Doctor P T
Delivery: 1 litre daily
Payment: Cash and always on time
Progress has stayed far away from this town. Same old traditions and stereotypes prevail here as they did, and if it weren’t for the city education, I would be unaware of them myself. In fact, some of the residents are people exiled from the city. They choose the bliss of ‘regress’, as some would say, rather than the hell of ‘progress’.
The local doctor is one such person. His name consists of only initials, Doctor. P T. Studied in the city where he had enough of money, a respectable practice and was the heir to a huge ancestral property, but still chose this town.
One summer day, during the daily delivery route, the postman’s house was in mourning. His father expired. It must’ve happened just an hour before my delivery. The doctor was at the door, paying his condolences to the postman. After delivering the milk to the postman’s wife, I walked out with the Doctor.
Without an ounce of remorse or regret, he walked to his car. I asked him if he’d got used to it, the deaths. He said, “I’ve never lost sleep on account of the death of any person. It may seem cold, but given the life people live, it is a surprise they survive as long as they do.”
There was an awkward silence, at least on my part, till he reached his car. He called me from his car and said, “You know when I lose my sleep, when dogs die.”
– Milkman 1993