DEATH OF THE DOODHWALLAH BHAIYA

Thursday 23^rd July 2009, was just another day in my history, infact I doubt anything significant happened in the history of our country on that date. But something did happen, a solar eclipse in fact, one of the longest of this century. But scientists, astronomers, astrologers (yes, there is a difference), faith-healers, religious personnel, superstitious people, fisher-folk and journalists apart it did not really have any long-lasting impact on our lives. But something did happen on the 23^rd July 2009, yet only three days later would I truly understand how important that day would be to a person I only knew as the Doodhwalla Bhaiya.

It was still dark at 3.00 am, the only light came from the street lamp on the other side of the wall. Yet, in the stillness of the late night or early morning, as some might say, Hariram Yadav awoke sans an alarm; as he had done for the past twenty-two years of his life, seven days a week, no Sunday or bank holiday and no question of sick leave. It was his life and he obeyed the orders of his birth unquestioningly. He bathed in cold water, and drove away whatever remaining sleep from his body, he proceeded to brush his teeth with a twig of neem. The eclipse must have started near about 4 a.m., though it was too dark for him to notice, and besides, it was a monsoon laden sky filled only with grey clouds nearly impossible to penetrate by human eyes.

He began milking the forty cows which were under his charge. The stable stank, ‘the rain never washes away the smell’ he muttered through clenched teeth. Although he was brought up a devout Hindu, he had little love for cows. He yanked and squeezed down upon their udders aiming jets of udderly fresh milk into a blue bucket, which came free with the washing soap his wife purchased over 5 years ago. It was nearing 5.00am as he began milking the last cow. About forty-two liters he calculated in his mind, ‘better add three liters of water to round it off to forty-five liters’ his mind ponders. He then proceeds to take three liters of unadulterated milk for his own family (perks of the job).

His wife Kamla and his daughter Padma have awoken and are preparing breakfast. It begins to rain. Yadav darts from the stable trying not to spill the milk he is carrying for his family, though his attempts to keep dry are futile. He hands the milk to his daughter and taps her head gently. He walks into the room where his three sons are asleep, he wakes them up with loving kicks and abuses that only a father can administer, Padma’s giggles can be heard from the kitchen. He gives strict instructions to the elder two sons on how to divide and dilute the milk, and sends the youngest to help them. They have a humble breakfast together consisting of last night’s left-overs, over-boiled tea and three fresh rotis for the men folk of the family. The father and sons decide their morning routes, mother and daughter decide who shall prepare lunch and who shall attend to the laundry.

5.20 am the sky turns grey gold, its still drizzling. It’s dull yet majestically soo the father and elder two sons mount their bicycles each laden with milk canisters on either side, their oblivious to the beauty of the sky. They peddle in a single file out of the gate and discreetly branch out into the soft rain. Yadav makes his way to Lokhandwala wherein resides the soap opera and other Bollywood aspirants trapped in the material world chasing dreams upon wild horses. A strong blast of wind rattles the branches of the trees, somewhere a chime is blown off tune, and misshapen crows are tossed around the sky like black plastic bags. Its is unnaturally dark, the monsoon clouds remind him of the black carbon clouds of burning rubber, he remembers the 93 riots. Twelve of his cows were slaughtered, he remembers the deal two for each member of his family. His youngest was only a month old, they wanted a calf. It begins to rain, each icy cold drop bombards his goose-fleshed skin shattering his entire being as he reliving those dark days.

Rajaram’s alarm clock’s battery was running out it had thus, half heartedly sounded a barely audible succession of beeps which went on unheeded by the sleeping Rajaram. He thus awoke an hour later than he should have. Half asleep and with unshaven, unwashed face nor body and uncombed hair he sat before his milk delivery van. He races down the road, in his haste he has forgotten that his brakes are worn out and they would not function once he passed the 50 km per hour marker on his dash-board. It begins to rain torrents; the road is but a blur melting away in the rivulets of rain running down his wind-screen. Yadav on his cycle is little more than a faded patch on a grey sheet in Rajaram’s sight.

Yadav hears the muttering of the van’s engines behind him, he shifts to the side. The road with all its bumps and ditches are concealed by the curtains of rain bombarding the asphalt. He suddenly notices the man-hole without its cast-iron cover, he skids to a halt nearly spilling his daily livelihood.

If only Rajaram’s alarm’s battery was working alright. If only he awoke on time. If only he further delayed himself by washing up. If only he had replaced the brakes on his truck. If only he had not shot down the road that day. Or, if only Yadav left a few minutes late. If only he had spent a moment to wish his wife good-bye. If only he bent down to tell his son to be a good boy at school. If only he told his daughter how much he loved her. If only he had not peddled at his normal brisk space. If only he had seen the open man-hole, the following would never happen. So it could be said the imminent accident was a divine mistake hinged upon little uncertainties each bearing the importance of the butterfly effect. Which brings me to question life and destiny. If our lives are already planned and the map of our lives are drawn and set perfectly as constants of a divine hand, what is the use of pursuing our self-imposed goals? Yet again, if we do not believe in destiny we must carry the burden that every tiny action which we commit could have a dire effect on our lives and the lives around us.

Rajaram’s van was about twelve feet away when he saw the milk-man, the halogen light from his head-lights were reflecting off the steel canisters of milk on either side of Yadav’s bicycle. He slams on to the brakes to no avail, the van speeds on barely slowing down and it slams into his cycle. Rajaram pulls hard to the right, after feeling the van collide with the cycle. His van is put to a stop by the divider. Rajaram’s inertia forced torso lurches ahead, spider-web-cracks riddled the wind-shield, slow crimson blood starts to maze through them. At about five minutes to six Yadav exited this world, the rain stops in respect for the fallen. Yadav lay in a pool of milk, that he had collected that morning, it was mixing with the grey brown water and flowing into a drain. In the centre on this milky river twirls of bright red were adulterating it and finally flowing into a straight line; like on a hospital LCD charting a dying man’s heart. The red line snaked its way through the milk into the very manhole that Yadav avoided.

Nearing 6.20 am households around Lokhandwala started complaining about the tardiness of the milk-man and his absolute lack of concern for punctuality. They went on to complain about how day by day the milk started to get thinner and thinner. If only they knew that, today’s milk was colored rose adulterated with blood was spilling into a drain.

At 7 am three stray pups huddled together lapping up what little milk they found in one of the milk canister’s lids.