The Hair and the Tortoise

Note: In between, when you find statements in italics, it is my alter ego responding to my writing. Really? And you thought this was a cool way of writing, why?

The title is not a spelling mistake. This is not the usual children's story, but a gripping tale of a struggling man from downtown Meghalaya, an effervescent Brahmin boy from Madras and a pair of scissors. Basically, you got a haircut.

Yes, I did. As a man, I have always wondered why men go to expensive saloons. When I was 9 years old, my dad religiously took me to the same Malabar saloon every time he thought my hair was too long. Your dad thought that every month. He is your dad too. Oh, yeah. Sorry.

Every month, my dad used to leave me at the saloon, tell the guy 'Summer cut, pa. Clean cut.' and walk off. There were the same set of people with disheveled hair, reading a Tamil crime novel or staring at the then new Tamil heroine's 'hot picture' which was on the cover, while I innocently sat outside and read Young World. No, you didn't. You were trying to peek at the cover.

Okay, maybe I did. But I at least looked like I was reading Young World. A haircut then costed 9 Rupees. I was given 10, and was never asked for accounts for the gargantuan balance that remained. You bought Caramilk! Whoever buys Caramilk? Caramilk was the second suckiest chocolate ever after Nutrine Mahalacto. Mahalacto wins hands down because they could have decoratively packed a pebble instead of the chocolate and Nobody would have known the difference.

You're making me digress. When I got to college, all the girls were going to Bounce or Studio Profile or Naturals. I am sure all the boys went to a Malabar Saloon or a Dhanush Saloon, but nobody had the balls to admit it. When I heard stories from these girls, I swear I heard my wallet sob. They paid 900 Rupees and all for a haircut! You paid 900 once. No, that was including the price of the Philips hair-dryer I broke.

How can you pay 900 bucks to lose hair? In Tirupati, they cut it all for free; and you get blessings from Balaji too. Some girls paid this 900 to cut the bottom-most part of their tresses alone, which aren't even noticeable, and that's called Step Cut it seems. 

Anyway, now I go to this other famous saloon called Green Trends. They employ these Manipuri/Nepali barbers who have such ridiculous hairstyles. How can I trust my hair with a man who has an electric blue streak in the middle of his head? Some have gelled it and spiked it up like the shocked guy in the Anchor Switches advertisement. You should stop cracking jokes. Actually, on second thought, Good one, bro. *fist bump*

Why do they always ask me 'Sir, what hair style yoo freefer?'. Every boy in Tamilnadu prefers and knows only 2 styles. Summer cut and Medium!

If I say medium cut, these guys always go snip-snip for hours like a tortoise and finally show me the same amount of hair I had before I started. Always. Then I say 'Summer cut' and he cuts nearly all of it off, and then I come back home looking like Tom Cruise from Top Gun. No, you Feel like Tom Cruise from Top Gun. What you Look like, is a man whose head got caught under a lawn mower. 

So, yes. That is my debate about expensive salons. Then again, I know there's hygiene, standards, style and everything else in all these fancy salons. But Malabar Saloon had Vividh Bharati. I guess I just miss Malabar Saloon. And the front covers of some magazines. 

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The Trip Above

What happens when you die? Is there really a fork in the road where they have a huge corporation office with hundreds of employees who check your past history at each level and evaluate whether you go to heaven or hell? Does Hell really have molten lava flowing below and Heaven have roads paved with sweet nectar? Honestly, it’s quite difficult to ride a cycle if the road is overflowing with gooey liquids.

I have never understood death. There is no understanding to it. But it leaves a void - a gaping hole in your family, or in your friends circle, but if not all this, certainly in your heart. A person’s death is not what haunts you. It’s their memories that do. Those little things and thoughts they left behind in your tiny tender heart that make you feel the pain and longing. There have been no deaths in my family in the past 23 years of my existence. But this year has been quite difficult on me.

Love does not have definitions. Maybe it has borders, but my grandmother certainly didn't know of one. She loved us all, equally. My mother should not read this post, but even if she does I doubt she’ll feel bad knowing that I said that my grandmother was the best cook in the house. My grandmother could make dishes that could send one of those lame apron-clad chefs on cookery shows scurrying for cover. But I can’t have any of those dishes anymore.

When I was around twelve, just like the other boys, I wanted all the chocolates and tennis balls that were available on the stands. But with my pocket money, I could have barely afforded a Melody chocolate a week without running into bankruptcy. So I used to slyly pocket some change off my grandmother’s purse once in a week. I thought I was too smart for her because she was seventy five already then and I thought she wouldn't have a clue. One day she came up to me, gave me a fifty rupee note and said that I might as well have just told her that I wanted chocolates, and added that I should maybe take care of my teeth. I didn't lay a finger on her purse ever since. And ever after, she regularly gave me money by herself. But I can’t get any of that anymore.

For the most part of my teenage life all the way until I turned 20, my grandmother and I shared a room. She used to sleep on one bed. I had another bed to myself but I always stayed up late because that was the time when insomnia was like low-waist jeans. I used to watch random sitcoms and movies with blaring noises throughout the night, but she never once complained. Sometimes she used to ask me to explain the story line of some sitcom and patiently listen to me describe the entire story. I never once bothered asking if I was disturbing her sleep. But I can’t ask her that anymore.

My brother-in-law got her a transistor radio from the United States. He was just going to get married to my sister and he had got pre-marriage gifts for the entire family and she got a transistor. She cherished the transistor and kept asking me to teach her how it worked. My cousin tried it once and because of some wrong voltage it stopped working. Every day after that she used to keep asking me to go repair the transistor so she can listen to music and I used to keep saying I will, but I never got around to it.

Then suddenly one day she got really sick and barely a week before my sister’s marriage she passed away. It just happened in a flash and it was so quick I couldn't even fathom the changes. So these days when my mom and dad are away, I absentmindedly ring the bell. Then I realize there’s nobody inside and hunt for my own keys. Sometimes when I’m sleeping and the power goes off, I immediately look into my neighboring bed to see if she’s sleeping fine. But there’s nobody there. Worse than all this, I look at the un-repaired transistor radio that stands on top of my cupboard and tears come streaming down my cheeks. I don’t think I understood love, paati. But you did. And you taught me quite fine. 

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