The Milkman, the Dying Wick and the Invisible Hand of Fate

February 2, 2008

The cult of romantically gyrating, flute-flaunting and flirting milkmen and milkmaids was started by the most lovable of the lot, Lord Krishna.

Cutting across centuries, that legacy still survives, romantic linkups often coming dangerously close to the house-breaking taboos of extramarital affairs.

The milk-gathering sprees of milkwalas, our doodhwalas—the ones who, in fact, collect milk almost seasonlessly in the wee hours to ensure that milk reaches kitchens irrespective of cold, heat, rain, or whatever other hand the weather player might draw out.

The poor fellow gets up very early, picks up his bucket and drums, and goes on his milk-collecting spree. And in these wee hours, many romantic linkups do crop up, which act like incentives and rewards for the poor guy apart from his meagre take-home, cleverly contrived by mixing water in the milk.

One such gawala is Devender, the 30-year-old, affable, jocular, high-pitched, fair-coloured, short, square-faced and average-featured milk boy.

On the coldest of nights, when the temperature is around one degree centigrade, he gets up at 3 o'clock in the morning and sets out with his bucket and drums on his bicycle.

Now, selling milk is the most important part of household budgets in lower-middle-class rural households, where agricultural income is always falling short of meeting the budget.

The women contribute to the meagre budget through their buffaloes and cows.

Their life is full of struggle.

The husband works on small plots of land, or in some small-time business, or in some poorly paying job. Most of them drink, cramped by worries.

The hardworking women farmers take some solace and excitement with milkmen like Devender in the dark night in the barn, and the milkman duly reciprocates by giving them ample opportunities of cheating him by mixing water in the milk.

When they are caught, the poor chap has to run away after receiving a few slaps by the fuming husband, leaving his bucket there itself. Meanwhile, the poor wife has to bear the full storms of the fistwork, but nothing can be put to an end by the fistwork alone. Love, lust and romance are beyond the fear of fistwork. 

Their -- the farmer women and the milkmen -- fates are interlinked in such a manner that they cannot pull out the plugs from their respective roles. So, after a lull, after the shocking incidents, the storm strikes again.

You never know in what manner your fate is going to be affected by the sneeze and easy or uneasy turn of some unknown being in some other part of the world.

Coming to my own specific worries. The visit, after that postponement, to Djibouti had been fixed for the 4th of February, and here come the circumstances with their suddenly cropping situational snares.

Inder's would-be wife's grandmother decides to slow down the wick of her lamp of life to the barest minimum—that deathbed type of situation in which the last flicker is afraid to go down and the fuel is not enough for revival.

So, while the good old lady fights at the brink of the two worlds, the visit, after much haggling and arguments, has been postponed again.

Now I simply realize maybe our fates aren't in our hands.

We had planned meticulously, but who could have planned for the old lady's illness?

Hoping against hopes, let us hope for the best, the proposed visit might still happen somehow. Otherwise, I will have to take flight alone sometime in February itself and try to salvage our tottering business cart there in the charming, exotic chaos of Africa. 

****

When the Bigger Fish Ate the Smaller Ones

The start of the second decade of the present century brought new challenges.

Father left his body on March 1st, 2010. It was Holi that day, the festival of colours. And under the vastly changed domestic circumstances, I got caught up in a job in Noida, and Sajan started farming, and Sandeep was left alone there in Africa.

We tried our best to take care of our business affairs here in India during our spare time, but as they say, if you leave a cat watching over the milk, it's a folly.

After a few months, Sandeep arrived in India, and it was a nice story. He cooked up that Pakistanis plotted against us, and they poisoned the ears of the mediators who had links with higher political figures, saying that we were literally plundering them by giving them very small cut money, by undervaluing our price here in India.

He had exaggerated the price of used oil here in India multifold, so that angered them, and they got him arrested.

He said the flexi tanks were confiscated. The flexi tanks which Babu Bhai had invested in and which his son and his brother-in-law Inder had brought from China. I think USD 40,000 was invested in that shipment, which had reached Djibouti from China, and he said the flexi tanks were confiscated by the authorities.

In fact, he had to sell everything to secure his release.

So now he was penniless.

And to make it more realistic, he wandered around like a pauper for a few months. In fact, he even borrowed a little amount of money from my salary to make it even more realistic and convince us that he was really broke.

Then one day he informed us that his sister's family had sold land, and they had some money to invest in a fresh business venture. So he would be going with his brother-in-law to Singapore to look for opportunities in the dry fruit business.

So we thought he was exploring new avenues.

In reality, he went back to Djibouti to enjoy his life with Fatima. The consignment of flexi tanks had been safely kept under the watch of loyal Fatima, and then he shipped used oil to Dubai, and other deals also followed.

During those days, he made a lot of money and squandered a lot also.

The only credit I can give him is that he was never a leech, wasn't a miser, wouldn't stick to money like a leech. He would just squander it away. He would spend a lot of money on those around him, would try to present a picture of a mini king, or prince at least.

But in his extravagance, he forgot that he was crossing limits. In fact, he never had any compunctions or conscience to hold him in check.

And in the absence of that inner voice asking you questions, one can easily cross boundaries. In fact, one doesn't feel any type of guilt whenever he or she breaks any type of moral or legal laws.

Me and Sajan worked in our respective domains, thinking that he was trying for the dry fruit business in Singapore.

Then one day Babu Bhai called and told the story.

Babu Bhai was wounded, offended, seething with anger. He said Sandeep had cheated him of a big amount of money.

Only then I came to know that he was still doing business in Djibouti.

Babu Bhai told me that this is what Sandeep had informed him: that I was into a job now, and Sajan was not interested in business, taking care of agriculture.

“I am the only one who is left.”

So, being a practical man of business, Babu thought, since he is the one who is sitting at the station, he started dealing with him straight away.

We were kept out of the loop.

So he thought that it was a big business opportunity, but he missed the point that you need to have a trustworthy guy at the helm of affairs, like I was earlier ensuring that his money, his advance money invested in our venture, was never lost.

But now he was cheated, and only then he approached me, and then I told him, “You had decided to trust him. In fact, at least you should have discussed it with us. Now what can I do? I am nowhere in the picture.”

He had even duped another businessman from Punjab, a friend of Babu Bhai, who had also invested some money.

So his trading cycle had got onto a firm footing, and we could see its effect in the village.

The small, modest house was replaced by a lavish big building. Even the barn where they kept buffaloes had an air conditioner.

Being a stylish guy, everything had to be as per the latest fashion trends.

Me and Sajan raised the issues in social circles in the village, and when people started talking about his cheating of his friends, he called me.

And whenever he called, I would give him a piece of my mind, no-holds-barred outbursts.

But at least he was always courteous and laughing, because I am 11–12 years elder to him. He would always call me fondly, “Ustaz.”

And when one day I was giving him this lecture about morality and ethics, he very naturally, in a very serious tone, said, “Ustaz, don't you remember that story that you told in the afternoon, post-lunch, here in Djibouti, that a bigger fish eats smaller ones? Now please don't spoil my image in the village and don't side with Sajan. Be with me. You have much knowledge. We will rule Africa. You quit your job, I will send you your tickets. I always need your help.”

But I said a firm no, because when it comes to listening to the inner voice, I'm completely opposite to him.

The group was broken.

Me in a job, Sajan in farming, and Sandeep in trading in Africa.

****

The Accelerator Without Brakes

Sandeep had a rollicking life there, made money, made even more fun, spent even more, caroused furthermore.

He bought a nice-in-condition second-hand Land Rover, ditched Fatima, but not before paying her a big sum of money that would enable her to live comfortably. In fact, he even gifted the entire house full of items, ranging from kitchen utensils to computer. The entire furnished apartment went to her as a parting gift.

He shifted to a fancy apartment in the city centre, away from the suburbs. Clubs nearer, banks nearer, women nearer.

He even had an affair with the daughter-in-law of a minister. She was a college-going girl and would dupe her guard and vanish from campus to surface at his apartment.

He was a famous money thrower in weekend binges in fancy clubs.

But he was never bothered about putting on any brakes, and as you know, without brakes it's a perilous journey.

Those who believe that the accelerator, the pedal, is the source of their journey commit a big mistake because it is the brakes that are more important even than the accelerator.

During this phase, he even had the guts to go to Somalia and Sudan, where not many people would dare to go.

So no doubt, the man had guts and was always ready to take risks to pay for his flashy, rollicking style.

The pleasant entanglement of Africa: things can rise with unbelievable rapidity, but they can crash down in the same manner.

There is no institutional, organized, legalized buffer zone between your rise and fall.

Exotic chaos Africa is.

Rules suddenly melt and flow and take a different shape almost overnight. The trusted friends vanish like horns from a horse's head. Your trusted, friendly middlemen can turn sworn enemies overnight.

He seemed to have ridden his luck quite well for about two years, but then he ran out of luck in his relentless pursuit of more adventurism, unbound by any kind of moral compunctions.

Things must have crashed suddenly, maybe something of the nature that he had faked to dupe us.

He had to leave Djibouti. Under what circumstances, I don't know.

Next time when he called, he was calling from Ethiopia.

****

The Adventurer Without Brakes

Ethiopia has vast fertile lands, uneven and unkempt. To attract agriculturalists, they give land on lease at very cheap rates. And these are very long-term leaseholds, running up to 99 years.

These leaseholds involve huge tracts of fertile land, cutting across valleys and streams. Here the investment is about making it arable for agriculture by levelling, digging irrigation channels, and clearing the bushes and underbrush.

The government thinks that in this way agricultural enterprise will enter the country, and the fallow land will be brought under irrigation. The locals working on the farms will learn to grow coffee, sunflower, soybean and pulses.

Sandeep must have invested a lot of money in this venture. Later I came to know that he had taken agricultural tools, machinery and spare parts from India to start farming, and quite funnily, it included a tractor purchased with the money gifted to him by my bachelor uncle, who stayed in Dehradun.

I had once introduced Sandeep to my uncle, and my uncle took a liking to him on account of his free, open, adventurous spirit. He thought he was a simple man, with the lenient heart of a wrestler like Lord Hanuman, simple in mind and majestic in muscles.

And about this issue, a few years down the line, I would ask him, “You didn't even spare Uncle? Is it true?”

Very simply he said, “It's between me and Uncle. He was as much your uncle as mine.”

Uncle was no more by then, having died of cardiac arrest.

Coming back to Sandeep's African venture, there was an influential Sardarji in Ethiopia who had taken thousands of acres of land on lease, and Sandeep had taken about 500 acres from him on sublease for growing coffee and soybean.

As I went further down into the editorial burden in academic publishing, he called me once on the phone and said, “Ustaad, your brother is a king here. Fifty to sixty labourers are working under me. The tractors are working hard, the earthmovers are levelling a plain. It's going great.

“You even abuse me, but I will always respect you as an elder brother. Come here instead of stinking in that petty job. Stop siding with Sajan. He is a farmer now. With your knowledge, you can rule Africa in partnership with me. I will send you a ticket for Dubai. We will meet there. I will book a five-star for you to stay.”

In this way he boasted, but I am sure he was serious. I have absolutely no doubt that he would have done it had I said yes.

But my conscience wouldn't allow it. He had done us a wrong, which couldn't be corrected like that.

So again I said a firm no.

His life acquired the same pattern of overindulgence, of overindulgent adventure, crossing limits, fun, revelry, hard work.

But all this comes to naught without the lowest threshold of discipline, because without it things go out of control.

He was doing good there, but then ended up seducing the Sardarji's daughter. On top of that, he had married almost secretly here in India also. His wife stayed with his parents here.

The Sardarji came to know that his daughter had been cheated. Boiling with anger, he got him arrested because he had clout there, he had connections.

Sandeep spent about one and a half years in jail.

Imagine the conditions of jails there, because from 120 kg in weight he was reduced to 70 kg, but he survived the ordeal.

And once a leader from the opposition party was in jail for a month in the same jail. Sandeep built up a good rapport with him. The political leader, after coming out of jail, helped him in the case.

His wife was called to Africa along with his son. It was a kind of mercy petition, which got him released from jail.

He came back to India, left Africa forever.

“I have torn my passport to pieces,” he later told me.

And now here his affairs continued in the same adventurous way. He has a few women with him. Two sons have been born to his wife, and one of the women with whom he is having an affair—it was quite interesting.

Maybe she was as hungry as he, because the way this connection built up is quite interesting.

He was waiting in a queue at a hospital. His mother was in front of him, then Sandeep, followed by this woman, who had also come to the hospital with her mother-in-law, who was standing behind her in the queue.

And just look at the language of desire.

Without even speaking a single word, they had been just looking at each other, reading the silent words of desire in each other's eyes.

So what does Sandeep do here?

He simply opens the dialing keypad on his phone and slides it under his arm to the woman who is standing after him, and she types her phone number on it, and he gives it a missed call.

And from there the affair got built up, and he said she has been giving me one of the most wonderful times.

Imagine the way it started.

So apart from these fun and frolics, which are very customary to him and very natural, he has become a moneylender to petty shopkeepers and vendors who are always struggling to survive in these competitive times, and due to the urgent need for money, they take short-term loans, even at the rate of 10% monthly interest.

So that is like bloodsucking.

Sandeep roams in a black Scorpio as a moneylender to these sufferers.

But alongside, he has been drinking too much. In fact, so much drinking has taken place for the last few years that his liver almost collapsed, and only 20% of it was found functioning.

So he was hospitalized for a long time, but then recovered miraculously, and the doctor forbade him from even thinking about drinking wine, forget about actually consuming alcohol.

But after a couple of months of convalescence and recovery, he is up to his old tricks again and has started drinking.

So the other day, when I found him drunk on the canal bank with a few of his cronies, I put this question to him: “You should not be drinking.”

Then, in his customary careless way, he said, “Ustaad, do you want to live for a thousand years? We are here to live, have fun and die. That's life.”

So here he is, slowly wasting away after so much misdirected adventurism.

And he isn't even 40 yet.