The F-Word Spring 2022

pouch baby

By Mansi Dahal ruma didi’s muddy feet clatter in her kitchen. she has a pouch where she slips her fingers to feel the baby. on the black slab she cuts fresh, green chillies into halves. she is scraping the seeds with a spoon. her wrists burn with heat. a patch of bare skin has lost color. she shakes off the thousand seeds and washes her hands. her long dark hair wags. there are giant steel buckets filled with fresh milk. she doesn’t care about the cow dung underneath the bucket. odor like musty eggs. she bends gracefully and laps up the milk. then she picks up the bucket and passes the milk through a rusty netted strainer. a lump of yellow and some bundled hair. she dips the aluminum milk measure in the bucket. a liter in each bowl. one by one she places the bowls on the floor. one by one she covers them with lids. a fly sneaks into one of the bowls. before it stops moving, she uses her index finger and thumb to pull it out and throw it on the side like a useless booger. the few rays of light that enter through the attic have dissolved into darkness. the customers are now waiting outside the door. she pours the milk into their jars tilting the bowls until the last drop of milk falls. they pay forty rupees per liter. for thick milk that has not been mixed with water. she keeps the track of her customers in a notebook tucked in the top shelf next to her baby in the pouch. the papers are moldy and wet.

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