All Because Of My Hair

"You good for nothing fellow!" one slap.
"You naughty boy!" another slap. "You rascal!"
a shower of slaps. I could see stars dancing at
midday! The portraits of Kabir, Ghalib and Einstein
hanging on the wall started swinging. I lost
count of the slaps raining down on my clean
shaven head and face. I wondered if I really deserved
them. I was in class VIII and a boarder
in a Delhi school. I was a good singer and there
were hardly any school functions at which I did
not recite a poem or sing a song.
For days and weeks now, we had been preparing
for an important function. A very prominent
figure was to preside, and so excitement ran high.
The classrooms were cleaned and decorated, and
charts and photographs fixed. Everybody was
busy.
A poem was to be recited in honour of the distinguished
guest. And who else but I could be
asked to recite it?
I didn't tell you that my hair was rather long
in those days. Sometimes my parents would be
angry with me on that account. But when I was
sent to the hostel, I thought I would have the
freedom of growing my hair as long as I wanted.
The situation, I realised very soon, was worse at
the hostel. The warden, a venerable old fellow, was
stricter than my parents. He was an artist by profession
and quite unnaturally insisted on everything
being neat and clean and in perfect order.
So, very soon, my hair became the bone of contention
between us.
Every Sunday, an old barber whom we called
'Khalifaficame to the hostel. So the whole
morning I spent playing hide-and-seek with the
warden. However, every fourth or fifth week I'd
be caught and handed over to Khalifafi. He himself
shuddered at the mere mention of my name
because I was really troublesome. His hands
quivered when he touched my head.
The Sunday before the function the warden
warned me repeatedly that I would be severely
punished if I didn't have a hair-cut.
That was just too bad, because I wanted to
appear on stage with my crowning glory untrimmed.
But I couldn't escape the warden's clutches and
was duly sent to Khalifaji. The dreaded moment
had come. I had to decide there and then whether
to submit to his threats or revolt.
The devil must have egged me on. I was de-
° Powerful person (used sarcastically)
termined to take revenge and settle all accounts,
old and new. I presented my head to Khalifaji
humbly. I even asked him to shave off my head
completely! But, of course he wouldn't take me
seriously. At last, when I insisted, he applied
water on my head. Then before picking up the
razor he asked me for the last time. "Are you sure
you want your head to be clean-shaven?" It took
great effort on my part to convince him. Then,
with trembling hands, he put the razor to my hair.
It took ten minutes to shave my head thrice.
There wasn't the trace of a hair on my shining
scalp, I made Khalifaji trim my eyebrows too.
Then I carefully applied oil to give it a better
shine.
I went back to my room, put on a pair of shorts
and wrapped a towel round my shoulders. Then
I came out of the hostel looking victorious. My
companions burst out laughing and clapped as
they followed me. I headed the procession, looking
like a Buddhist monk.
The warden was busy decorating a classroom.
The boisterous procession of boys, yelling, laughing
and clapping, passed by. The warden ran out
of the classroom and stood stunned as he watched.
He could not believe his eyes. He examined
me from head to foot.
That's when the blows started raining down on
me. I had rather anticipated them and now that

I think of it—deserved them too.
I was of course not permitted to appear on
stage the next day. But worse still I had to remain
with my monk-like appearance for many months.
After that nobody ever asked me to have a haircut
again, and today I am the sole master of my
head and hair!