The long story of short hair

Recently I took my son to a hairdresser for a new haircut. Normally, all the salons are dressed up in a way to attract its customers. The signboard and the displays assure you of the entire transformation of your looks. They display the success stories of their earlier experiments with the clients. The pictures show different hairstyles and me looking smart and handsome. Well, I was hoping the least of them in my son's case. It was expected to be a transformation, but in the reverse order.
My son had to surrender to one such hairdresser at his threading ceremony where he had to get his head shaved off as per the rituals. He did that bravely and sported that new look for a couple of months. Once he had his hair grown sufficiently, we got his proper haircut suitable to his thin face. My experience says that you need at least fifteen days to look better after your visit to a barber. At least I think so about myself and even with my son, Abir. In fact, my theory says that you need to have a perfect proportion of hair to suit your face - size & shape. Precisely, there's a monthly season of your best look. Like the moon it either grows or diminishes every day. The best look is the full moon and the day of your haircut is the no moon night. But hair keep on growing and one really can't have the worst or the perfect look all the time.
Well, I am talking here especially us, the middle class men, who like to call it a haircut in public, but we get them cu in reality. Nobody has a clue of a smart haircut after looking at our hair after cutting. We usually have holidays on weekends. The places we go are flooded with the similar kinds. Each salon (saloons that's what we call) has 2-3 hair dressers each. They all are fully occupied. We ask them of our turn and roughly it's always after fifteen minutes. In fact, without any mistake, they count their one minute for three minutes. It always takes more than 45 minutes. Finally our turn comes and we sit on the revolving chair that never revolves, covered in a damp apron. We get a chance to take a good look at ourselves. Slowly we start feeling that we look good in the present hairstyle and we don't need a haircut and as if sensing our mind, the hairdresser turns up and we lose that only chance to escape.
Almost all of us are so obsessed by the mushrooms or cauliflowers or broccolis that we suggest the barber to shorten the hair at the back of our heads and keep them long in the front. They are also so used to this demand, that they've already started working with the scissors on our locks in the front. We bid farewell to the long hair and after some time we realise that he's shortening them more than we had wanted. But the job's already done. And even if we dare to say, he silents us with the jargons like level, texture, etc. Or simply he blames to the shape of our head. Can you do anything about it? No, you can't. And you've already handed your head to him, practically. So, he goes on working as per his will. Once he's done, he picks up a huge mirror and holds it near the back of our head to show us how much he's listened to you. You are not much happy with your hair. Again, you cannot say anything. But he makes it up by tickling and scratching your head that he calls head massage. You feel better. (That's what he thinks.) You pay Eighty rupees and leave. The small hair particles start pricking. So, you have to rush to your home and wash yourself.
I have also had a word with the people who go to some expensive parlours. They told me that the experience was totally different there. They go by an appointment, so that they don't have to wait much - fifteen minutes and not forty five minutes. They have magazines to scan through (who reads these days?) and a television to watch. And being a unisex salon, they have better faces and occasional smiles to face. You are greeted nicely when it's your turn. They discuss your look and haircut with you. You are treated like a king. And the artists start working, not with scissors, but with clippers. You also feel nice being covered in a crisp and fragrant sheet. The lighting sets the perfect mood and the good quality mirrors show your face in the same shape and size, unlike the salons we visit. The hair artists work on your head gently. They talk only if you ask them to. Finally, everything's done and still you feel like the demand has not met yet. You could have looked better if you were listened to. But, it's too late by then and you end up paying a bomb for that look. 
I remembered all that and took Abir to a local shop. It was that perfect time of looks for Abir - the fool moon. It was only eight days ago when Deepali, my wife and I were discussing about his looks. He had started looking better. And then the next day, he came with that news, a bad one. He came home with a demand to get his haircut done. We were thinking like how come he came with such kind of demand. He never asked for anything like this before. But slowly he started spilling the beans and disclosed that it wasn't his demand origally. It was a warning which he had painted as a demand.
He was warned at his school to get rid of his crop. It was a straightforward warning first saying that if he doesn't then he won't be allowed to attend the PT class. (How I wish I was warned something like this in my school days!) And then he, along with some of the other classmates, were also advised that the growing hair eat the share of calcium in the body that is supposed to be expended in strengthening of bones. All the children were convinced and threatened at the same time. As a result Abir threatened us, if we don't get his haircut done, he won't go to school. Did we have any choice being the 21st century parents, ridden by guilt that we can't give him much and filled with insecurity of what would he do if he is not allowed in the school? No, we didn't. Hence, I was the one who took him to a salon.
There was already a victim who had surrendered his head to the craftsman. He was working on his hair. In fact the zero machine was mowing his head and shortening the length. The hairdresser was aware the exact length required for schools. (Was there any under the table handshake?) Thank goodness, the schools haven't started suggesting a particular salon for the haircuts. (This can be a good way of marketing for the salons, in fact. Think about it dear hairdressers and don't forget to send me the royalty if it works.) The hairdresser also told me that the teachers keep their palm on the heads of the students. If they can pinch the hair between their finger, then they are ready for harvest. Looking at the plain and silky texture at Abir's hair, I was so sad that he was going to part them. But I was helpless. The monthly season of the best look for my boy was about to be over.
I remembered the elders saying during my childhood an old Marathi proverb that loosely means 'Grow your wisdom and be a Swami Vivekanand instead of being a Dev Anand by growing your hair'. I mean, seriously? With due respect to Swami Vivekanandji, in fact out of that respect only, how can we become someone like him? Come on. Every person comes with a fixed amount of brain. At least, we don't have that kind of brain in our family. My father always opposed this kind of bullshit even being a teacher. He always encouraged me to grow hair. He used to argue with his fellow teachers who would punish the students for not keeping short hair. Even today, he says how can the length of hair measure the wisdom. Obviously, he was the most to be unhappy when he saw Abir in his shortened hair. He even says what's wrong in being Dev Anand. Someone who earned Rs. 35 a month as his salary once, became one of the Superstars of Hindi Film Industry. Why can't be like him if you are not cut out to be someone like Swami Vivekanand?
There was also a news about a teacher and her headmistress were sued as they made a student to go under scissors in the classroom. Can you imagine? She actually called in a barber in the school and got the haircut done. I was curious if the barber took an opportunity and mowed some more heads. She did this because the student didn't pay attention to repeated warnings by her. This wasn't a grave crime that she along with her senior was sued. But still, this is insane. Why teachers are so obsessed of short hair?
Jokes apart, but I alos never understood the relation of hair and discipline or hair and wisdom or hair and manners. What's so big deal? The gods kept long hair themselves. We've seen in the pictures. And we know that people in long hair look good. Look at the filmstars. Then why do they want us or the students look so bad in short hair. I honestly feel that no man, except for Daniel Craig, can look handsome in short hair. Daniel Craig doesn't belong to the planet anyways. (Please don't misunderstand me by my comments about this current James Bond even if I respect the Supreme Court's decision of the Act 377.)
I used to keep long locks and people who knew me then would still recall. But gradually my hair started calling it a lifetime and receded. Now, I can't even though I want to. In short, the life of hair is short in this century. I have started fearing that hair will be declared as an endangered specie after a few years looking at the growing number of bald people. So, let the children enjoy them till the time they can have them on their heads. Please please please, don't measure them by the pinch of your fingers, consider the looks quotient too. Let there be more Dev Anands too.

The man with a fountain pen

     Vishy collects pens. Rather he buys them and they keep on added to his collection. He never thought of doing it intentionally. But eventually after 20 years of relentless pen buying, he realised that he has a collection of pens. Then onwards, he doesn't buy them. He collects. He also feels good when I say that. This is another common thing between him and Mr. Bachhan, apart from both being Indians or Mr. Bacchan isn't (an Indian)? God knows.

     I also buy a pen, occasionally. A very few though. Like once in a year or two, only then when I realise that the current one is totally useless. They become useless if you use them more often or if you don't use them at all. I, being a writer, buy fountain pens and Vishy being a collector buys anything - a ball point, a gel pen and even a fountain pen. He goes by the looks of a pen. They should go with his clothes, as an accessory. I write scripts and he writes cheques. Not that he writes cheques to me for my writing. But he writes them to many. He finds it insulting if he has to borrow a pen from someone. He always uses his own tools to blow his money. Just kidding! He's a very disciplined businessman otherwise. And he also collects properties!

     That was a reason I had a chance to go to an NGO. Not a Non Government Organisation, but a Non (well) Governed Office. It was nothing less than most of the government offices are. It was a back office of a back office for a government office. Like any office, computer screens dominated the place. Unlike the government office, there weren't any tables to separate the needy ones from the authority. They both were sitting side by side in front of a computer, for a change. But you can tell their respective roles just by looking at their faces. The operators were busy. Their fingers were working swiftly on those keyboards. They used to stop occasionally, would ask something to the clients and then would start typing again. This whole time of break from the screen, they always used to break their knuckles as if they were making their fingers ready for the next assault on the poor keys. There, I could relate myself with them. I do the same whenever I write for so long which hardly takes place though. But whenever it does, I do the same.

     The computer screens were filled by the endless legal terms. People like you and I can recognise only 'figures' and 'rupees in words' of those relentless scrolling lines on the screens. They were all preparing the legal documents required to sale or rent a property. The place was filled with lawyers and their clients - who ranged from a student to a builder. But they all were the same for the operators. They were filling the blank spaces with names, amounts and a number of years (in case of a rental agreement). The exact same straight face for any amount or any name may it be a celebrity or a political leader or a student. So, my friend was one of the names in those blank spaces. That gave me a change to be present at such holy place.

     There was a post middle aged man sitting in a corner with a (once) black blazer like the lawyers wear. But this one was really worn out, both the man and his coat as a matter of fact. He had a small desk in front of him. A sly looking young man was slouching over the table by standing beside him. He was flipping through the pages and the lawyer was designing his precious signature at the designated places, almost mechanically. Once the document was finished signing, the prompt assistant would calculate the total based on the number of signatures. So, his signature came with a cost. He was a notary officer. He was authorised to sign those documents and he was charging his professional fees.

     During his signing spree, one of the documents was missing the signature of a certain party. It broke the chain of his signatures. He pointed out it to the assistant without uttering a word. The assistant was smart enough to understood it quickly. He was a mediator, so he politely asked the party to make a signature at the said place. The poor party dressed in branded clothes didn't have a pen. So, he asked for one directly to the notary officer. If looks could kill, the well dressed man would have been listening to his eulogy by then. The near sixty, harmless looking face of the officer changed into a fierce warrior they show in the old Chinese Kung Fu movies. He pierced his eyes in the man's eyes. For a second, he must have thought he was doing a grave mistake by buying or selling that property. But it was not about his property. It was about the property of the one who was staring fiercely at him, the notary officer. He looked up at his assistant with his forehead webbed in frowns. The assistant was calm, may be seasoned by the scene. It was Vishy who came for the rescue. He immediately held the latest addition to his collection in front of that man.

     The party was soaking in sweat. He signed in a jiffy. The job was done. He left by paying whatever the assistant had asked for. I am sure he must have charged him more for asking for pen. It was our turn next. But, the officer got up from his place and left. That was the time, he had decided to take a break. That's what the assistant told us while checking for all the necessary signatures on our document.

     'So, what was it all about?' I asked him.

     'Tomorrow, you would ask for his liver,' he said without even looking at us. There was nothing attractive in our faces as compared to those signatures.

     Vishy and I looked at each other. I have been always teasing him for carrying pens like a school boy. But it paid off today. He was smiling and I was relieved, thank god I was nothing to do with this signature thing. I was not carrying any pen.

     'What's the big deal about a pen?' Vishy - the epitome of generosity - was genuinely surprised. Forget a pen, I am sure he wouldn't hesitate even for a second before lending his Audi.

     'This is not a pen we are talking about,' I remembered the man saying. I was transported to the past by sitting on that pen.

     Now I was in Kolhapur. At a similar kind of place - a then NGO. In fact the activities were similar, but not the operations. They were the days when there were no computers, hardly any typewriters. Pen was still a useful tool and papers were still a commodity to be associated by the act of writing and not only printing.

     My father had bought a house in Kolhapur and we were all at a property registration facilitator's office. I was small. I remember the lawyer who was working out our agreement with the seller, took us there. So, we were there at that little office crammed with people, desks and a typewriter. Even today, these offices are essentially clumsy, so was that office then. Hence, I was dying to escape that place. But it was right on the main road. So, my parents weren't allowing me to go out alone. They showed my father and the other party some drafts and got them approved. Once everything was settled, we were asked to go to the next level.

     The whole procession of 8-10 men, women and a child (that was me, yay) led by our advocate, marched towards an old building nearby. This building was an ancillary to the main registration office. Utilities had peeled off the aesthetic charm of that structure. All three stories of that commercial place. The shabbily painted signboards were shouting the existence of stamp vendors, advocates, notary officers, copiers and every other thing that would require for the registration of the property dealings. There were ancillaries even to them. A corner of the lobby was occupied by a tea stall. There was a table sat in another corner where an old man was selling a common man's energy food such as tobacco, cigarettes and paans, the residues of which were present on the walls and the corner spaces on the stairs. Parties, lawyers and agents were either drinking their miseries with a strong cup of tea or were chewing & spitting the gossips with every dose of well mixed tobacco or sending their frustrations wrapped in the grey blue smoke.

     Our group crossed a long verandah and reached to a staircase. I started climbing up assuming that we were supposed to go up. But our leader stopped me and he went into a tiny alley made by the stairs and the wall. Living upto the reputation (and may be the eligibility criteria), this one was also a crammed space, this makeshift office. There was a group of village people standing awestruck. They were covering the entrance of that small set up, engrossed watching something intently. Their lawyer was impatiently waiting outside and urging them to reach to the main office for the registration. He greeted our lawyer exasperatedly like 'as if this guy is a hero and we are his attendants'. Our lawyer too replied with the same expression. It must have been a common reason of their frustration apart from the pain of the other procedures in registrations itself. Now, I became curious. What exactly this place was doing to the papers that people were so much in awe and who made the lawyers jealous?

     I, being a child, had an advantage. So, I tried to penetrate through the wall created by the white clad villagers to catch a glimpse of the centre of attraction. But I couldn't pass them as the group disbursed. The spectacle was over it seemed. Their lawyer took charge of the documents. He checked them thoroughly and he started to leave. He was expecting the others to pay and follow him. But the villagers stood there chatting and admiring while paying. Finally, the group left after much insistence of their lawyer. And I saw him. I wondered what it could be in the heaven's sake this man possesses that he had a spellbound audience for the past half or more hour.

     His white chicken kurta and pajama was spotless even though his mouth was full with the paan juice. His beard was neatly manicured and the grey streaks were peeping occasionally. He was sitting on a mattress that was kept atop a setty with a small squat desk in front of him. He was looking like some seth at the Market Yard by his appearance. His big bright eyes spoke before he opened his mouth. Obviously, he couldn't speak even if he opened his mouth, because he did it to empty his paan juice and residues. He got up from the seat and went out. He smiled broadly on his return and greeted our lawyer, 'Namaskar Saheb!!'.

     Our lawyer too greeted and described the job. I still hadn't any clue of what he does. The elders with me probably had or they were keeping mum to keep their fists closed being the grown-ups. He was all set. He took the papers in his hands. Then he opened his desk and took out a thin stack of pale green blank papers matching the size and the colour of a revenue stamp paper. And then he took out a black pen as thick as a flute. He opened the cap and then opened the ink tank. He started pouring the ink from the Camel ink bottle. He knew the exact quantity of ink the pen can store and he actually required. He stopped even before it was fully filled. He closed the pen by the other half and capped the bottle. It seemed to be a ritual before starting a new job. He was now ready with for his show.

     He sat with one leg crossed on the mattress and the other one down on a small stool kept on the ground. He took the stack of blank papers in front of him and placed the stamp paper on top of it. He kept the reference document to his left. He took out a paan from his pouch and popped it. Then he stared at the papers in front of him for almost thirty seconds while we all were watching, curiously. I saw a few of us covering their smirks. He opened his eyes and uncapped the pen. The brass nib shone. It was a fountain pen. He put it on the stamp paper and began his magic with that black wand. First he wrote the names of the parties. The stamp paper that bore a standard stamp and some scribbling in the name of receipt by the stamp vendor. Now, it started looking like a love letter when our guy wrote the first word - the name of one of the parties. It was just the beginning and what followed next described me of the spell that he took all of us under. The stamp paper and the blank paper underneath and the next and the next... every paper began to look like a beautifully printed document.

     That was the very reason he had been admired and demanded. He was a genius writer. Writer not like an author, but more like a typewriter, a human copier. He was gifted. The calligraphically written words on the paper were equal in height and breadth. Each letter was spaced out like a programmed one. And his handwriting on tip of it! It was something one would call a human marvel. So beautiful and neat! A stunning piece of art. He was a true super star of his work. He went on writing ahead, so focused and so patient. The world around seemed evaporated to him. His concentration and consistency were paying off in the form of lines after lines filled with beautiful looking words and that with not a single error, thought though all of them were legal terminology. It was a lovely treat to watch, this man sitting there and writing while others watching intently. He was obviously used to the praises. But now, he was at work and he was not ready to pay attention to them. Our lawyer suggested that that would take an hour or two, so he would be back by finishing his other work. The elders decided to have some food in the meantime. I didn't want to leave. In fact nobody wanted to. But we had to.

     He was still writing even when we returned. I was happy that I could watch it for some more time. In fact, I was also advised to learn some tricks to improved my handwriting which was not less than an alien code language. I myself was seriously considering to learn though. We were even told that even the government officers or the judges used to send their special letters to him for converting them into masterpieces. Finally, he capped his pen like a warrior puts his sword back in the scabbard after a victory and he got up to empty his mouth. That was the indication that he must have finished. He handed over the papers to our lawyer who was checking them by now. And the genius writing artist was busy accepting praises from us. He was no less than a star to me. The lawyer approved the documents. It was the time to sign. My father signed first and then the other party and they went to discuss something with the lawyer. It was my mother who was supposed to sign as a witness. But she didn't have the pen and she asked it to the writer. And that was it.

     'I can't give you my pen, sorry,' he said politely.

     'But, it's a matter of a signature, a mere word,' my mother pleaded.

     'No Didi,' his tone was still polite, 'I can't. That's my pen.'

     A pen was a pen. So, what was the big deal? Even I thought so and so as everyone else. But he kept on refusing. Now, my mother and the wife of the other party got irritated by this attitude. He wasn't arrogant at all. In fact he was having pen refusing my mother's request. He was also saying that unfortunately he didn't have a spare pen. But he insisted said that he couldn't lend his own.

     Now, that was getting awkward. Finally, my father came and the ladies made their signatures. But the good vibes turned into sour by this incident. The artist sensed it and he explained.

     'It's my Laxmi, my only tool to earn my livelihood. I have trained it for the purpose. I can't let it bungled.'

     That was the last thing one could hear. But he explained to us further. As per his experience, fountain pens have nibs that take the shape of your handwriting. That one had been trained and shaped to suit his handwriting. So, if my mother or the other lady used it, it would lose its shape, was his defense. This was strange. He was a writing artist, a handwriting master who loved his profession and was possessive of the tool of his livelihood. We left the place after paying him. I still remember that guilt for the inconvenience caused by his adamant attitude. But he looked helpless.

     Years passed by and even today my father and I joke about it sometimes. This incidence of possessiveness about a pen surfaced again after that Notary officer's outburst at this facilitator. Though everyone found it strange the way we did at the artist in Kolhapur, I had sympathy for the Notary officer. He must have his reasons for being possessive of his pen.

     'What's so big deal about a pen?'

     I looked around at the computer operators filling the blank spaces on the screens with names, addresses and amounts relentlessly and the printers churning out the pale green papers satiated with neatly organised sentences full of legal terminologies. It somehow reminded me the writing artist. He must be old by now. But computers started taking over right after five or six years since we bought our house. So, what must have happened to that master writer, who took pride in his art? He was a professional who used to love the sight of people surrounding him while he was engrossed in turning the unrecognisable legal documents into masterpieces. Was he too compelled to learn a computer? He had to, I guessed. Otherwise how could have survived? That was his only source of income. Every time I went to Kolhapur, I thought of visiting the place to see that old building and that star human copier. But I didn't dare to. I couldn't see him typing on a keyboard or taking out copies on a printer. I couldn't see the pain in his big bright eyes of parting his most favourite tool.

     The fact that I didn't have courage to see him without his trained fountain pen.