In Bhagwan I Trust!

I solemnly affirm, ‘In Bhagwan I Trust.’ But that has nothing to do with religion.

Long ago, after moving to Burla, a small town near Sambalpur, I went for a haircut to the modest, minimalist, unnamed salon near Anand café. It had two creaking wooden chairs for the services, two not-entirely opaque ancient mirrors hung precariously on nails on opposite walls, and a rugged wooden bench for the waiting customers who flipped through the pages of Filmfare if it was not already in the hands of the customer ahead in the queue.

Bhagwan was the Owner-Proprietor-Manager-Head Barber (no pun intended)-Cashier-Accountant-Cleaner and Sweeper, with his younger brother as his understudy and help. I often wondered why he had migrated from a village near Vizag to set up shop here, and how he managed with his limited proficiency in Odia-Sambalpuri.

Yet, he was the little town’s Google before Google was conceived. He talked less, listened more, and deftly filed in his memory the bazar news, gossip, and rumour. When asked, he shared only with valuable and trust-worthy customers the relevant gossip duly curated, abridged, and referenced for source. He never generated gossip, happy as he was to be a truthful disseminator.

Business was rather modest, almost a trickle on weekdays. Engineers of Hirakud Dam Project would not deign to get a haircut where their clerks and chaprasis were serviced; and the Engineering and Medical college students wanted Rajesh Khanna cut for which they took a bus ride to Sambalpur.

When my turn came to move from the bench to the Master’s Chair, he took a quick look at my head and asked, ‘Who gave you the previous cut?’

‘The barber in my village.’*

‘Alas, he has ruined your head. No worry, I’ll fix it.’

Bhagwan’s expert eyes had quickly spotted the stubborn tuft of hair at the back at the top of my head which seemed to have a mind of its own, stood up and stood out from the rest of the hair, demanding to be seen and commented upon. An exhibitionist, for sure.

Bhagwan’s scissors clipped fast and furious, and he was done in less than ten minutes. Satisfied after his restoration job, he said, ‘I’ve repaired the damage done by that inept barber. I bet the cowlick will never again bother you.’ He was right; his magic fingers had made it disappear.

During all my years at Burla, I went to Bhagwan only, for he had a deep understanding of my head. Later, whenever I went to a salon in a new town, I cautioned the barber, ‘Take care, don’t agitate the whirl, let the sleeping lion sleep.’ I glared when I suspected he was moving close to the forbidden territory.

Once the job is finished, I compare them with Bhagwan. A few barbers come close, but I’m yet to meet someone as gifted as Bhagwan, the Master Hair-Artist in my life. That’s why, ‘In Bhagwan I Trust!’

***

Postscript

A few readers have shared memories of the affectionate bond with their preferred personal service provider who gave a shave, a cut, and a refreshing champi - the icing on the cake.

Bhagwan Ki Maya

At Sambalpur, on Laxmi Talkies-Ashoka Talkies-road, there was a barber shop named Bhagwan Ki Maya. Yes, the proprietor was Bhagwan, but how very intriguing was the name of the salon! Was it self-deprecating humour, or a gentle ribbing of his beloved clients? It began business in the early 1970s, became hugely popular, and is still in business though Bhagwan is no more.

The barber's salon was a veritable news agency, a pro-bono public broadcasting branch of AIR, as it were. Before the age of the internet and the mobile, they used to be matchmakers and privy to the gossip of the town.

Alfa

Alfa, who had his salon in front of G.M. College was another famous barber in Sambalpur. Fair, and immaculately dressed in his signature white kurta, pyjama, and a pair of white chappals, he looked very distinguished. Knowledgeable and well-informed, he could hold forth on any subject; discussing the challenge of theatre acting with Sadhu Meher, alumnus of FTII, Pune; classical music and dance with Rahas Bihari Mishra; and geo-politics of Cold War in Vietnam with professors of history and politics . For a haircut, one had to book with Alfa well in advance, and after checking his notebook he assigned the date and time.

Babubhai

At Gandhinagar, Sec-19, I found Babubhai providing excellent service from his modest salon, a 10 ft by 10 ft structure with two chairs and one bench. He was keen on both local and international politics and could easily convince you about the suicidal policies of the US president. I went to Babubhai from 1980 onwards. In 1996, upon return to the town after eleven years’ absence from the cadre, I was sad to learn that he was no more. His son now ran the salon, but he was not as good. So, I bid adieu to my favourite salon.

A colleague

“Such a charming blog! By the way, I'm yet to come across a 'hair-artist' who doesn't comment adversely on his predecessor - much like most IAS officers.”

A veteran colleague

“Incidentally, the barber in my area retired about six months back. Since then, I have not been to any barber as I don't trust them.”

Barber-Nama

C.P. Singh, my batchmate and friend has shared an interesting anecdote.

In 2011, I was Chairman, Tamil Nadu Electricity Board. Late one evening, about 11.00 pm, I got a call from his office. ‘CM would speak with you,’ said his PS.

‘A transformer is out of order in Venkatachalam’s village since the last three days. It’s in Pollachi Taluk of Coimbatore. Please get it fixed quickly,’ said M. Karunanidhi.

‘Sure, Sir, it will be done. I’ll get Shri Venkatachalam’s contact number from your office, Sir.’

‘Arre Bhai, you may be having his number. Have you forgotten your talented barber when you were Collector, Coimbatore many years ago?’

I was Collector there fifteen years ago!

M. Karunanidhi had many stories of Barber ‘shops’ and had once observed that the DMK was born in these humble shops and grew up in them. He connected directly with the most prominent barbers in many towns and villages all over the state. Such is the महिमा of hair-dressers.

*The Village Barber

An excerpt from Kathapur Tales, an autobiography of a village, by this blogger.

“In a village, the best a man could get was the best that the village barber could provide. The barber was the same, but the outcome was variable depending upon his mood that morning, the number of persons waiting for his services and the economic and social status of the customer. A kid brought by his father for a haircut, would be serviced at the very end when all other customers, including men who came much later, had been attended to. And the boy would receive a tupli cut. That was the only styling on offer for kids. Now, a tupli is a small circular bamboo container. This special cut looked as if the barber had put an upturned tupli on the boy's head, and then snipped off all the hair protruding outside. That was called a tupli bhadar. No one complained since all boys in the village got the same identical cut.

In Kathapur, there was just one barber family at the starting point of Talipara, and on the edge of the village choupal where gahaks and bahaks performed at night during Kartik Puni Yatra. The family had two sets of razors and scissors for the two brothers who provided the services. On a regular day, there was enough work for only one barber. Services of both the brothers were required only on special occasions like deaths and births when the entire clan will come for the mandatory shaving on dasahkarma day for deaths, and the end of chitkia for births.

There was no shop, no chairs or stools, and not even a mirror. The person who went for a haircut and a shave never thought of asking for a mirror to check the styling or the finish. The barber was expected to do his job, and the customer was expected to be happy with the service. The family was a monopoly service provider, with no competition whatsoever. It was a basic necessity, so no one ever expressed dissatisfaction over the quality of service.

A customer sat on the earthen floor of the wide pindha which could seat two customers to get the service and two or three to gossip while waiting for their turn. If more people turned up on a particular day, they'd see the number of customers waiting to be serviced, figure out the time when their turn would come and go back home to return later. Sometimes a father would ask his son to go and check the current status of waiting customers and report to him periodically. The facility was less than five minutes walking time from most parts of the village, so it was no big deal.

No one paid cash. It was a cash-less transaction round the year. Every family paid in paddy. Yearly rate for each male member availing the barber's services (boys excluded) was one khandi of paddy. Paddy was measured in maan, tambi, khandi and pudug - 4 maans made a tambi, 20 tambis made a khandi, 8 khandis made a pudug. One tambi was a little less than a ser which was a little less than a kilo, so go figure. If a family had five adult males, they gave five khandis of paddy to the barber after the annual harvest. During puspuni or nuakhai festivals every family paid a bonus, again in paddy.