HANSA’S GHUNGROOS

I have four children, but my favourite is my four legged-baby, Hansa.

When I was 11, Hansa’s mother and I would set off before dawn with my father, exploring a new suburb on foot every day, selling spoonfuls of milk. Donkey milk is good for the immune system, but it should be consumed immediately or it gets spoilt. Some doctors recommend it to senior citizens and some parents believe that feeding it to newborns makes them smart. Immediately after a child has consumed a spoonful, I hold the baby upside down and twirl the little one above my head with a hand firmly holding the ankles. I then pass the baby between Hansa’s legs making a circle, like devotees doing parikramas, to ensure that the child doesn’t choke on the milk.

I used to have a bigger herd, deployed at construction sights to haul building materials. Rendered useless by machines, I sold them off at the annual animal market in Jejuri.

Demand for milk too has nosedived since the government began relocating slum dwellers to low-cost apartment projects. In a shanty town, information spreads horizontally. Hansa’s ghungroos and my calls would lure parents of out their huts, but it’s impossible to get that kind of attention in these concrete, vertical slums. Anyway, my children aren’t interested in the milk business either.

I cater to everyone, irrespective of caste or class, but I know they mock me behind my back. For them I’m just a donkeyman.