“ISN’T THAT SO, UNCLE JI?”
I must have been meditating because I did not hear the question. I had been vaguely aware of the passionate exchanges between my barber, his assistant who was shaving another customer in the adjacent seat, and some companion of theirs who was seated where I could not see him. In fact, after sitting down for a haircut, I had tuned out completely from their meaningless chatter.
The barber repeated with greater vehemence, “Isn’t that so, Uncle ji?
I did not dare nod, because he was holding his scissors close to my head and I was not keen on being poked in the eye or ear with those. So I grunted—a neutral kind of grunt which could be construed to be a borderline ‘yes’ or a borderline ‘no’, depending on which side of the argument one was on.
That seemed to satisfy him for the nonce, but a short while later, he again sought validation, “Isn’t that so, Uncle ji?”
Now I am a fairly tolerant sort of blighter but I sincerely believe that for the twenty minutes for which one pays a handsome amount to receive the services of their barber, one is in a state of grace. One expects to remain undisturbed in order to be in communion with their Maker, or agnostic equivalent. It is indeed in poor taste for any barber to keep derailing the train of thought of his patron. And it is indeed an abomination for the said barber to keep goading the said patron to answer asinine questions on pain of being poked in the eye or ear with the business end of his scissors.
When the barber asked for my endorsement yet again, I had been deliberating on matters of great import. Matters like whether the ladies’ salons, too, were afflicted with the problem of pointless arguments. Did the lady hairdressers argue as passionately about profoundly stupid matters and then seek the approval of their elderly patrons? And did they have the impertinence to address their ageing patrons as Aunty ji? I was certain that this could not be the case, especially when the salons advertised that their mud packs and other mysterious ministrations would make ‘didi’ look ten years younger. On the contrary, here the barber, his assistant and their disembodied companion were all revelling in calling me ‘Uncle ji’. I sighed. One has to indeed pay a disproportionately high price for being a man!
The barber’s rude insistence forced me to divert my thoughts to the discussions of the plebeians. Very reluctantly, I started paying attention to their animated conversation. The disembodied voice at the back suddenly became aggressive, but I did not dare turn to see the speaker—again for fear of getting poked by the barber’s scissors.
“Uncle ji would know best! Don’t you agree, Uncle ji, that the young are a generation of sissies? Your generation ate real desi ghee. We never got to eat desi ghee. Even our butter is full of chemicals!”
“Yes!”lamented the barber’s assistant. “We eat only pesticides, while your generation ate real food and real ghee, Uncle ji!”
I did not know whether to apologise or claim superiority on this account. I decided it was best to maintain a lofty silence. But like an ill-tempered Rottweiler, the barber was not willing to let go of the issue. With great authority he announced, “Ask any really old man and he will tell you how good desi ghee is. Look at Uncle ji. He is simply bursting with good health. You eat a lot of ghee, isn’t that so, Uncle ji?”
So I was not only being dragged into an asinine discussion, I was also being made an exhibit for the prosecution.
“Uncle ji, you must be at least sixty? Am I right?”
I grunted a reply, hoping that he would let the matter go. But the Rottweiler was not to be denied. “So how old are you?”he persisted.
Confronted directly in this manner, I had no option but to confess. “I am seventy-five.”
“See! See!”chortled the barber. “Uncle ji is seventy-five! See the result of eating desi ghee? See how healthy he is? And how luxuriant is his hair? Desi ghee is indeed a miracle food. Isn’t that so, Uncle ji?”
I thought the virtues of desi ghee were being overplayed, so I kept quiet. But he persisted. “So, what do you say, Uncle ji? Isn’t desi ghee a miracle food?”
I hummed and hawed for a while but then I realised I could no longer hope to respond with a few grunts. So I said gruffly, “Don’t you think you have left the hair at the back a bit long?”
The barber was immediately contrite and thereafter kept silent for a full five minutes; till he finished cutting my hair. He brushed off my neck and face and removed the sheet from my shoulders. He accepted the money that I handed to him. Then just as I was about to leave, he once again asked, “Don’t you think desi ghee is a miracle food, Uncle ji?”
I gave him a wan smile and stepped out of the salon. I just did not have the heart to tell him that, on the advice of my cardiologist, I have not had even a spoonful of desi ghee for more than thirty years.
K.C. Verma is a former chief of R&AW. k.c.verma@hotmail.com