“My” Milk!!!

Unlike many canines that I know, I am not habited to marking my territory with my excrement. My upbringing in a very cozy home and hostel life to a large extent have blurred out my sense of personal space and belonging. More importantly they have instilled the tendency to share comfortably and the ability to co-exist with other humans without wanting to bite their head off everyday. So it was a cultural shock for me when I moved to the US. It took a while to get used to the fact that the people here have strong definitions of their intimate zones and are not very ready in sharing. But the cultural electrocution however was ultimately provided by an Indian household nevertheless.
I was very happy with the food that was served that day except for the initial “P” that had been inscribed with a sharpie on the hardboiled egg that was on my plate. “It is only on the shell.” was the unabashed reply to my questioning glance. “The initials are to mark out my eggs” she added. “Well, we label our stuff in the fridge” she said nonchalantly when the questioning glance refused to wane. To my dismay, she was not even joking. Every egg in the fridge had individually labeled with one of 4 different initials. Milk bottles had been marked, with level indicators to ensure no one was cheating. “Well, that is “My” milk” (But of course with the M in capitals) she offered me a glass to drink, and coming from a girl’s mouth, it sounded funny in more than just one way.
The rest of the kitchen was no better. One tray in the refrigerator was teeming with groceries, whereas another, had a lonely yoghurt can crying for company. But then things could not be moved to that tray because that was her “My” tray, and it was forbidden territory. Crossing the line of control would cause unimaginable political turmoil. There was already great tension due to the infiltration of a “Your” chewing gum wrapper from one tier into an open vessel of 3 day old “My” dhal that was harboring a harmonious mat of “definitely not my” fungi in the tier below. Space was a big constraint; each person was allowed only a quart of “My” milk and a quart of “My” juice each and gallons were out of the question. Everything was there in quadruplicate, “My X 4” cutlery, utensils, food, spices, condiments and even “My” salt. SALT!!!
The rest of the house was not spared from the reeking of their territorial pissings either. Speakers were banned. “My” Laptops and computers were run exclusively in muted mode. The “I also paid for it, and hence have equal rights over it” television had degenerated to become vestigial. Each of the two “My by two” bedrooms was equally divided into 2 “My” parts by a nonexistent line. Each half harbored a “My” microenvironment characteristic of its resident. It amazing how half a “My by two” room can be clean, and the other half be dirty at the same time. The “Mine if clean” Clothes and towels could not be left hanging in the “My by four” bathrooms and the “MY and I will kill you if you touch it” shampoos and cosmetics, as a matter of preference, were never left in the bathroom either. For no reason at all, people never lived in the “our” living room. There was no rule against this, but they simply preferred not to.
My “our” household, to the contrast was a free for all. The stuff in the “our” fridge was open for all roommates, friends, friends-of-friends, relatives, neighbors and I am pretty sure the homeless bum on the road often dug in for a bite too. I was very upset when this equilibrium was shattered one day when a can of “My” milk had stealthily encroached into my fridge. The aroma and taste of the “I can give you a sip if you want” coffee I was drinking were sucked out instantaneously when I was informed that I had used “My” milk instead of my milk.
I could do nothing but stare with utter dismay when what started of as a small isolated hut of “My” milk, gained fortification and grew into a huge ugly slum filled with all kinds of “My” stuff, rooting themselves steadily in my fridge. Not only were new “My” stuff establishing themselves in the fridge but also things that were “our” crockery earlier were gradually deserting my cause and converting into “My” crockery. I was beginning to learn the biggest lesson in my life, a complete understanding of the concept of “My” milk.
There are 2 different things namely, my milk and “My” milk. My milk can be consumed by me, us and “ME”. But “My” milk can be consumed only by “ME”. My milk can be in my house, our house or “My” house. But “My” milk can only be in “My” house. Any inadvertent consumption of “My” milk by me, immediately pushes “Me” into the brink of starvation and puts “Me” in a life and death situation. This subsequently puts me in a would-love-it-if-you-drop-dead situation. On the other hand, my milk can be freely consumed by “Me” because sharing is a virtue that is expected of me, but certainly not expected of “Me”. In essence, my to a certain extent translates to “our” but “My” can only translate to “My”. The difference between my milk and "our" milk is only a matter of perspective.
Furthermore, “My” milk comes in “My” milk bottles. But however once the “My” milk is consumed, the “My” bottles immediately change allegiance and become “Its not my” or “I don’t know who’s” bottles. Also in case growth of any unidentified bacterial species occurs in the “My” milk, it immediately baptizes it and changes it to “I swear its not my” milk. On the other hand if any such unfortunate disaster occurs to my milk, it suddenly becomes “YOUR” milk. There have also been isolated observations of “My” milk converting to “Your” milk under similar conditions.
I really am beginning to hate this “My” game with all my “My” blood and “My” guts. If I don’t share, it is because I am cheap, but if “I” don’t share, “I” am only being fair. “My” milk has simply walked into my “MY” life and turned sour, as does milk.
When I wrote this article I wondered what if “I” read this article. But then I don’t really care and that’s just “:M.E:”.