Of the Barbers Providence Brings Me

Raja ke sar pe seeeeng!

The nasal ditty-voice meanders. On stone-paved alleys, in liquid afternoons, turbans rise and bob towards places. Once upon a time, to remix a story someone told me, there was a Raja. He was having a haircut. His barber's name was Babban. Babban was conscientious, hardworking and diligent; without coaching or reservations he was selected for the royal snip snip snip. But today Babban paused. The Raja did too. Babban continued but O the scissors froze. Babban baulked again. Horns on the royal pate? O swami of Hari-ki-Dun! The Raja half-turned and with a straight index finger on a shivering mousatche said Sshhhhhhshshsh. And thus it wound up, with a scrape scrape and brush brush and talcum powder puff puff, and certainly no mirror.

And the poor lad ran like wind through the woods like madness on slipperless feet. And in a desolate faraway hollow stump he finally screamed it out, out, and coughed for a dwindling effect:

Raja ke sar pe seeeeng!

Many years later people made instruments from hollow stumps and sold them. And there was a concert. And the Raja sat on obese hips, fresh from garlands placed by genuflecters, and fresh from manly exploits. But then he blanched, white as a barber's sheet.

Shehnai: Raja ke sar pe seeeeng!
Tabla: Kisne kaha?
Harmonium: Kisne Kaha?
All three: Babban hajaam ne, Babban hajaam ne, Babban hajaam ne.

Babban, I am convinced, is my barber too in Mumbai. He bears a perpetual look of guilt, of having great secrets in his bosom, of being a small man, a mere gossip-bearing mouth, a mere wielder of scissors over the heads of the educated. The least I can do is ask him his name.

Me: bhaiyya aapka hamein naam hi nahin pata?
He: wwwllllwwwwwwlllwllw
Me: kya tha woh?
He: WWWwllllwwwwwlllwwllw
Me: haan?

His scissors pause in mid-snip poise. He departs like a snapped love affair, with a spasm of U.P irritability. He leans out and spits a leaping, red-hooded snake of paan, and returns with a paan-scented wind.

Me: raised eyebrow.
He: Babloo

You fellow. Breaking my neck with a complementary post-talcum massage. He pulls my eyebrows, twists my ears, crushes my head, chops on my head, and grins after flicking off the silky tubelight-white sheet.

The barber outside IIM Bangalore too, looked guilty morning, noon and night, weighed down by being a small man caught in terrible events. One terrible murky night, when the gales blew and the trees swayed and the skies lit up with streaking charge etc., it got into my head that I needed a haircut. So I walked to the gate and took a left turn towards 'PHD Hair Saloon' which is near the tarkaari market.

Me: medium aagi maadi, munde swalpa kammi cut maadi, baaki yella medium.

It takes a while for a barber to understand that, given the odd shape of my head. After three bad, morale-sapping haircuts I decided that this barber was ready. Go for it brother, may the force be with you.

Hmmm. A job well-begun is a job half-done. My head is a job and my head, the left side of it, was half-done. Bravo. Most exquisite sir. Crew cut and all. But then we both said, in unison:

-'Aiyyoooooo!!!'

..Horta hoi tu... Electricity gone, poof! like that. Aiyyo. Tomorrow the facchas have their summer placements. I am to be the rep for a leading consumer goods company. That too my dream company. What to do?

It's 9 p.m. He's getting restless.

I play snake on my Nokia 1108 in the dark. He plays Radio FM on battery.

It's 10 p.m. I curse the government. I curse the unreliability of infrastructure. I curse the gall of 'India Shining' when simple fellows have a mop of hair one one side and a crisp crew cut on the other. The proletariat needs electricity. The citizens need electricity! At least one citizen does.

We talk, two shadows in the dark, he moves behind me, edging toward the door, trying to lock his shop and somehow sneak home. He mentioned his wife, his two children, and the fact that he hasn't had dinner. 11 p.m. His brother-in-law is not well, they will all be waiting to lock the door and sleep...

Finally, merci O Venkateshwara, hoarder of free hair, the light blinks- and he's on my head like a demented arthropod, clawing frantically with scissor, knife and clipper.

All's well that ends well. For the elaborate and careful instructions I had given him, I got a really really short haircut and a dark stupid round head. The gales blew, and trees swayed. Out went the lights again. Into campus slipped the hermit.

I got someone else to volunteer for me next day at placements. I forgave the barber, who continued to look guilty. There certainly are barbers of varied shapes and sizes. Why do I get all the guilty-looking ones, O Lord? What prescience plays on their minds when I walk into their shops? What curse of jolly-romping Rajas do I bear?