Also, the land of mustard fields
The car that likes to live on the roof
..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.
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.
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:
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