The Death Of A Milkman Poem by RONY PATRA

The unthinkable has happened, with just a single fatal fall
Bhola, the neighbourhood milkman, has gone away from it all
Yes, he has escaped from his daily tortuous duties
He now lies dead, surrounded by his healthy bovine beauties

When he was alive, he tirelessly sold cow’s milk day and night
And this service of his took his reputation to a new height
But no one paid attention to his poverty and drooping frame
And Bhola became the latest victim of Death, God’s cruel game

Some passers-by notice his body, and pull it out of his hut
They want to quickly dispense with it, rather than get into a rut
Some of them quickly dig a grave, and organize a small funeral
But no one sheds tears for him, as his body gets a hurried burial

Days pass, months pass, milk has run woefully short in the neighbourhood
And Bhola’s bovine beauties seem to have given up giving milk for good
Babies, children, wrestlers stomp their feet and cry a bucketful
“Get a new milkman! ” becomes the new mantra of a handful

A new milkman does arrive, from the colony next-door
He starts charging the people fifty rupees for packets of four
Hearing this, the people of the neighbourhood lament, fume and fret
They realize that the much-criticised late Bhola was a much better bet

But what had to happen has happened, there’s no turning back
God has a plan for every living creature, which no one can attack
In the open field where, after dark, wayward youths smoke cannabis
Bhola rests in peace, surrounded by his dying bovine beauties