Dawn knocked on the door, bedecked in nine yards, vermillion and carrying an aluminium milk can. Kanku was her name. No morning was complete without the swirling of her rotund hips and middle, as she set her can on the ground and herself on her haunches. “A litre?” she would ask with a smile weary only from the miles she’d walked to fulfil her daily destiny of being the colony’s only milk woman. “Mother’s not home?” she’d ask, looking into your eyes all lit up in anticipation, like you were beholding the wonder for the very first time – her arms seem to know the precise distance from the vessel that would produce for you this most comforting of sights – of warm wholesome froth forming deliciously in a cold metal container.
Sometimes she would correct your assessment of how big the vessel had to be to collect your 2- and-a- half litres for the day. Sometimes she would ask about school and play. But always she asked you to help her hoist her can up back on her head, her skull protected by a rolled, coiled wad of some ancient fabric. Your eight year old hands were not too small for this labour she believed and in doing so, allowed you your first adult taste of responsibility, one that lingered, like the silky aftertaste of fresh milk.
Her son Ashwin got his first English lesson, and several more after that first one, from your mother. How that transaction transpired you would never know. You knew only from the sudden visitor one day, every day then for a few months. And the only extra minute Kanku spent at your doorstep months later with your mother, in a graceful expression of gratitude.
Years later, one day, dawn would knock on our door, bedecked in the latest shirt and pair of trousers, a silver wrist chain and the tinkling of a bicycle bell.
“Mummy’s not there?” he would proudly enquire in his newly acquired language skills. “No,” you sulked, disappointed he didn’t have the time to indulge your childish need to see milk froth up in vessels. If that wasn’t enough, your help was not required anymore with the container.
You swished your tongue around your mouth to feel a bit of that old silkiness from Kanku’s cans and felt the crisp metallic taste of new times. In time you stopped to grudge Kanku her well-deserved break from her daily walk into your dawn as the colony’s only milk woman.
Seetal Iyer is the co-founder and content head at Timbre Media and one of the most well-loved radio voices for over 15 years and counting.