Snow in Khalari

One winter afternoon it snowed in Khalari. This may sound bizarre and far-fetched. But my brother, barely ten then, had feathery snowflakes all over him, his shiny black curly hairs were white, even the eyebrows were white. He was both, panting and shivering at the same time. Did he sprint back home to report the improbable incident. And, shivering-was it so cold or was it out of fear? I could see the knees of his trousers were ripped, the shoddy ripped jeans fashion came much later, and he had bruises on his palms.

“Where is my cycle?” demanded the old milkman. There was a hint of whine in his tone.

I always saw the milkman as a large and broad old man. He had prominent grey stubble on his dark face, a ‘gamcha’ wrapped on his head, a dhoti- turned into the colour of mud, cheap leather sandals made by some local cobbler. A cotton bundi coat with holes and repairs was all that he wore to beat the numbing cold.

“You will never remember the name of my village” he laughed noisily when I insisted to know from where he came every day.

“Chamrenga” I still remember his village’s name but his face seems to be fading from my memory. And his name, I never asked and he never told.

“There, on the other sides of the hills, twenty miles away” he said pointing his finger in the direction of the hills.

So the milkman cycled for four hours in his antiquated and muddied cycle, two large milk cans fixed on both the sides of the rear carrier and several smaller ones hanging randomly on the handle. The cycle had no bell but the rattling small cans served the purpose. The cycle had no stand; it was parked with the support of the boundary wall. It didn’t have a lock either, who would like to run away with such a cycle.

He was a master blender; more and more water added to the milk from the easily accessible running tabs. The supply was never in short, even the sudden demand of milk was promptly fulfilled, he just had to rush to the nearest tap.

“Sister, give me something to eat” he would ask my mother while sitting on the floor, near the door, the gamcha now on his shoulder after wiping his face with it. He had finished his work, all the milk sold, the cans washed and placed upside down for them to dry.

“You are adding plenty of water in the milk, no one wants to drink it” my mother complained while giving him few chapattis with sugar or jaggery, whatever was available, and he always ate it with relish.

“No sister, not a single drop of water added, I swear” he would not hesitate to blurt out a blatant lie.

Taking advantage of the situation, my brother quietly slipped out of the house, climbed the boundary wall and mounted on the parked cycle. One push on the paddle and off it went rolling while the small cans hanging on the handle jangled. His legs were not long enough to peddle smoothly, he had to swing dangerously on either side one after another to do so.

Like in most towns, the onset of winter brought several quilt-carders; these dhuniyas sat in some prominent location in the colonies and could be seen beating the quilt clamps, the twang filled the atmosphere when they worked rapidly on their dhunki. A couple of lungi clad dhuniyas were hurriedly treading a narrow path, huge cotton bags on their heads, the dhukies hanging on their shoulders and other large bags hanging from the other shoulders. They walked in a balanced pace but in a quick and hasty manner.

My brother, by now the battered cycle had gathered great pace, was just behind them. There was hardly enough space for him to ride through, and no bell to alert them either. My brother knew to ride a bicycle but wasn’t skilful enough to stop a running cycle. A running cycle was stopped either by banging on a wired boundary wall or he looked for mounted debris to land his feet. Finding no other way he straightway banged the cycle on the poor dhuniyas. They fell like a pack of cards, all in each other, the bags rolling away, the loose cotton flew all around and my brother landed in between them, just a few bruises here and there. Soon after, he emerged out of the sea of cotton to find many curious onlookers trying to find the culprit. He pretended to be badly hurt and limped back on his feet.

He managed to escape from there leaving behind the cycle amidst the commotion and moaning of the dhuniyas.

Seeing my brother all covered in cotton and no answer forthcoming, the old milkman ran grumbling towards the accident site to extricate his cycle.

While my brother still shivered from the shock my little sister hopped on her feet and clapped her hands in glee and sang “It is snowing, it is snowing!!!”