To all the readers, followers and fellow bloggers, the Milkman extends a hearty welcome. Milkman’s World is venturing into a new project, which will change things up a little from the posts that have so far been put up.
In its first ambitious endeavour into uncharted territory, Milkman’s World is inviting all those interested in writing stories to collaborate and write with the Milkman. The next 10 stories that will appear on this fictional realm will be a result of this project and if it takes a positive direction, the project will be extended.
Further details about this project will be shared with the interested candidates through email.
Write in at email@example.com and attach three sample stories written in either first or third person.
– Milkman 2017
PS: This is not a job or internship. It is a collaborative project to work together and write stories.
It rained one summer night. It wasn’t a rare thing for the seasons to confuse themselves, but this night was different. Flashes of lightning lit up the skies, revealing their veins and purple skin. Raindrops tapped the floor below his feet.
He stood under the pouring sky with his eyes shut and a damp cigarette at the end of his mouth. He felt her skin touch him. She ran her fingers down his bare back. She ran her hand over every spot of his body that was wet by the rain.
“Why do you love me?” she asked, running her finger down his back.
Keeping his eyes closed, he replied, “I don’t know.”
“I’m not here”, she said.
“I know”, he whispered without sound.
– milkman 1993
...the heart, as the poets would say, then sank into the deepest ocean and all the feelings died.
"Forever" seduced the heart and the heart fell. When it fell, there
was no one to catch it, not her, forever.
The heart was destined to be deceived. Knowing that it would beat even after, it was ensured that the injury inflicted was grave....
The man spoke suddenly, while rowing the boat, “dwelling in the past is choosing to be in the darkness instead of the light of the present”, assessing the milkman’s eyes he continued slowly, “live in the present, and for the future, for those living in the past are no longer with you..”
“Why does it persist then.. the past?” the milkman questioned.
“Everyone knows the reasons, but they choose to overlook it”, concluded the boatman.
“When you pretend all the time, you cannot tell when you’re being real.”
It was an hour past mid-night. The milkman had woken with a start. Lifting up his heavy eyelids, he walked to the kitchen and sat at the table.
There wasn’t a sound to be heard. The silence in the room made it difficult to breathe. In the thought of what had woken him, the milkman walked to the stove with a vessel and some milk.
“No matter how many feathers you dress yourself up with, you are going to be as grounded as the skin on your body,” he said out loud while heating the milk.
He remembered the story. It was a sad story. His great grandmother used to tell it to him with her hand pampering his head and her ‘old person smell’ cuddling him.
– Milkman 2017
The milkman is truly grateful for your support to the blog. However the blog is now in an indefinite hiatus (to revise quality measures). Please note the previous post titled, ‘An Echo Of The City’ has been deleted and is not meant to be read as a part of the ‘Milkman Saga’.
– Milkman 17 October, 2016
Delivery – Only on call
Payment – Cash
Living in the town’s fishermen’s quarter in a dilapidated yellow shanty are two brothers. Sons of the former leader, which is to say is an honorary title, of the fisherfolk. The older took to the father and became one amongst the fisherfolk and the younger more rebellious in nature doesn’t have a stable profession.
Their mother died when they were very little and so all the upbringing had to be done by their father, who wasn’t any good at it. He’d leave early in the morning to fish and then take that fish to the marketplace, sell them off, settle the credits and return home late in the evening. The elder brother took care of his younger sibling and his father when he got old and ill, till his father passed away.
Both brothers are unmarried. The elder is a pious obedient fisherman; the younger is a rebellious vagabond with artistic skills. They’re both my father’s age.
My father told me that the younger brother had ventured into the city in his prime and came back 4 years later with a good amount of money and a lot of paint.
I tried asking him (the younger brother), he doesn’t talk about that phase of his life now. He just smells of rum and paints and draws on walls.
Although this one time he was very drunk, had red eyes, a slouched back and a paintbrush in between of the ring finger and pinkie of his left hand, he said barely, “I want credit. Then I will know I’m good.”
Then satisfied, turned around and continued his artwork, as if he’d communicated his message clearly. I smoked the rest of my cigarette and left.
– Milkman 1996
On a rather melancholy day, during a feast-less and eventless season for the catholic priest, I approached him to seek advice. Certain matters of the heart with brain conflict needed to be discussed.
He was sitting on the grass and looking up at a stone cross that had a beautiful backdrop of clouds and a bright blue sky. The priest heard me and continued to stare at the clouds, as if waiting for some divine intervention. He has an informal style, he is also the biggest gossip in town, and so I had to be as vague as possible.
“Back home, in the higher college, I studied History and Philosophy. After graduation I got my calling and joined the seminary and studied and practiced my theology. Then when I was ready after many years, I preached it.”
There was a brief silence; he was still facing the cross. I waited patiently and became respectful to his personal monologue.
“History has facts. Philosophy has various thoughts of inquiry and so does theology. With arguments and counter-arguments that can last as long as the energy the person has.”
Another brief moment of silence, everything became slow. The wind blew confusing breeze mixed alternating between cool and warm. I looked to the church.
“Feelings aren’t facts. But facts aren’t relevant anymore. I don’t preach through theology. I preach through feeling and emotion. Because ultimately, even the most intellectual and aware person will do what he or she feels.”
Then I sat next to him in silence, and stared at the cross.
– Milkman 1986
Best read while listening to Oh Daniel by Civil Twilight
It was during his term in the city of the North State. Things were different, more urban. Where there should be fields of grains and produce, there were concrete pathways to a closely clubbed community that was seemingly overcrowded.
Houses seemed as if duplicated from the other. Homesickness was inevitable. It was as if a fresh water fish was thrown into the polluted sea.
A recurring dream occurred to him within the first two weeks.
The village – a highway road – cars passing by – a picturesque sky above – the beach and the sea – a dog chasing something by the edge of the waves – a lady walking much further from where he stood and then it was all black.
At this disturbing time in his life, he met a beautiful young lady. It was a chance encounter. She was kind and dearly loved the people around her. It didn’t take long for him to be a part of the young lady’s life. In her company, he wouldn’t feel homesick and the dreams stopped.
The young lady saw a lot of death. It was her job; she was a nurse. In a couple of months the milkman lost her. Not in body or life, but in spirit. By loving everyone so dearly, she made them a part of her life, and when they would die, so would a part of her life.
– Milkman 1985
The History Writer / Teacher
Delivery – 1 litre every other day
Payment – Cash
“Those who refuse to change with time are left behind time, and that is a not a place where anyone should be,” he said. He was from the city of the north state. And had a lot to say, but not many from the town could understand him. He was invited to teach the children in the Post Office school. The people called him the History Writer; the children called him “teacher”. I had graduated just the year before the History Writer’s arrival.
Everybody was of the opinion that the man had no manners in social matters. It was probably since the teacher was always by himself. Mingling with town’s people and others only when necessary.
He was a heavy smoker, but preferred to smoke in private, away from prying eyes.
One evening, less than a month before the harvest season, I met him while heading home. He was lighting his cigarette.
I went up to him and asked him why he came to the town if he wanted it to change,
He replied, “because I am a man of contradictions.”
“How so?” I inquired further,
“I love the backwardness of the town and yet I preach it to apply the progressive change”, he concluded.
I didn’t bother to ask anything more because I couldn’t decipher the answers he gave.
After a while, silence filled up the space after the dialogue, and he shared his thought out loud.
“There are those who can adapt to change and make history by either making good or bad of the progress, I am not one of them, hence I write history.”
– Milkman 1983
The Bell Seller
A resident in only the cooler months of the year, the ‘bell seller’ is the nomadic eccentric character of town. The youth see him to be a wise philosopher, and the rest of the residents identify him as a symptom of winter.
The catholic priest calls him “a probable candidate of religion fraud”. While the youth, due to his travels and statements, consider him wise.
“The difference between me and a resident is the same distinction you make between obligation and desire” – the bell seller says.
During the time, when the milkman duties were first bestowed upon me, the bell seller, with his bells, would walk with me on my routes. It wasn’t an imposing thing, but rather awkward. He stopped after a few weeks; just as I had started to expect his company on the deliveries.
We never did speak on the deliveries, they were silent walks.
– Milkman 1991