Free Naming Maya by Uma Krishnaswami

in plastic packets from that crook Nazir,” she says, “because the wretched milkwoman brings her cow to the Rama Raos’ doorstep and milks it for them, but she won’t sell any to us. She’s just too cheap to
feed her cow properly, the poor animal. Did you know her son-in-law tried to kill the cow by feeding it nails? So we have to wait for Nazir to bring us Aavin milk in plastic bags and now even he’s disappeared. When I was a girl there was none of this milk in bags. Did you know that they’re very bad for your health, you are actually eating bits of plastic that dissolve in the milk? And what about the poor cows out in the street, did you know they are dying from eating plastic bags?”
    Mom ducks under this barrage of information that, true or not, is not helping us get any closer to breakfast. Mami wrings her hands and curses the milk deliveryman. She is sure he’s taken off with all twenty of the rupees she gave him yesterday. Probably gone all the way to Bangalore by now. Mom tries to reason with Mami—there’s no way twenty rupees will get Nazir the milk deliveryman to Bangalore. But she makes no headway.
    Sumati says, “No problem, Mami. We’ll go get you some milk, Maya and I. What kind do you want?”
    Mami switches from despair to joy as quickly as flipping channels on a TV remote. “Full,” she says. “No, no, toned. No, one of each. Full is good for coffee, and toned sets better thayiru.” I realize she’s talking about the milk. Whole is better for coffee. Reduced fat makes better yogurt.

    Mom hands us money with a sigh of relief, and we set off.
    It’s one of those glaringly bright mornings that will soon turn to blistering heat. Mr. Rama Rao is right. There is no sign of rain in this sky.
    â€œThanks,” I say.
    Sumati shrugs. “No point in letting her get upset about a thing like milk.”
    â€œI know.” I fiddle with a button on my kameez till it flies off. It lands in the road, and when I step off the sidewalk to retrieve it I am almost knocked over by a passing cyclist. He rides off with an annoyed jangle of his bicycle bell.
    â€œWhat is the matter with you?” says Sumati. “You’re as jumpy as … as a mustard seed in a frying pan!”
    She makes me grin in spite of myself.
    â€œIt’s Mami, right?” she says.
    I try to whistle and fail miserably. I’ve never been able to whistle anyway, why would I get it right this time?
    She says, “Do you think … ?” at the same time as I begin, “That’s what I …” She stops. “Okay, you go first.”
    Mami,” I say. “There’s something wrong with her.”
    Sumati says, “She’s just upset about the milk. She’s touchy about things like that.”

    â€œIs that all?”
    â€œI don’t know. Amma says she’s just getting old.”
    Our conversation has made the walk seem shorter than it is. The Aavin milk booth is a hole in the wall framed by wooden shutters that are painted a bright blue. It is wedged between a newspaper vendor’s stall and the shop where Mami grinds her coffee. The scent of roasting beans fills the air, overpowering the faint nastiness of the rubbish heap on the other side of the road. A cow pushes through early morning traffic to pick a banana peel delicately off the garbage. People cross the road at a quick clip, avoiding the traffic that has already begun to thicken. The cow plods on, her sights set on a clump of flowers hanging over someone’s hedge. Overhead, rows of pigeons sit like animated ornaments on the flat roof-edges of apartment buildings.
    I am breathing in the day when suddenly I feel Sumati stiffen.
    Teenage girls lounge in a gaggle at the bus stop just outside the milk shop. They eye us curiously. I eye them back—tight jeans, tailored jackets, and shoes with platforms so high you’d think only a stilt walker