A Cup of Milk

SHORT STORY

‘Daddy, have you forgotten? Today is my birthday. Won’t you bring me sweets? Please do bring a packet’. With a face mixed with amazement and deep sorrow, the pensive father opened his quivering lips: ‘Amma, how can I forget? I do remember. But your present condition has tied the strings of my heart as well as my hands. How can I bring sweets when I see you in such a situation’. With a dry smile the girl answered. ‘I’m alright, daddy. I will be alright. You need not have any fear about my state. See how cheerful and lively I am! Please do bring me sweets, father’.

‘As you wish, child. If you are confident, what more do I wish’ With these words the father left.

Latha was the only daughter of Krishnaiah, an engineer in State Electricity Board. Unlike many men of his profession, who as a general principle are slaves of Mammon and Baeehus in acquiring wealth through all corrupt sources, he was a principled and scrupulous gentleman who did his duty without a blemish. Whenever sufferers came to him with complaints against his indolent subordinates, he chided his people and satisfied the public by promptly attending to their calls. As much attention he paid to the electric wires, the same or even more than that he used to pay in listening to theological deliberations and attending religious meetings besides bestowing a couple of hours after his supper to his earnest study of the lives of saints and seers. Surrounded by domestic responsibilities and familial attachments, he strived to aim at detachment from these mundane measures.

Latha was the apple of his eye and the breezy words of his daughter dispelled the dark clouds of tedium and vexation of his routine drudgery in the office. She never supped until he came and sat along with her, though he never came home before nine at night. He was both father and mother to her. He never went to bed for sleep without giving a cup of milk with horlicks to his affectionate daughter.

To her age she was brilliant and she seemed to know what he wanted just by looking at the face of her father. She was a precocious child. Studying tenth class, she won the hearts of her venerable teachers. Her father developed a sense of detachment in every aspect save in his affinity to his daughter. That which drove away his peace of mind was the recurring illness of his daughter. A week ago when she again suffered from the heart trouble, Krishnaiah took her to Vellore and admitted her in the C.M.O. Hospital. Two days ago surgical operation of the heart was conducted, under the personal supervision of the Senior doctor. She was kept still in the special Surgical Ward. By her bed-side was seen a net-work of scientific instruments and medical appliances. It looked like a different world and a close glance at it sent vague tremors of fear and repulsion into the minds of on-lookers. Doctors said to him: ‘The child can survive if she can live for these two days. The period of these two days is critical. We have done our best. Ultimately it is God’s grace. Sometimes medicines fail to cure, but a miracle can’.

The two critical days were over. Now came the third day an extraordinary day, her birthday. The father could not deny her request. He went and came with a packet of Nutrine chocolates. He kept it by her bed-side. Except her face and hands all her body was covered with tubes, instruments etc. In the midst of medical paraphernalia her hands were free and visible, and her face still shone with a queer spark of life. That day from morn till evening whoever came to her bed-side, from the senior doctor to the student nurse, her hand distributed the chocolates like another automatic machine. Doctors were astonished at her confidence and courage. Her father felt proud of his spirited daughter. He sat on the nearby lawn and silently chanted the name of the Lord, who is the real Saviour.

Exactly after a week Krishnaiah got his daughter discharged from the hospital and took her to his native town, Chandragiri. She bade good-bye to all the doctors and nurses who had begun to like her immensely. They had hardly seen a girl of her mettle and sprightly disposition. By noon they were in their house. Krishnaiah had taken special care in ringing up to his family doctor, Dr. Reddy, and giving him all the details and requesting him to come to the bed-side of the patient as soon as the call was made. He felt happy at the courageous talk of his daughter.

Assured of her improvement he went to his office after so many days, having left his daughter to the care of the servant-maid. After his office work, having received an invitation he went to the Gita Ashram to listen to the ennobling talk of a good Swamiji who set himself a model of simplicity. While he listened to the speech, he was able to forget all his afflictions and affiliations for an hour. He got for the time being much needed tranquility. He laughed to himself at the confused nature of the criss-cross relationships in nature and society. He felt his mind was rocked like an empty cradle between the two extremities of associations and dissociations of sensibility.

By the time Krishnaiah came home, it was 7 P.M. The anxiety about his daughter brought him quickly to the house. As he entered the door, he heard the sound of vomiting. Looking at her father, Latha said: ‘Father, even before I wanted to come out I have vomited. I’ll get it cleaned with the help of the maid. But for that I am alright. It is the journey, you see’. Father’s eyes welled with tears. He understood the anxiety of the daughter and he understood his heart equally well. With touching filial love his lips moved: ‘I’m not worried of the condition of the floor. I am worried about you vomiting and more worried about the weakness it causes in you. I’ll call for the doctor, child’. ‘I’m alright, father. It is only a simply vomiting, nothing more. You are very tired. You take rest for sometime’. ‘It is quite usual for me. You look so weak, child. You take some food. Or you take this cup of milk with horlicks’. But the daughter did not feel like taking any food. She felt too weak to eat. When she did not eat, the maid-servant also refused to eat, nor was she prepared to take all the cooked rice to her house. She sat by her bed-side.

Krishnaiah had totally forgotten his appetite. In his anxiety, he rang up the doctor and Dr. Reddy came quickly with his kit. He observed the patient and said it was general weakness after the major operation and there was nothing for anxiety. He gave necessary psychological courage both to the girl and to her father.

After the exit of the doctor, Krishnaiah went to the prayer room and sat silently praying to the God. He came to the bed-side of the daughter. The cup of milk was mocking at both of them. Sitting near her pillow, he tried to instill courage in her and advised her to concentrate on God for a few minutes. After a few minutes of quietness, she smiled and said with the same smile on her lips: ‘Father, in the past I did not know anything. In the recent days I have known so much. I am afraid of leaving you. I am afraid of death. Suppose I die, do you forget me, father’?

Without attempting to wipe or remove the tears trickling down his cheeks, the father, closing her lips with his fingers, uttered: ‘Child, don’t say so even for fun. After the treatment at Vellore Hospital, we need not have any fear. You will fully recover. Be courageous’.

At 11O’clock at night, Latha began gasping for breath. The father rang up to the doctor. No sooner did the doctor came there, than the girl had ceased to struggle with pain. She seemed asleep without any movement. The doctor felt the pulse and declared that she was no longer alive.

Many months after her exit, Krishnaiah sat at his table with a detached mind reading a few pages of the Gita. He closed the sacred book and before he went to bed, he brought a cup of milk with horlicks and kept it as he used to do in front of the mounted photograph of his dear daughter smiling quizzically at him.