenience by having tie ups with the nearby grocer to provide us packaged pasteurized milk. 24 hours availability, improved quality and convenience are felt, but the bond between the household and the doodhwala, two entities from completely different lifestyles, has dwindled away.
He was always peculiarly dressed. Clad in messy and about to tear apart dhoti, a contrasting sparkling white kurta and black mojries adorning his feet. A red cotton cloth called gamcha was always with him, the most multipurpose apparel I had seen. He would sling it around his neck while pouring the white liquid in the container and then tie it around his head when he was ready to leave. This could wipe Spilled milk efficiently and sweat during peak summers. Rajdoot was the official carrier of all the milkmen in town, with noise loud and clear to make us all aware of the arrival. Our milkman’s education level was rudimentary but he still applied the laws of physics very well by balancing the level of milk in each container stationed either sides of his bike to prevent any fall. A daily ritual he used to pour a fixed amount of milk in the container and if we wanted any change in the quantity prior notification was must. Mum used to take the milk and dutifully write the amount taken adjacent to the date in the calendar hanging in her kitchen. In the end, the doodhwala’s bill was tallied with the jotted readings on the calendar. While this was checked, his words were enough to accept the purity of the milk poured. It was the most peculiar relationship where trust and suspicion went in tandem.
The quality of the milk was never questioned on seeing the viscosity of the liquid or the cream it produced on boiling but by any deterioration of health or delay in the increase of height in the household kids. Another constant threat to the precious milk was that did the milkman mix water in it and if yes hopefully not tap water. To this, the milkman in his theatrical best use to tell ma that he shall give up milking cows and go to the himalyas if water was ever found in his milk. In addition, if one day the cow was sick or the milk man got late in milking it we had to do away with powder milk that came in the most repulsive package and was equally repulsive in taste. We shared Joys and sorrows with him. He got new kurta and mithai on festivals and joyous occasions and a lending ear for his sorrows. He brought special ghee for us sometimes stating it was good for the brain during exams.
Today, I see a completely new milkman emerging, he no longer runs pillar to post to sell his milk. He has contracts with dairies and large corporations who buy his cow’s entire yield. In addition, we have succumbed to convenience by having tie ups with the nearby grocer to provide us packaged pasteurized milk. 24 hours availability, improved quality and convenience are felt, but the bond between the household and the doodhwala, two entities from completely different lifestyles, has dwindled away.
