Moheindu Chemjong

Perth, W Australia:

The milkman was an ugly man. Do I have the right to comment on somebody else’s looks? Maybe not. Well, I suppose equating the milkman with the adjective “ugly” was something I learnt growing up. I was told he started bringing us milk even before I was born and till date, he works as the alternate alarm clock for our family.

The Gwala Dai had a scarred face, complemented with two tiny deep-set eyes and a distorted nose. He wasn’t handsome and lacked appeal but the smile from his face never waned through the years. I always saw him in a traditional daura and I cannot remember seeing him without a Nepali topi. Did patriotism flow in those veins? I used to wonder. Another striking feature about him was his awful stench — a combination of milk, curd, and butter. At times it felt like the entire Lagankhel Dairy had come visit. If you talk about service Gwala Dai came right to our doorsteps. Isn’t that a luxury? It isn’t like where I live today, where I often have to rush to the grocery store in the mornings to make myself a cup of tea. Tea hardly tastes the same without Gwala Dai’s milk. In the grocery store I can pick up a whole range of milk . I often wonder how Gwala Dai’s milk would look packed in cartons. I had heard stories of Gwala Dai’s sons working abroad, making mega bucks. Often the maids made this an issue and asked him why he had to charge so much when his sons were rich. I could never comprehend the comments and his answers. Did resilience work for Gwala Dai? When did he read Deepak Chopra? Or was he a thorough gentleman taught not to answer back?

When Mom decided to discontinue his services, she had been compelled not to. Gwala Dai had created a ruckus, “Madam, how can you say to me? I started bringing you milk even before Maiya was born”. Mom must have felt sorry and succumbed to his request. He used to call me Maiya and he used to always tell me how tall I’d grown and how cute and chubby I used to be as a baby. It was on those rare occasions when I woke up before 5:30 that we had a conversation. “Maiya, people have started jogging on the Ring Road, even old folks, how come you’re sleeping till now?” he used to say. How could I explain my body clock to him?

This was till I left home for overseas. In the mornings when my alarm rings, I long for a cup of Illam or Tokla tea served in bed. Of course, I don’t have either of the luxuries. I make myself Dilmah tea with Browne’s low fat milk and I miss the kind of milk I grew up drinking. Maybe I’m too accustomed to Gwala Dai’s milk that I sometimes dislike the smell and taste of the finest Aussie milk. How important the Gwala Dai has been to our family for so long and yet we never appreciated him. How often in the complexities of life we forget to pay tribute to the backstage actors in the play of our lives.