Lovely Hair Cutting Salon

It was just an ordinary day. And as usual, I was lazing around in the NMIMS campus. The TV set in the campus was beaming a live debate on ‘India – The Growth Drivers’. I stood in-front of it, concentrating on the India-England scorecard scroll instead. The kiddo of the 2006 MBA batch, Vrunzie, came running from behind and in a quick flash, playfully ruffled up my rather long but kempt hair. I saw her gleaming face in front of me as she displayed her characteristic 1000 Watts smile, ecstatic at having turned my hair into modern art.

She then teased me, “Mr. Poodle, this is the last warning! You either get that crop cut by tomorrow, or I take out my scissors in your aid. The choice is yours.” I normally take a long time to decide on the simplest of things. But here, the opportunity cost was too high. I promised a visit to the ‘Lovely Hair Cutting Salon’, the very next day.

“Why am I being made to wait so long for my turn? The salon doesn’t even have a magazine worth its salt!” My ego fumed. Lovely, wasn’t this luxurious kind of salon. But it was decent, close to home, air-conditioned and of-course it had the services of Raju. Raju had over the years built up quite an understanding with my hair, and thereby with me. But I wasn’t in the best of moods. I started looking at everything in the salon with angry eyes. “The light was inadequate, the room-freshener was offensive, the AC wasn’t working and the hairdressers were slow.” A very nasty myself cursed all and sundry. And then my eyes fell upon this woman hairdresser standing outside the women’s section. She’d probably be in her early thirties, was excessively made up, wore outlandish clothes and with her pierced nose looked typically Muslim. “She looks like a bloody, you know what!” I thought to myself.

Raju ushered me in. Resting my mobile phone on the raised platform in-front of me, I told him up-front arrogantly, “Raju aaj baal baraabar se kaatna, nahin to teri khair nahin. Baal chote karde aur ek professional look de mereko, samjha?” He began work like an artist over sculpture.

“It’s a terrific hair-cut!” Raju had delivered yet again. Also, the fifteen minutes of calming down, sitting in the eyes shut – chin down position had changed my mood. I was very pleased at Raju. I gave him a hundred rupee note and asked him to deduct ten additionally as tip. That brought a smile on his face and he rushed out to get change from the nearby grocer’s shop.

I saw that woman coming up to me. “Why?” I asked myself in light of the images I had earlier conjured up in my mind about her. She faced me, lowered her eyes and in a very polite tone inquired “Kya aapko school ka form bharna aata hai?” I was taken aback. I nodded haplessly in the want of a better reaction. She unfolded a multiply folded yellowish paper, the application form for a junior school. “Saa’b, main padhi likhi nahin huun na.” Her expressive eyes lowered again in embarrassment.

With a borrowed pen, I began filling up the form. It was for the admission of her child to junior kindergarten. Yes, she were a Muslim, an immigrant from UP. After duly filling up her son’s name, I stopped at the residential address column. “Goregaon, Goregaon” She fumbled. I said “Theek se address bataiyye, aadha-adhura nahin chalega.” She suddenly lowered her voice and asked, “Saa’b bada school hai, aur main rahti huun Goregaon ke chawl me. Baccha bada hoga to iska asar to nahin padega? Aap gaur se dekhiye na saa’b, kya poora address maang rahe hain? Sirf Goregaon se nahin chalega?”

I insisted on the complete address. I then proceeded to ask her about her husband. She told me his name and age and then took a big yet pregnant pause before divulging his occupation. “Saa’b, wo kaam kuch nahin karta, bimaar aur berozgaar hai – din bhar khaat par hi pada rehta hai.” She said in a typical matter-of-fact rustic manner. She hastened to add, “Par main ghar ka kharch chala leti huun na saa’b, chal jaata hai apna.”, as if to dispel any sympathy for her. I reluctantly put a ‘–’ against the ‘Father’s Occupation’ column.

Raju put change into my palms. I accepted with indifference. I proceeded with the form-filling. In response to ‘Mother’s occupation and office address/ telephone’, she again paused. “Saa’b kaam to main yahin par karti huun. Lekin aap please salon ya beauty parlor mat likhna. Aap to jaante hi hain ki aaj kal log humko kis nazar se dekhte hain. Bacche ke school ka sawaal hai saa’b.” I diplomatically entered ‘Service’ against the ‘Mother’s Occupation’ column. She opened her purse, took out the salon’s business card and asked me to copy the address from there. As soon as I lifted my pen, she exclaimed “Lekin mobile mera khud ka hai saa’b, aap likho 9322131570 - reliance ka hai saa’b.” I asked the ‘4^th standard pass’ woman to sign. She slowly signed in Hindi. She looked at me; her eyes were no longer lowered. There was gratitude in them - after all I had played a part in her son’s school admission. She smiled and said “Thank you saa’b”.

As I walked back to my residence, my mind was filled with thoughts. This seemingly simple incident had somehow touched me. But why did it move me? It moved me because it was real. We, the privileged 1% of the country, conveniently prefer to stay in our comfortable cocoons. We go to private schools, have fun, graduate, have fun, go to b-schools, have fun and then join large MNCs to prolong the fun. We being intellectuals conduct debates on whether India is ‘Growing/Shining/Rising’ and come out with learned conclusions. May I, in my small humble capacity, stick my head out and say “No. India’s growth story is not a reality because of reasons like ‘billions of dollars of outsourcing money finding way to India’. If it’s a reality, it is because of the will, determination and sacrifice of people like that hairdresser in ‘Lovely Hair Cutting Salon’. There are so many ordinary Indians like her, struggling and fighting for survival every day, and yet hoping for a better tomorrow. They realize that prosperity in their own lives can only go thus far, but they still toil for their wards’ sake – trying to give them all that they never had, at the same time taking the greatest care that none of the undesirable legacies fall upon them.” Her concern “...Sirf Goregaon se nahin chalega?...Lekin aap please salon ya beauty parlor mat likhna…” rang in my ears.

On reaching home, I realized that I’d left my mobile phone at Lovely’s. I called up to tell them that I’d collect it on my way to college the next day. As I was walking in, Raju, as cheerful as ever, rushed out with my mobile phone clutched in his palms. “Kaise ho Raju?” I inquired as a matter of habit. “Accha huun saa’b” He replied with a smile. As I was turning away to exit, I stopped and inquired “Raju, kal jo form bhara tha maine, wo uske kaam aaya ki nahin? Ho gaya uske bacche ka admission?” Raju stood with his head down and said slowly “Saa’b, admission ka to pata nahin. Kal uska pagaar ke maamle mein maalik se jhagda zaroor hua tha. Maalik ne kal shaam ko hi use naukri se nikaal diya saa’b.”

I was again at the NMIMS campus, sitting alone on a bench. I wondered what would now become of her, her husband and her child. I wondered if she would ever be able to move out from her Goregaon chawl. I wondered if her child would ever be able to educate himself and then make a difference to the well-being of the family. I wondered if she would find another job. But somehow, at the back of my mind, I knew that she had the courage to survive, and fight for another day.

Suddenly, Vrunzie appeared from nowhere. In a quick flash, she again playfully ruffled up my short but kempt hair. She stood in-front of me, displayed her 1000 Watts smile and remarked “Won’t call you Mr. Poodle any more. With hair cut so short, Mr. Schoolboy is more appropriate!”

So much for the visit to the ‘Lovely Hair Cutting Salon’.