Kamásh Kessah kant -4mi bahr | balochistanvlogs2020

An old Baloch man, his face weathered like the mountains, sits cross-legged under the shade of a palm tree. His eyes, though dim with age, still sparkle as he recalls the wisdom of his forefathers.

"In my time," he begins, his voice steady but soft, "milk was not just a drink; it was life itself. We had camels, goats, cows, and even sheep. Each animal's milk had its own taste, its own purpose.

Camel milk — thin and salty — was what we drank when the sun scorched the sands. It kept us strong, quenched our thirst, and was lighter on the stomach. We churned it into a tangy yogurt, perfect for long journeys.

Goat milk — rich and creamy — was our medicine. If someone was sick, we would heat it with herbs. It was easy to digest, good for the old and the young. And when it curdled, we made a soft cheese, crumbly and white like the morning clouds.

Cow milk was the one we used for butter. We would skim the cream and churn it until our arms ached. The leftover liquid became buttermilk, sour and refreshing, a drink to cool the body after a day of labor.

Sheep milk, though less, was thicker and richer. We made the best ghee from it, a golden oil that lasted through the seasons. And when we mixed it with dates or honey, it became a sweet treat for the children.

Every drop of milk had a purpose, and nothing was wasted. Now, people buy their milk in cartons and bottles, forgetting the hands that once milked it and the hands that once churned it. But the taste — ah, the taste — that still lingers on my tongue."
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