Milk

The last time I had lived this close to cows, the year was 1998 in Trichur, Kerala. The last place I had expected to have cows as my neighbors again was in the USA in 2010. But the Universe apparently had other plans. It was September in Arkansas and I had found myself moving there from Hartford. My town in North-West Arkoansas was full of surprises, the least of which were my neighbors who mooed. A lot.

The last time I lived this close to cows, I was sulking my way through 11th standard in a school that was as close to personal hell as possible. The stuff at home had been, how do I put this, complicated. Coaching classes for the engineering entrance exam had forced me into exile at my grandparents’ house, away from my parents’ in Muscat. I am sure my grandparents were excited about the lazy, moody teenager slouching around the house.

I masterfully evaded being assigned chores by simply being hard to find around the house. My grandmother’s arthritis assured me that I could safely spend hours locked up in the second floor of her house, practicing the art of doing nothing. But that plan failed spectacularly because I was never too far away from her booming voice. The good manners she drilled into me as a child assured her that her “Anu, Inga vaaa”(“Anu, come here”) would be promptly answered with “Ippo varen, Savithri ammai” (“Be right there, Savithri ammai”).

I would half-heartedly tear myself away from a book or a song on my cassette player, on weekend afternoons and find her, and be assigned the afternoon chore. She would hand me the stainless steel “thooku” and send me off to Ambi mama’s cowshed down the street. I rarely drank milk then, even when my grandmother assured that it was what growing girls needed. An overweight 16 year old does not need any more growing to happen, I would retort haughtily. I hated the cows with all my heart as I shuffled those few hundred feet, in the noon heat, to buy the fresh milk for evening coffee.

On a good day, I can day dream my way into that cowshed again. The smell of manure and animals took a life of its own there. The animals’ stalls were spotless, the dung cleaned away as soon as it hit the floor. The smell of hay tickled my nose, as I tried to avoid looking into the eye of a particularly curious cow edging towards me. The huge vat of frothy bubbling warm milk lay expectantly near the kitchen of Ambi mama’s house, adjoining the cowshed. One of the men, who worked the cows, would pick up a huge aluminum mug and pour the half liter of milk it into the vessel I held ready.

I would then ready myself for the tight rope walk back home. The heat would quicken my feet, but incurring the wrath of my Savithri ammai over the spilt milk was the stuff my nightmares were made of, so I would slow down. Thatha stood ready in the outer hall to collect the vessel from my unsteady hands. He peered into the vessel, and always exclaimed that Ambi mama was selling more water than milk. I always took the comment on the quality of milk personally and stalked off to the refuge of my book or my songs.

11 years later, when I would walk into the bright North West Arkansas mornings, a whole world away from that little cowshed in Thrissur, the moos of the unseen cows said hello. On warm nights when I would come home ravenous, the smell of the manure and fresh cut grass would make me crave a glass of milk. But the microwaved 2% never looks as appetizing to me as the thought of that vat of warm bubbling milk in that shed back in Thrissur.

 

I really like how we attach cleansing powers to milk. Milk abhishekams, milk for digestion and milk to clean our systems - it seems to be the panacea.

Thank you so much Kamal ji. I am so glad you enjoyed my write up.

 

Dear rgs, so true. You summed up my 500 word snippet in 20 words. Thats exactly what i was trying to capture here, in a roundabout fashion.

Thank you so much for your kind words!

 

Sri mama, What can i say except that I am over the moon seeing what you have to say about my writing. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say this.
The ambi mama in my snippet is a world famous cook from Thrissur. His paal adai payasams are famous all over. His sons have now started a chain of restaurants in Cochin called Ambi Sami's.
Its close to 2 years since my savithri ammai passed away, but if i try really hard, i can hear her calling my name like yesterday.
Thank you once again for liking my work and taking the time out to write kind words about it.
Anitha

 

Thank you Prana ma'am. I am so happy you liked my snippet.
Yes, its incredible how certain smells can takes us back to where memories were realities.