amusingmuse’s blog

"I don't want it short; I want to make a ponytail" the little girl declared. I watched with interest as the six something girl explained to her mother and the hair dresser just how long she wanted her hair to be and how much hair she wanted in the front. Reminded me of Seva Ram

Seva Ram, in his loose white pajamas, a dull coloured shirt and a Nehru cap went from home to home offering cheap shaves, haircuts and head massages. In a tin box, which he carried around as proudly as an executive carrying his first laptop case, Seva Raj carried his tools of trade ' Scissors of various sizes, a pair of shears, a cake of soap, alum, some oils, a white cape like cloth and a couple of dangerous looking 'ustras' or shaving blades

Seva Ram used to make regular visits to our house - to 'clean shave' my father with his 'Ustra' and keep the crowning glory of us three kids short and manageable! On the day of the 'hair cutting' event Seva Ram would round up all three of us and seat us on the ground outside our house. Grabbing whoever was closest at hand, he would wrap the white cloth around the child and start snipping. The exercise would be repeated on the remaining two children regardless of gender giving all three of us a hair style quite similar to what Lalu Prasad sports replete with the fringes. For my brother initially, there was an added step in the hair cutting procedure ' Seva Ram would run the shears down his neck. Not wanting to be left out from an interesting experience my sister and I demanded that the shears be run on our neck too and the nice man complied! In our active lives there was no time to bother about something as unimportant as a 'hairstyle' and Seva Ram's output was never questioned.

The turning point however, came when I was around eight which makes my brother seven! I, my sister and two friends were giving a dance recital in honour of my parent's anniversary. We had the 'Gopi's' but the very vital 'Krishna' to our version of the 'Raas' was missing. Of course, none of us girls wanted to forgo our pretty skirts and makeup to play the role of a dark 'Krishna'. Inspiration struck and the help of my brother who had so far been neglected by us girls was enlisted. He agreed albeit a little reluctantly.

On 'D' Day little Krishna was dressed up very imaginatively by five very dedicated little girls. The result was spectacular ' a wooden flute in hand, Krishna wore a borrowed purple satin salwar, gold dust gleamed on his face and bare torso, he had 'kaajal' in his eyes and lipstick on his cheeks. To accommodate the big peacock feather his hair was pinned up in a small little fountain on top of his head ' this revealed Seva Ram's handiwork, my brother's fringe in full glory.

After the initial chaos created by five giggling girls doled up in 'Sarees' and one very resplendent but doubtful looking little boy died down, the dance recital began in earnest. In the midst, a couple of the neighboring boys decided to show up. Intrigued they watched for a while and then in true boy fashion loudly expressed their disgust at my brother's involvement in such a girlie affair. "Look, look he is wearing kaajal", "look his hair looks like a girls" not surprisingly our mortified Krishna fled the makeshift stage leaving us 'Gopis' stranded and very confused. Needless to say the show was 'called off' since our lead actor was in hiding and we Gopi's couldn't remember the remaining steps.

Seva Ram never cut our hair after the incident; my affronted brother passed all blame on to innocent Seva Ram for having given him a girlie cut. Seva Ram was replaced by the young guy who ran the 'Rose' Hair cutting Salon. We girls, not to be left behind shifted loyalty to the same place. I don't think 'Rose Salon' did anything better with our hair but I guess they did get rid of my brothers fringes which haven't shown up since!

I don't remember when we stopped seeing Seva Ram on his daily rounds ' our childish hearts were too full of the changes that were taking place every day to even miss him. He seemed to slip into oblivion as did many others who once plied their daily trade on the road below our house. The man who carried two pots of curd suspended on a wooden stick on his shoulder- two different qualities of curd at two different prices, the washerman with his big bundle of clothes, the man who sold little cakes, buns and biscuits from a box he carried on his head, the door to door cobbler with his amazing toolbox

Driving through San Diego, we stopped for a bite to eat at a small breakfast joint. A corner of the eatery was occupied by a group of elderly people whiling away their morning hours, chatting, napping and reading

Amongst the group, all of whom were in their seventies, sat a frail looking woman ' conspicuous, not only because of her loud throaty laugh and animated gestures but also because of the shades she wore. Her glasses were arresting - big and black with oversized round lenses, they were liberally decorated with glittering stone and metal. The shades would have been a spectacular, if not garish sight, on even the most glamorous of faces and yet here was a wrinkled face carrying them off with panache!

The dark glasses, in the cool confines of the busy place were certainly not needed; maybe they were a purposeful effort to hide the emotions that lay behind and could spill over through the eyes. Maybe, they made her feel attractive and captivating, helped her relive a youth long past. Maybe, she saw them as a means to draw attention away from her inexpensive dressing which spoke of her not so well to do living conditions

Whatever be the reason, there she was sitting like a Diva, gracing the little place in her larger than life, glamorous sunglasses. Matching the men word for word, flirting, laughing with abandon, living her moment in time ' daring to be different. As we left, I smiled at her and she smiled back, a smile free of artifice that was no less brilliant, but far more genuine, than the fake stones on her magnificent glasses.

I salute her spirit ' this ode (don't know who the author is) is to her and to each one of us

Just because no one has been fortunate enough to realize what a gold mine you are,
doesn’t mean you shine any less.

Just because no one has been smart enough to figure out that you can’t be topped,
doesn’t stop you from being the best.

Just because no one has come along to share your life,
doesn’t mean that day isn’t coming.

Just because no one has made this race worthwhile,
doesn’t give you permission to stop running.

Just because no one has realized how much of a woman you are,
doesn’t mean they can affect your femininity.

Just because no one has come to take the loneliness away,
doesn’t mean you have to settle for a lower quality.

Just because no one has shown up who can love you on your level,
doesn’t mean you have to sink to theirs.

Just because you deserve the very best there is,
doesn’t mean that life is always fair.

Just because God is still preparing your king,
doesn’t mean that you’re not already a queen.

Just because your situation doesn’t seem to be progressing right now,
doesn’t mean you need to change a thing.

My first memory of Gabbar Singh is of him with a sack of rice on his back walking up the curving road without even a walking stick to aid him. He was close to seventy then and had the wrinkles to prove it - to my seven years he was as old as God! He had come to work with a band of traveling labourers but when the rest of the ‘labour’ departed he remained behind running odd jobs for us and working as a Gardener in the neighboring homes. A small, musty room in the ’servant quarters’ of a Bungalow, owned by a benevolent pair of Anglo Indian spinster sisters, became his home

He had married four times he said - the first one died, the second eloped with his brother, the third he gave up on because of her vicious tongue and the fourth one was supposedly somewhere back in the village tending livestock. The much married Gabbar Singh became an immediate hit with my father and his friends most of whom were suffering from their first marriage and couldn’t even think of another! When quizzed on how he managed four women he would wink and burst into loud laughter. He was easily humoured and laughed with with gay abandon, his body shaking, his eyes watering. Watching him laugh could bring a smile to the most sullen faces

We children thronged to him - he always had wonderful stories to tell. Wide eyed we would hang on to every word of his while he brought alive ghosts, witches, fairies and talking animals. While telling his tales Gabbar Singh would knit, creating intricate, colourful patterns without any books to guide him. He knitted socks, sweaters and caps - some of these he sold to the shops dealing in hand knitted woolens and the remaining he packed off to various relatives in his village

We never asked if he had any children - not even my father knows. My sister and me he treated with a reverence which was surprising considering he belonged to an age and place in which girls were nothing but a burden - ‘Devi’ he called us. For us, he would cook lip smacking omelets on the stove in his little room (something my mother never knew of - she still doesn’t!) and serve us on tin plates. The omelets were as big an inducement as the stories he told and under the pretext of ‘playing’ we would spend hours with him. My brother he treated with slight disdain - saying that boys were no good and would grow up only to be ruled by their wives - a bitterness born maybe out of experience.

Gabbar Singh, was a chronic Drinker - he drank bottles of smelly liquor brewed in his village called ‘Soor’ and when that ran out, local country liquor. Yet, he was never intoxicated - I never saw his step falter or his speech slur. Watching him drink was something we kids never tired of. After his rice and Dal breakfast - he would place a steel glass, a brass vessel of water, his bottle of liquor, a plate of green chillies and some salt in a bowl on the sack that served as his table. Seated cross legged on the floor he would with precision pour alcohol in the tumbler, top it with water, gaze at it for a minute and then at one go, gulp the whole glassful down. He would emerge from behind his glass, wag his head, lick some salt and chew a chilli. Three or four glasses and an equal amount of chillies later Gabbar Singh was ready to take on the world. At night before after his dinner the same routine was carried out

One day Gabbar Singh received a letter from home and left. We never heard from him again but he remains in my memory - a grandfather figure with a wonderful story of his own life - a story he never shared and one which I will never hear. No one ever occupied his little room again

I went to see Gabbar Singh’s abode this time when I visited my hometown. The bungalow is now owned by some prosperous family from Delhi, the spinster sisters having died lonely deaths years ago, and used as a holiday home. The garden in which Gabbar Singh used to so lovingly tend Roses, Dahlia, Gladioli, Geranium and Oleander lies barren. I stopped for a minute in front of the little room of the run down servant quarters, the door had rotted away and the room was full of weeds - the owner is hoping to pull down the quarters and build another house there. I peeped in - was it Gabbar Singh I saw sitting there frying an omelet or was it just memories of childhood playing pranks on my mind?!