The Milkman

Every year we have a corporate get-together. The last annual get-together was arranged at Sirdalen up in the mountains in Norway in the winter. It is a popular resort for those who like to ski.

Returning back from the resort I was putting up at Airport Hotel at Stavanger, the cultural capital of Norway.

I had the morning free as my flight back to India was in the evening. In December strong chilly winds blow across the city. It took some resolve to step out of the cozy confines of the grand hotel. I was suitably donned in overcoat, gloves and cap and walked across the road to the bus stop on the busy highway.

There were two stops. I tried to guess which one was for the bus to the harbour front. There wasn’t anybody around whom I could ask.

After ten minutes I gave up trying to make sense of the time table in Norse language. I saw an approaching cyclist pedaling up the special lane earmarked for them. I smiled hopefully at him,

“Hi!”

“Hi”, he replied amiably.

Generally cyclists are good-natured. I guess it has to do with the good health. Cycling up and down the hilly roads keeps them pleasantly fit.

”I am looking for a bus to the harbour-front.”

He parked his cycle and checked the time-table.

“There is one after 15 minutes,” he said helpfully.

It turned out he was a Spanish student and had been to India to see the famed Khajuraho sculptures.

“In Madhyaa”, he said referring to Madhya Pradesh.

Presently he was working in the hotel to fund his higher studies.

The cyclist left. Meanwhile I saw a slim, tall and distinguished looking gentleman coming out of the hotel. He was pulling a trolley-bag behind him.

He came up to the bus-stop and smiled at me pleasantly. I remembered seeing him the evening before in a dance-party at the hotel.

“From which country?”

“India.”

When he heard I was coming back from Sirdalen he looked at me closely. Sirdalen in December is for hard core winter-sport lovers.

“May I inquire from which field you are? Medicine, Engineering or IT?”

“I am a hydrographer. Now working for a digital charting company.” I said.

'Well', I thought to myself. I should return the compliment to him. So I asked,

“What about you?”

“I am a milkman,” he said with a small self-deprecating laugh.

“Every morning I take my van out to deliver milk cans in the neighbourhood.”

Wow!

Images of our north Indian rustic doodhwala flashed through my mind. Every morning the guy hollers Doodh (Milk!) and gives a long press on the door-bell. Try as I might I couldn’t picturize our rustic gwala (milkman), wrapped in a Kambal (coarse blanket), swaying gently to the music and twirling on the dance floor with his beau.