We were house number
five on the milkman's daily set of stops. His
arrival was marked with the clanking of the semi-rusted galvanized metal cans against his
equally rusted and aging bicycle. He'd promptly thrust his hand through the iron
grill of the metal gate of our house and ask me for a tumbler of water. I'd stop
sweeping the front yard, which was my daily chore, wash my hands, run inside
and fetch the tumbler of water promptly. Offering water to the thirsty was one of
the highest virtues in our drought ridden city, as ingrained into my naïve
psyche. I felt truly blessed earning my
daily quota of good deeds through this
daily act. I could now skip doing my homework and still come out even at the
end of the day on my good vs. evil balance.
This routine carried
on for a few days until my Dad showed up
at school to pay a princely sum of Rs. 35 in school fees for that month. As my
luck would have it, he ran into my teacher, who wanted my Dad's help in getting
the ration of sugar for the month from the fair price shop. My Dad being in the
food department could pull a few strings to ensure the sugar quota was met.
Sweet for her, and would have been for me too, had she not ventured into the
landmine zone related to missing homework.
So somehow, the math
did not add up. All the offerings of water to the milkman, didn't save my hide
from my Dad's wrath that day. So much for good vs. evil, and the scales of justice.
The next morning, I was fuming as it was, at this unforeseen turn of events, and the milkman comes
clanking again thrusting his hand out for the daily cup of water. Now I had to
take fate into my own hands. Muttering
under my breath, I continued sweeping the courtyard, refusing to acknowledge
his presence. I did not see a point of offering my good services that morning.
He was persistent. I turned a blind eye, while he kept insisting. The commotion of my stubborn refusal and his obstinate persistence, brought my mother outside from the kitchen and she demanded to
know what was going on.
The milkman's anger
with me appeared to vanish very mysteriously into thin air; he appeared to have been hit by a speeding train, propelling him into an extreme rush to complete his task of dispensing milk and leave
right away without losing a moment to spare.
But before he could make his run, much as I was growing skeptical about
this whole balance of justice concept, I did not want to risk earning my
mother's wrath too, and perhaps some bad karma in addition. So while she
was interrogating him, I went and fetched the tumbler of water, and held it up
for him. His sudden outbreak out into a
combination of pained smiles and a mumbo-jumbo of words made me realize he was
petrified by something. I looked at my mother in askance, who was glaring at
the tumbler in my hand, as it now started trembling. I was at a total loss as I shuddered, what
had I done wrong now? For a second I could see myself in the fires of hell, or
mountains of homework shall I say, as I had clearly done something wrong. It
was my turn to be petrified as she grabbed the tumbler and just sprayed the
water away on the plants in the yard in a rush of anger.
Suddenly the
confessions poured out of the milkman's strained vocal chords. No more dilution of milk
from that day forward he repeated, trying to be as soft-spoken and discreet as
best as he could, so neighbors would hear his stories of daily dilution. This was in sheer contrast to my mother's tirade that stopped
the newspaper delivery boy, and the fruit and vegetable vendors in their tracks
as well, as they waited in turn deliver their goods to our household and earn a
part of the rants for the day. The neighbors from across the street bravoed and
cheered my mom, for taking on the
fraudsters and landed a curse or two of their own too at the milkman and also
the stream of other morning hawkers for the day.
In the melee, I
managed to sneak away, so I could finish my homework which was pending from
last night as I had mulled over the justice scales. I somehow got through the homework and the rest of morning in a jiffy; fear is such
a great motivator. Looking prim and proper and very sharp in my school uniform,
I sat down for breakfast, not too far from Dad. As my parents spoke about the
morning's events, they seemed oblivious to the guilty fluttering and eventual
settling down of my heartbeat. In a bit, I was riding away on my Dad's
motorbike to school, hugging him tightly with my arms wrapped around his waist,
one side of my face pressed into his back, the other enjoying the rush of the
morning wind.
And that was how
things were settled back then. No yelp
ratings of vendors, no twitter storms, no emojis, no school messenger apps, no
likes and dislikes.
Life was
simple. The drama just continued at the
sixth stop on the milkman's route, which we were oblivious to.
