A Milk Man in Bangalore.
Sitting on a dusty doorstep in a Sari
in Bangalore many years ago
A potto ... bindi...call it what you will
... a little red spot on my forehead ...the third eye..
The eye of the spirit
placed there by the ayah for fun she said.
Dust between our toes.. rustling sounds of snakes in the grass
The Bearer stands with metal bucket
We’re waiting for the milk
The cow bell jingles...jangle tinkle
Her hip bones sharply cutting shapes beneath her skin
The milk man is ... old ,with leather feet.
A rickshaw races by along the street.
The milk is here .!. He’s come ...the cow bell jingle jangle tinkle
His long brown hands tug at the hanging udders ..crusty and dark
A stream of warm white juices flow into the bucket .
The sky is blue the trees are waving...it’s long before the summer rains
A House door opens ...a White Man strides across the lane
His fists are shaking ..he shouts ..he screams in rage
You are Cheat .Cheat ! You’ve watered down my milk ! You are a thief.
He kicks the tin can bucket .the milk..the precious milk is spilled
It stains into the dust
The White Man picks the bucket up and swings it at the Hindu
And red ...red blood spouts from his temple and he reels
His fingers turn to crimson as he clasps his boney head.
The saddest sight of all my long lived life
Was a battered man and his half starved cow
Limping away on a sunny day
With an empty bucket down the stoney path
The man was poor and poorer now...
A throbbing wound that bled and bled
(I knew as a child that it wasn’t right
The sight of the blood pouring down his face
( The Brutal Act)
Has stayed with me for the rest of my life
And a white European plump and white.
Kristine Byrne 8th April 2012