The days are long now. Still I can't forget the vibrant everyoung boorish old man frequented every morning my home. He used to supply our daily milk from a miles away village, the name became familiar to us only from him. Unimaginably about 30 yers ago he was nearing his eighties, tall 'bout six feet and leaning forwrd jointly by his age and of course for the two heavy drums he carried. Never he he used any cart or van, neither he knew cycling. The funny thing was that he spent an hour almost during his busy schedule in our home, sitting flat on the floor and swirling the end of his soiled cloth attempting to fan himself while opening a pandoras box to a couple of teen listeners - me and my brother. We were so much used to his Hamlyn-like story telling skills that we just couldn't digest our breakfst without him.
Yes, he was our story teller and he also fonded this very much against much displeasure of our grand-ma. We understood it was her some paint-up displeasure, because she also joined the listening eagerly. The point of her objection was quite legitimate and feminine, why he too will accost her "grand-ma" along with us when he is surely elder than her!
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