I too am confronted with a void of thoughts, when I rush to my memories on Facebook. Ten long years or more and the high frequency of posts have created a sizeable collection to fall back. Used to writing, to conjure up a subject in such times of blockage becomes difficult. Today was one such day.
Be that as it may, I must turn to my pate. God was kind, and I always had bountiful hair. Just there was one catch. I turned to hair colour unable to bear a very few silver strands, uniquely symbolic to my ancestry. Like an addict, I could never stay away from dyeing my hair after that.
There was a hair-clipper, which was lying unloved for long years, and it was dying to prove its merit. My wife was confident, seeing such instruments frequently in use in the parlours. One buzzing noise and I saw a handful of my wavy black(!) hair at my feet. The horror of horrors, my head resembled the parting of the seas at the command of Moses in the movie ‘Ten Commandments.’ The style would have no takers, and I could be mistaken outside as a thief punished like in the olden days. The decision was fast and did not require a high IQ. In a few minutes, I was bald!
Though a pretentious Brahmin, I had to shower after a haircut, be it in a hair cutting salon or at home. The sharp showers on a bald head sounded a wobbly Richard Clayderman’s. Caressing my head gave a feeling that I was touching someone else’s. The sprouts appeared within the next days, which would have made Carborundum Universal, the abrasive specialists hide in shame. My pet dog, as usual, snuggled near my head, to scarily jump in the middle of the night and woke all up.
It took only a few more days, the density of hair was back as usual 2200 hair strands per square inch. There was one catch, though! Grey could be a misstatement; white could be an understatement, the hair was whiter than I have ever seen on anybody’s head, the hair luminescent and glowing. I stepped out after the lockdown for the first time, thankfully with a mask on with only my security guard throwing up the hot tea he was drinking.
How would the poor security guard know the constant battle within me to appear a bit intellectual in a pandemically intellectual state of West Bengal? I tried all tricks from photography to poems, from novels to political commentaries. No, these were not enough, I couldn’t be in formals or semi-formals. I bought a few Fab India kurtas, and the uncomfortable string tightened pyjamas and loathed every time I had to use a public urinal.
No, that wasn’t enough either! I had to sport a ‘jhola bag,’ a fabric and shoulder hung one, which must feature a book, preferably a Tagore or Mamata Didi’s collection of poems! A leaking pen, to prove that the ink has not dried. The bonus, an unkempt hair and unshaven cheeks. The ultimate is silvery hair, as you can walk up boldly to the front row at any function and take a seat reserved for someone else. Bhodrolok Bengali will rarely ask you to move over.
But, damn, it is still difficult to pierce through the ‘aantel’ brigade. A few weeks and I could as well try a tuft as a last resort in addition to a pair of Kholapuri chappals!
Sampath Kumar
Intrépide Voix
Pic: Ray and Soumitra, some of the intellectuals of contemporary Bengal
