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Meeting Van Gogh in the land of Butter Chicken

22/7/2011

20 Comments

 
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Also, the land of mustard fields
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The car that likes to live on the roof
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..and one more
It’s a raunchy song. Or tharki, if you please. Not the best music for the driver of an 'On Army duty' vehicle to be playing, particularly when Memsaab is traveling alone in the back seat. Aashikan nu darshan dikhaya karo; Ni kadi sadi galli bhul ke vi aaya karo jee, it goes. But since Manmohan (of the pink T shirt and gold rimmed Aviators) and self (of the black T and silver rimmed Aviators) are good friends (drawn together by our common love for flashy rimmed glasses), we don’t let these little things bother us. And I can’t really concentrate too much on the flirtatious lyrics because he is taking me on a trip that shall teach me an important lesson in life (even though I don’t know it yet) - that you can run into pure genius just about anywhere in the world – including a narrow by lane of a small one-horse (though many tractored) town in sadda Punjab. 

Ferozepur, where I presently live (thanks to my Army officer husband’s fetish to have all the unheard-of places in India on his biodata - something he was shrewd enough not to discuss with me in our courtship days) is the last Indian town on the Pakistan border. What you expect to find in Ferozepur are water-soaked emerald green rice fields (no please, don’t sigh, they cause the most brutal humidity - that makes a killer cocktail with power cuts and water shortage); magnificently-moustached sardars in white pyjama-kurtas and flowing beards (now you may sigh); large steel tumblers of lassi or Patiala pegs (depending upon whether it is sun up or sun down); Sher-e-Punjab dhabbas; and more cars perched on  rooftops than in drive ways. No seriously! It's probably the only place in the world where you have rooftop giant black and white check patterned footballs, ugly brown beady-eyed hawks and snazzy Maruti 800 car shaped water tanks dispensing water to elegant households. What you don’t expect to find in Ferozepur is pure genius. But I did, and that is what this story is all about.

To start at the beginning, my long lustrous hair (thus described by a dear school friend, who waited to tell me this till I had it all chopped off) is getting on my nerves. I need a haircut. I turn to my friend and guide - the pink-T shirted, gold edge Aviatored Manmohan. Adjusting the rather natty black belt he wears where pink T meets brown trousers that eventually meet maroon loafers, he bobs his head the trademark 15 degrees, then, chewing thoughtfully on the Nabbe Chaman Bahar he has retrieved from some deep recess of his mouth, he says: Sanam theek rahega! Abhi chalen? A man of action and a man who knows his mind, that's Manmohan. Absolutely, my kind of man.  I fetch my bag, pinch a few hundreds from the hubby’s wallet, from where he has hidden it under a pile of Mess bills in the cutlery drawer, and off we go. 

We drive down the khabbe hath (the left hand as opposed to the sajje hath which is the right) of the road, past the guava sellers, the roadside plant nursery where a sleepy baby dangles from a tree in a swing made from an old cotton sari, dodge a big bull romping down the road divider with decorative creepers hanging like battle honours from his horns, and pass under a larger-than-life hoarding of the awesome Prakash Singh Badal, honourable Chief Minister, who - with his flowing beard and turbaned hair - seems to be a sign from higher powers telling me: “No haircuts in Punjab”. I ignore it with a jaunty Sannu kee. We take a turn from Bikaneri Chaat Bhandar where crisp round golgappas in suji and atta wink at me and a tempting signboard speaks enticingly of Paneer Vurgers and Sandvich fried in shudh desi ghee. We enter the lane where houses are lined up on both sides as if ready for battle and screech to a noisy stop in front of a hole in the wall place that displays a signboard saying Sanam Beauty Parlour. I wait for Manmohan to open the door (not because I'm memsaab but because it jammed shut a few months back and savaris can now only be let out from the outside), glance at the car clock that is showing the time as 12 o clock (at 10.30 in the morning), step in expecting to face an oily uncouth barber and am immediately reduced to stammering jelly to find an apparition that looks like the film star Hrithik Roshan with a pair of scissors in his hand. He is Ashish, the official hair dresser, it’s his day off and he’s here today only to wash his scissors and do things that official hairdressers do on their off days. “Please!” I whimper. “I desperately need a hair cut,” and try to smile endearingly. It scares him. He quickly pulls out a high backed chair to settle me in. “I’m sorry I’m making you work on your off day,” I apologize conversationally. Ashish puts his scissors down on the table with a determined thump that echoes in my head like a Balaji soap sound effect. He is leaning back against the wall with arms folded and giving me the look of a hurt spaniel. “Please maam,” he says, eventually, “Don’t insult me by calling this work. Hair dressing is my passion. It is something that I love doing. It is like art for me.” Oops, I have tread on the toes of a temperamental artiste. I retreat immediately, wagging the tail. The moment passes. Ashish forgives me and is back to work on his canvas. He handles my hair like it is glass, touching it gingerly; then weighs it in the palm of his hand like it is gold (oh yes, I’ve having fun with these metaphors); is silent for an eternity and then says: it’s very long. “It took you 10 minutes to figure that out, you retard!” I say (to myself). Aloud, I just stay silent. I desperately hope he is not a long hair supporter. “How do you want it cut?” he asks. “Short.” I wait for an explosion. There’s none. Ashish is pinching his lower lip thoughtfully. 

For the next 20 minutes there is silence in the room and all you hear is the spray of water, the snip of scissors, the soft plop of wet locks meeting tiled floor and the intense concentration of a gifted genius at work. As he snips away ruthlessly and relentlessly, my hair falls by the side in long curling strands that would make my mother weep and my head is slowly transformed into a mass of luxurious curls that are taking on life of their own. They are bouncing off my shoulders, colliding with my cheeks and escaping errantly when I try to tuck them behind my ear. A hair drier, some more snipping, some leave in conditioner and then with a flourish Ashish removes the sheet covering my shoulders, jerking it sharply to shake off the hair bits  still clinging on.  I sit surrounded by a pool of snipped brown hair with the great gifted artiste standing back to take a final look at his work. I don’t dare to breathe. He comes closer and flicks a few strands here and there and holds a mirror for me to behold the masterpiece. 

I gape like those imbeciles who don’t understand Picasso’s work, Henry Miller’s writing, Rumi’s poetry or Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. “It’s awesome,” I whisper finally, hoping it is the right reaction. He shrugs and turns away. His attention has shifted to a fat aunty with a wobbly stomach, a quivering triple chin and a scraggly plait who has just walked in. I can see from the glint in his eye that he has lost interest in his finished painting and is now getting diverted to a blank canvas. Though it’s an off day for him, it looks like the great Van Gogh shall be coaxed to pick up his brush once again.

Raunchy song lyrics: Show your admirers your face sometime, come down my street even if by mistake sometime, oh fair maiden I love the dimples in your cheeks; sadda Punjab: my Punjab; lassi: buttermilk; Patiala peg: double peg of whiskey made popular by the Maharaja of Patiala; Sher-e-Punjab dhabbas: Lion of Punjab roadside eating joints (popular in Punjab); Vurgers: Burgers; sandvich: of course you know that's sandwich (don't be fussy about spellings)


Disclaimer: If you’re wondering why the author does not sport that magnificent hairdo in her profile shot, let me tell you that the curls uncurled after the first shampoo and she hasn't dared to visit Van Gogh's studio again.
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Young dandies in Ferozepur. Please notice Aviator shades we are all partial to
Just in case you'd like to hear the raunchy song playing in Manmohan's car, here it is:
20 Comments
SAM
22/7/2011 08:09:05 pm

Nice one. Lyrics of the song reminds me of the times when we were 2Lts & had to endure Badakhanas in the Coy dining room when after a few quick Patiala pegs of 'Contessa' rum Kaka Singh & Patil would fight for the stage.

nice one Rachna. Keep them coming.

Reply
Anima Pundeer
23/7/2011 12:04:02 am

Sanam! Theek rahega... abhi Chalen?... this is what he meant...:)... What a pesty-pest this Man-mohan(what a name) is...??... :)...
I absolutely loved this story... almost fell off my chair laughing...:)...

Reply
Rosalind Broomhall
23/7/2011 02:14:33 am

the book cannot be far behind...

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Tanushree
23/7/2011 02:44:50 am

Brilliant! Loved every bit of it :)

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Ritha Hegde
23/7/2011 02:05:23 pm

First thing : Pic reminded me of DDLJ
Second thing : I swear I did not know there was mention of dimples in that song. Thanks :)
Third thought: Was expecting atleast one pic of the water tanks :(
And last but not the least, it was once again an all smile read.
Keep writing.

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Geetanjali link
23/7/2011 03:47:30 pm

I thoroughly enjoyed it, Rachna. Thanks to your wonderful piece, I got a glimpse about the land of my ancestors. I definitely feel like visiting now :)

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BIG B JB
23/7/2011 04:22:32 pm

Really awesome....it reminds me my first punjabi architectural encounter when along with my convoy going for LC fencing from Ahemdabad....Maruti, football, hawk. and an aeroplane on roof top...I was amazed and scratched everything to undersatnd this concept...lateron My Balwinder singh told me the fact that its a beautiful water tank......very well written and had nostalgic feelings about my stay in Pathankot with Regiment....Thanks god "he" was in okk mood otherwise he would have given a Picaso imagination on your head......I remember sense of dressing up of my troops with well tucked yellow shirt, green trouser and red pagri on head with all kinds of perfume, a valiant sikh soldier's walks very confidently ......oops...nice article once again.....

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dadavinder
25/7/2011 03:31:28 am

Rachna's essays are like compelling works of art where realism and fantasy merge to create dramatic effect. It is like looking at things under a huge magnifying lens. Things may look out of proportion but the detail is enthralling!

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renee grewal
25/7/2011 04:36:01 pm

Balley oye""i lyk...dis one on apna punjab ...shabaash....even wid spellings ?miss spellings......aviators ...lassi ..n patiala pegssssss.....n the swearings **#@*#*......n the huge houses wid big tanks of all kindssss.....land of valiant and warm n brave people...its d best.....u can feel d warmth in the air ......nostalgic...brings bk the memories....of the beautiful and rich land and culture it is.....""

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noopur
25/7/2011 06:41:12 pm

you are no less than a Van Gogh yourself !! Loved every word in it....I am coming to Firozpur for a haircut next time ........and pl can Manmohan drive me there , he can skip the raunchy number...will bring my I pod :):) love the humour in your narration...its just icing on the cake.

Reply
Liz Wotherspoon
25/7/2011 07:53:46 pm

Rachna I love your stories, you write with such warmth and humanity I almost feel I am there with you. Your hair Looked very pretty after it's makeover, however if you're like me you need a hairdresser with you at all times to maintain it! Charismatic hairdressers I love 'specially if they look at your hair and say ' ah yes we'll do this', my own hit the jackpot recently by cutting it much shorter at the back . leaving the sides at earlobe length styled forwards onto my face instant (unexpected) compliments. She is now training to do Tatoos!! Watch this space. Liz

Reply
Manoj Rawat
25/7/2011 08:31:33 pm

I think I need to sort out Manmohan. And see if you can find my wallet now

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babu
25/7/2011 08:58:39 pm

Rachna, that was wonderful. Ur style is unique and has a signature of its own. Keep it up.

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Shilpi
26/7/2011 12:44:42 am

Hey! I 've been hooked to ur brand of "touch the heart" writing with its optimal mixture of wit n humor, which still gets the eyes wet but with huge smile in the heart.Well done n keep on making good reads!!
BTW u look good in ur new ishtyle.U r one lucky gypsy getting so many experiences in such wonderful locales.
****Ur hubby seems to be a good photographer.My compliments...

Reply
pj
26/7/2011 09:05:36 am

great write up....it is a time warp....i am reminded of those roadside barbers in punjab in the 70s, they would seat us on a couple of bricks, in front of a mirror that made faces at you and also used a brick for support...with so many 'eint' (bricks) around you we called those 'Italian saloons'...

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neelu
26/7/2011 09:34:22 pm

thanks Rachna....am reminded of the time we were there..a great trip to Hussainiwala from there was ever so memorable too...(hint..hint..)

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Y S Rawat
27/7/2011 02:27:31 pm

Your ‘Van Gogh’ of Ferozpur reminds me of ‘Mirza Galib’ of Lansdowne,
my friend (now late) Yasin Momd. He had a meat shop. There were only
two meat shops then for 4000 odd population of Lansdowne, one ‘Halal’
for Muslims and one ‘Jhatka’ for rest. Hindus have never really been
very staunch follower of faith; one could see many Hindus buying meat
from ‘Halal’ shop but never a Muslim at Jhatka shop. It remains so
even today, all over I am sure. I am a culprit if you wish to call it
so, myself. Many a times, I have purchased meat from Halal shop merely
because there were more customers in a Jhatka shop and none or just an
odd customer in a ‘Halal’ shop. At KKD we had a Muslim officer (Sqn
Ldr Naqvi). We were quite close and used to visit frequently each
others house and so was the case with the children. Once or twice when
we had dinner with Naqvis, we saw no harm in sharing non veg dishes
with them but Naqvis came over to our place, they were strict veg.
Back to ‘Mirza Galib’, Yasin was more ‘shayar’ than shopkeeper. The
moment any body entered his shop, he will first talk to him about his
latest couplet, explain what it meant and then recite, making it as
melodious as possible. In any and every function, Yasin Miyan was
present in his newly pressed black ‘Sherwani and white ‘Churidaars’
with a fur cap and insisted on reciting his Shayris. His face was full
of chicken pox marks so his opening couplet generally used to be I
still remember ‘Tere Haseen Chehre pai pe ek hi to daag hai, mera ye
badhaseen chehra to daagon ka bag hai.’
My impression about Punjab is that there is no place like (&
better) than Punjab in any respect. People (Sikh) there are full of
life, very helpful and go out of their way to make you at home. In
seventees, I remember, once we drove down to Jallandhar from Delhi
(where I was then posted) to attend Rita’s (Laloo-Rita) wedding.
Nanaji – Naniji and Munni Fu was also with us. I had then a newly
imported Morris Marina, modified for my handicap. The road right
through was dotted with either Lassi & Milk bars or Beer bars, not a
single shop was stocking Coca Cola, a craze even then or any other
soft drinks. I could not resist my curiosity, so I asked one of the
milk bar fellow reasons for complete absence of soft drinks in all
bars. I was surprised and impressed at same time with his blunt reply
in typical Punjabi accent, “Saabji, jab ik rupayya main ik glass duddh
mil raha hai to koi parhi kyu piyega” (when one is getting a glass
of milk for Re 1/-, why would any body drink water). No further
doubts.
You are too good Rachna. In spite of my erratic connection,
thanks to BSNL, I look fwd to every Saturday for a new story.

Reply
Ashok
30/7/2011 08:55:41 pm

Nice work Rachu .... I have never been to Sadda Punjab but could feel that I am experiencing it while reading the story.

Keep writing ...

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Prithvi
2/8/2011 06:18:32 am

Loved it Rachna !

BTW the haircut story was really EXACTLY what Anisha experienced in LA very recently.

Was curious if there was a sequel similar to what happened at Banerjee residence where poor husband was trusted with the responsibility of critiquing the art that was already deemed to be useless by Memsahab.

Dangerous situation I must say.Feigning that the art was good would make me a liar. Admitting it was bad - would make me a heartless brute.

Only way to escape from the situation was to sprint out of the house and I was not lucky enough to do that :)

Reply
ather
4/8/2011 12:08:32 am

Your ability to spin a year from every day situations is so appealing-you are ever the composite journalist and a gifted writer.

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    Rachna Bisht Rawat is a full time mom and part time writer. She is married to an Army officer whose work takes the family to some of the most interesting corners of India.

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