By Devraj Singh Kalsi
Uncomfortable with my political views aired unexpectedly inside his salon, the savvy barber, swinging in his fifties, swung into rapid action by making a flower bloom on my head. A cadre of fierce loyalty, he chose to operate without showing a hostile reaction. His hands got together for an act of mischief, with the party symbol taking shape in the back of my head. His fiendish attempt to groom me as a party worker fetched partial success as he fumbled to get his floral designing right. The final shape he managed to accord was such that it was impossible to identify the flower, with several political outfits with floral symbols competing for political aggrandisement in the local town. The remote resemblance still made me think why I couldn’t gauge what he was up to, why I let this happen after surrendering my head in good faith to him while rambling on the rumble and tumble of politics. In hindsight, I should derive consolation from the fact that the rabid supporter, with scissors in hand, could have shown a much worse violent streak and I was lucky to have escaped unhurt.
Earlier, when I roamed around freely, nobody dared to call me a party worker. But now my teashop friends would be keen to excavate details of my allegiance, which party I swore allegiance to. It was better to let confusion prevail or else I would be stereotyped as a political aspirant though the truth remains that nobody in our family or dynasty has ever contested, leave aside won any election for generations.
During my next hop to the salon, I had queries lined up for the barber, but he was busy with his loyal customers. A few people waiting around stared at my face and head with the designed cut. Finally, when I had the chance to ask the barber why he had experimented with a design on my head, he sounded evasive and denied having any such nasty intention. He defended his innocent act by blaming me for being unsteady and shaky. When I tried to make him recall the details and his intent, he started a sudden conversation with another customer to deflect attention, asking him what to do with his goatee. When I sounded hell-bent on seeking an explanation, he cleared it was not a party symbol he intended. He fished out his camera phone, zoomed in, clicked my head and warned me to stay away from his shop or else he would be compelled to post the picture of my head on social media channels tagging local heavyweight politicians, though that was the last thing on his mind.
Becoming an object of ridicule was unacceptable so I chose to disappear from his shop without further discussion. A fanatic supporter could stir any controversy to gain mileage. It was safer to forget the entire episode as the worst nightmare of my life. I had no intention to air political views with a haircut which announced to all kinds of people a political opinion towards which I was indifferent. My best friend also warned me of the ramifications and urged me to go bald right away, to avoid escalation of political conflict. Perhaps it was genuine advice to save me. The next day, I stepped into a branded unisex salon for a neat, nifty job of turning my head into a cleared space. He quoted a hefty price for tonsuring my head, but it was much less than what I would have to cough up in case I was caught in the political crossfire.
Identity matters are crucial both in terms of flaunting and hiding – depending on which community one belongs to. Since both parties were active in the area, I had the fear of being roughed up by the cadre of either party and asked to clarify which party I belonged to. Since I am apolitical by choice — evident from my reluctance to vote for any political dispensation — the safest option would be to cover my head with a cap or hat to avoid any question about why I went for a bald look or what a tonsured head signified in the heat of elections. There would be discomfiting scenes when the neighbours started throwing the odd question. Maybe someone would find the look quirky enough and post it on a social media platform as a classic case of a fence-sitter or a rank opportunist would give it the final shape after seeing who wins, which flower blooms – the turncoat types waiting to lap up the right opportunity. In my case, the housemaid was the first to notice the change and sympathised: “Your bouncy hair is all gone, a terrible experiment that raises concerns.”
The new avatar was the outcome of my quick visit to the reputed hair stylist who egged me to avail of tattoo and beard trimming services though I was well past my prime to sport any of these. Business targets compelled him to pitch these services to all kinds of customers and persuade them. Despite a handlebar moustache as a fearsome icon, I caved into the suggestion, and he then proceeded to snip it. After doodling a small rosebud on the nape right below the collar, he suggested I should remove dark circles from under my eyes using their special serum. I agreed reluctantly to buy a golden facial grooming session to improve the overall look.
The entire package pinched my pocket, but the makeover did give a facelift to my personality and erased the fears of becoming a victim of a political bash-up. I took a selfie and posted it as a profile photo but the response to my glow was unusually slow and the makeover got fewer likes than earlier for some strange reason. The brazen attempt to look younger and dapper, and being fairly successful at having gained the look, was perhaps the reason that stoked jealousy in my peers. The tattoo of a rosebud was a romantic add-on when I should have ideally gone in for something like a lizard or snake as my venomous tongue unleashing spite was notorious all around. Even a cult icon would have suited my age, but not these teeny-bopper love symbols though these were safer than party symbols.
When the elections were over, none of the floral symbols won, but a newly formed party swept the polls. I was relieved I was rendered safe and went to the barber to see how he sulked now. I was surprised to see he had switched loyalty. The new party colours were spread all over the salon with posters. As I was about to take potshots, the barber did admit belatedly he had intended to draw a party symbol on my head the last time but could not do it perfectly well. His new party had a very simple symbol, and it was easy to draw for any novice. The intended threat was enough to make me beat a hasty retreat as my tonsured head had already raised an abundant harvest of salt and pepper hair within a couple of months.
Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
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