A TaleTeller's Whim

If you walked for a mile along the Main Road into the town, it lay to your left – “Muttaiah Hairdressers”, easily identified by a yellow board with the letters in red paint. It lay just before the Great Up (it was a steep road which took you down to other colonies in the town). 

The Great Up itself held a significant position in the history of this town. It was the epicenter of violence when Hindu-Muslim riots broke out in the 90’s. Local historians said similar violence took place during the Partition as well. That’s a different story altogether.

“Muttaiah Hairdressers” had been there for no less than two centuries; at least that was what Muttaiah claimed. It had been established by the first Muttaiah who came to town. Well, he didn’t set up the eight-by-eight shop that now existed, though. The shop itself was setup some sixty years ago, when Muttaiah was a kid.

I think clarifications are in order. Muttaiah was a name that passed on from generation to generation when the son took over the saloon after his father’s death. Whatever his given name was, once he entered the saloon, in presence of his father he was “Mari Muttaiah” (Little Muttaiah) and after his father’s death, he was “Muttaiah” and his son, “Mari Muttaiah”.  It was a tradition that was strictly followed.

He was the eighth Muttaiah. “Why?” somebody asked. “To protect the brand name, you see” Muttaiah said, with a sheepish grin.

Not that there existed any competition to his business. “Still, an intelligent man never takes such risks” Muttaiah propounded his own business philosophy. He never considered his work to be inferior. He looked at his work as great skill. “It is an art” he would say, wielding the razor, the scissors and the comb.  “You see, how you look for the next few days is entirely determined by the few minutes you spend in my shop. Be it your first job interview, or your first vadhupariksha, you cannot think of acing it without coming to my shop first. You may miss going to the temple, but you cannot miss coming here” Muttaiah said proudly. As a result, he had news from all over the town – who’s going where, who is dating who, what happened to whose marriage proposal. In fact, even when somebody died, news would reach Muttaiah before it reached other relatives in other parts of the town or other towns, so that he could get his instruments ready. Muttaiah never let his son go for those ceremonies when somebody died. “Someday, Mari Muttaiah. Someday after I pass away” he would say, if his son questioned him.

The shop was an eight-by-eight box. Walls on two sides were lined with mirrors. The third side had a life-sized cabinet, within which Muttaiah stored his instruments, shaving cream, brush, powder, after-shave lotions, hair dyes, massage oils and very importantly, the cash box. He had a practice of putting the day’s first collection into that box and he made sure that his son did it as well. Every year, on the day of his father’s death, he would gift clothes and food to some needy people with that money. “Mari Muttaiah, when I die, I want you to continue this practice” he had said, the first day his son came to the saloon, following Muttaiah’s father’s death.

The door had pictures of trending hairstyles Muttaiah Hairdressers aced at. The wall above the mirrors had even more interesting pictures of Muttaiah’s ancestors standing with the Divan of the province, with a couple of famous cricketers the province had produced. Muttaiah himself was in one of those photographs with a famous movie star. “What happened was, they had come for shooting in the Anjaneya Temple here. The hero had a problem with lice and wanted to shave his head. But the director – he was worried about continuity in the film. Finally, I was called. I gave the hero a nice haircut and massaged his head with a special oil that got him rid of the lice. That was when this photograph was taken” Muttaiah used to say, with pride. He would then go on telling about his experience in detail – how the set was, what the shot was, how the heroine looked without make-up, until he was done attending to the client.

There were also some old SportStar and FilmFare magazines for the clients to read up while they awaited their turn.

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Muttaiah was mixing up black dye for Military Ranganna’s hair. The bowl slipped from Muttaiah’s hand and dirtied the floor. “I am sorry” Muttaiah said, as he bent to pick up the bowl. “It’s fine, Muttaiah. Why don’t you go home and rest?” Military Ranganna suggested, placing the money in front of the mirror, as he got ready to leave.

Muttaiah locked the shop and started walking home.

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It had been nearly ten years ago. Muttaiah’s wife had died recently. Her dying wish had been to get her son married. Muttaiah spread the word that he was looking for a bride for his son and soon, several proposals came. Some were rejected because of the sub-castes. Some were rejected because of physical attributes. Finally, they agreed on Gangi.

Gangi knew how to run the household, how to dress and how to behave in social gatherings. Muttaiah was happy that he had found the ideal daughter-in-law. Within a few days, he bought a new house and gifted it to the couple. “I could have given you the house we are staying in right now and moved to a smaller settlement myself. But then, there are lots of memories I do not wish to part with” a teary eyed Muttaiah said, as he handed over the keys to the new house to his son.

Muttaiah believed that he had fulfilled the wishes of his dead wife and went about business as usual. His son assisted him in the shop, with renewed vigor. “Just see what marriage can do to young men. I remember the early days of my marriage…” Muttaiah would start narrating another anecdote from his life, as he attended to his clients, sometimes to the embarrassment of Mari Muttaiah.

Within the next year, Mari Muttaiah was blessed with a son. Muttaiah declared a holiday and distributed sweets throughout the town. He was a happy grandfather. On the eleventh day, he gifted the child a toy scissors and razor. “Wish she was here to see you too! Someday, you will grow up to be a famous hairdresser. Yes. You will join the cinema industry as a hairdresser. No. A ‘hairstylist’” Muttaiah prophesied.

Everything in Muttaiah’s life seemed perfectly set for his retirement. He started reading philosophy. Along with SportStar and FilmFare, one began to find an old, yellowed copy of the Gita or a book on Gandhi’s life and teachings. Not that he understood all of it, but he made an attempt nevertheless. He started interspersing his narratives with newfound philosophy which surprised his clients.

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Years passed. Mani, Mari Muttaiah’s son, became the centre of their lives. Gangi adored him. Which mother wouldn’t? “After Mani was born, I have lost all importance. Neither does my wife care about me nor does my father. He comes home and spends time with his grandson. I don’t know if he still remembers that he has a son” Mari Muttaiah would say, whenever any of his customers asked about his family. Though every word of it was true, he did not mind it. Wasn't Mani special for him as well?

One night, Mari Muttaiah, after closing the shop went to the local bar for his usual peg or two. “There is nothing like a hard day’s work, followed by two pegs and good food”, Mari Muttaiah would say. Two of his friends were there as well. They asked Mari Muttaiah, still in his prime, if he had heard about Chandri. Chandri was a junior movie artist who had come to town a few months ago. She was a beautiful woman and her reputation was fast spreading. Some said the Chairman was involved. Nobody knew for sure, though. 

“Come with us. We will introduce you to her. Life is not all about being a good son, a good husband and a good father. Besides, your wife is there to look after your family. Don’t neglect your family. But then, don’t neglect yourself either. Now is the time. Nobody will ever know” one of them said. But Mari Muttaiah was not convinced.  How could he cheat on Gangi, who was so devoted to him? He lit a beedi as he walked home.

Some four or five months ago, Muttaiah started hearing rumors about his son. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, saying “My son would never do such a thing. Don’t you try and drive a wedge between him and me! If you try to spoil such a wonderful family, you will rot in hell!”

That evening, Muttaiah went to his son’s house. He wanted to talk to his son about what the people in the town thought. Such rumors always spread like wildfire. All it needs is a pack of beedis or a cup of tea or a bottle of country made arrack. It would be even easier if one specially asked to keep it a secret!

Before he could knock the door, he heard loud voices inside.

“I beg you. Please do not do this. What will the neighbors think? What will your father think? Please do not do this…” Muttaiah heard Gangi crying. He could hear his grandson crying too.

“I don’t care. Tell me where you’ve kept the money!” Mari Muttaiah shouted, as Muttaiah, outside, heard the sound of a slap. Gangi wailed loudly!

The door was open and as Muttaiah walked in, Gangi ran to him for protection. Even before he could speak, Mari Muttaiah charged out of the house.

“These days, he comes home drunk every night and beats us. He spends every single rupee earned on this addiction of his. Not just this. Recently, he has been frequenting that Chandri in the dhobi ghat. If I question him, he says “I am a man. I can go anywhere and sleep with anybody. You are nobody to ask me” and beats me further. I always thought of telling you, but I thought this news about your son might not go down well with you. I tried to hush it up. Fate had it that you would learn about it yourself” Gangi said, in between sobs.

Muttaiah waited until his son came home and gave him an earful. “Your mother is lucky. If she had been alive to see this day, she would have killed you and then killed herself. When you have such a loving wife, why do you want to visit Chandri? What does she have that our Gangi doesn’t? Swear on the soul of your dead mother that you will never visit Chandri again” Muttaiah said and made sure that his son swore, before leaving.

Drinking was fine with Muttaiah. People in his caste, why, in all other castes drank. In fact, Muttaiah had tried it as well, when he was young. His body could not get used to it and reacted. He had not tried again. After reading about Gandhi, he learnt that the great man had tried everything before abstaining from them. “You see, I was destined to become a Gandhian. That’s why I tried drinking before abstaining from it. Had I been born a few years earlier, I would have even taken part in the freedom struggle and there would be a photograph of me with the Mahatma. As fate would have it, we were never destined to meet” he used to tell his clients, with a tinge of sorrow.

Muttaiah had heard about Chandri as well, though he hadn’t seen her. She knew magic, they said. People who got to know her could not leave her company, he had heard. One day, two of his clients talked of their adventures, stifling laughs. In fact, Muttaiah also felt a secret urge to meet Chandri but his respect and love for his dead wife prevented him doing so. Besides, at his age, what would people think?! Still, he could not let her wreck his son’s family. He only hoped his son would not go back on his promise.

Mari Muttaiah stopped going to Chandri’s house. At least, nobody saw him going there these days. To Muttaiah’s relief, things seemed to be getting back under control.

One night, Gangi came running to his house. Mari Muttaiah was vomiting blood, she said. Muttaiah ran to their house. Mari Muttaiah lay there, exhausted. Beside him was a pool of blood. His son was crying, incessantly. Muttaiah was worried. Somebody deeply wanted to hurt his family. Or was it some unappeased spirit? He did not know. He knew of one person who could help him out of this troubled situation – Swamiji.

Swamiji, much like Chandri, was an outsider to the town. He stayed in the old, abandoned Vishnu temple next to the lake. The lake was on the outskirts of the town. Some said it had been part of the town hundreds of years ago. Their main argument was that nobody built a Vishnu temple on the outskirts. The duty of guarding the town gates was that of Lord Hanuman. Moreover, nobody would abandon a temple. If this had been abandoned, then it must have been because the town had shifted. A few years ago, some enthusiastic young men wrote to persuade the government to carry out historical research on the temple and the town. The government, quite obviously, did not respond to their letter. Those youths had been the centre of many discussions in Muttaiah’s shop back then. That is another story altogether.

Swamiji stayed alone in the temple. He had appeared all of a sudden at the temple one day some fifteen or twenty years ago. In the beginning, the people were suspicious. One of the country’s leading political figures had been assassinated in the recent past. What if he was one among those on the wanted list? That would put bring national importance to the town, some said. What if he was here to induct the young men of the town into their outfit? People made sure that their children did not go anywhere around the lake or the temple unaccompanied.

He would come into the town some days, for alms. Most of the days, he went back empty handed. Some sympathetic people would give him some rice, but not before making sure that nobody else was watching them!

People who went to the lake for washing could see Swamiji sitting in the mantap beside the lake, meditating or singing. He sang beautifully, those who heard him said.  However, that did not make them less wary.

All this changed when, one day, Swamiji saved the life of a kid who had accidentally fallen into the lake. That brought him closer to the people in the town. “No terrorist would save a drowning kid”, they said. Swamiji’s alms increased. Some people gathered enough courage to go and see him. Swamiji knew Sanskrit, Kannada, Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Hindi and English. He had travelled all over the country. He sang. He knew the Vedas. He spoke on philosophy and religion. He spoke on physics. He had knowledge of astrology. He would, sometimes, meditate for weeks on end. Some said he even knew levitation. Some said he even spoke to spirits! He knew a little bit of black magic as well. Or at least, the people thought he did.

Swamiji became important to the villagers once he helped a few of them out of troubled situations. When the Chairman approached him before the elections, he had been given a copper plate with some sacred drawings on it and asked to worship it until the results were declared. The to-be Chairman did and became the Chairman. He went to the extent of offering to build an ashram for Swamiji, which Swamiji politely declined. Local rationalists & political pundits said that the opposition candidate was too weak to pose a challenge and that Swamiji had no role at all. People did not buy their arguments. Besides, Swamiji’s predictions had come true several times, strengthening their belief in him.

Swamiji gave Muttaiah a sacred thread which was to be tied to his son’s wrist. He also gave him a copper plate with some writing in Sanskrit on it. This, he said, was to be worshipped for ninety days, after which it had to be buried in the south-east corner of the backyard of their house. Muttaiah, relieved, went home to do as he was asked to.

It proved futile. A month ago, Mari Muttaiah died. Before he died, he vomited blood. It was a terrible sight. Muttaiah sat there, hopelessly, not knowing what had to be done. Gangi and her son wept uncontrollably. Neighbors gathered in their house. If Swamiji could not save him, nobody could. People stood around as Mari Muttaiah struggled to draw breath and eventually gave up his fight. For Muttaiah, it was the end of the world.

People talked of how things had turned awry ever since Mari Muttaiah stopped visiting Chandri. Chandri, who had left town a few days earlier, had gone around telling people of how Mari Muttaiah had cheated and exploited her. One of Mari Muttaiah’s neighbors said that one night, she had seen Chandri curse Mari Muttaiah’s house by throwing mud at their door and spitting on it.

It was a heart-wrenching sight to see Mari Muttaiah’s son walking ahead of the dead body, while Muttaiah brought up the rear. How he wished that he had died with his wife! He could not bear the agony of burying his own son. He performed all the ceremonies that were expected of him.

At the end of all those ceremonies, he had to shave the heads of his daughter-in-law and his grandson. That was more than what he could take. Muttaiah ran away from the town.

One of their neighbors got another barber from the nearby village to complete the ceremonies. Gangi and her son were taken to her parents’ house. People talked of Mari Muttaiah with pity. They also talked of his association with Chandri and her alleged curse in hushed tones, for they were scared of offending his spirit which they believed still lurked around the saloon and his house.

Muttaiah returned a fortnight later. For another week, he stayed locked up in his son’s house. People said they heard Muttaiah reading out the Gita loudly, late into the night.

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Muttaiah visited his daughter-in-law and grandson before reopening the shop. “It was not in our hands to control what happened. All this is part of destiny. We should learn to accept joy and sorrow, success and failure with equanimity. This is the essence of the Gita. Let us perform the role that we have been assigned. Leave all expectations. The results are in His hands. What are we, but mere puppets” Muttaiah said, before he left.

Some said they saw a glint of madness in his eyes, which miraculously left the minute his hands touched the scissors and the comb. Some even said that he would call out to Mari Muttaiah sometimes, before realizing that he was no longer in the shop, attending to other clients. He still continued to narrate anecdotes to his clients as he attended to them.

When he opened the cabinet to take the powder or the shaving cream, one could see there were two boxes now.