At the beckon of the cute looking receptionist, Bitoo strolled out onto his stage, armed with his arsenal, glancing sideways at the long mirror to ensure his scorpion tattoo attracted appropriate attention. Indeed, his swagger caught the attention of a couple of 40 something women – before they quickly averted their gaze, not wanting anyone to notice them. Bitoo sported a linen shirt paired with a pair of expensive denims complete with a warm smile to top it off.
He greeted me with bright eyes and a grin while I reluctantly got up from the extra squashy purple sofa. I eyed him with suspicion, as most girls would in my position – especially when the person standing before you was going to take control over your most precious possession – for a couple of hours anyway.
I have always found the introductory conversations between two people a little uncomfortable. The process involves one individual trying to assure the other of his intentions – while the other quickly does a mental evaluation on several parameters at one go of the person in front of him. Things become especially difficult if you are trying to express what you want from the other person – perhaps because the same requires crystal clarity of your own mental thoughts- a feat greatly admired and rarely achieved personally by me. Nonetheless, with the zeal of a fine young woman, full of enthusiasm, I went on to construct a string of dramatic words and emotive noises to express my requirements. He listened to the banter, brooded, looked, and finally smiled, nodding in assurance.
I let out a sigh of relief – comforted by the deftness of the craftsman in front of me as he initiated procedural preparations. With ease, he led me towards his delivery platform and plunged into the usual topics of discussion between two North Indians making a living in South India. The cruelty of having do with Idlis instead of Parathas after a night out with friends, surprising disinterest towards foreign clothes brands among the local people very unlike the crowd back home, flashy farmhouse weddings of Delhi versus ceremonial exchange of vows in broad daylight without the presence of a DJ, and other incongruent aspects of life in the North and South that hit on the face with unfailing regularity.
Somewhere along the way, he steered the conversation to focus upon personal struggles – in trying to live one’s own dreams, the monotony of daily work which creeps into one’s life, the undying search to do something different and explore new avenues. To my amusement, I realized that I had begun participating more actively in the discussion, than I could have with a parent, colleague or even a close friend. I narrated to him silly instances at work that upset me, inconsequential worries about the way I looked, the anticipation of the future – he acknowledged every bit, absorbed every detail and encouraged me to continue. All this he did, while continuing to work with his tools to give physical definition to the vague, foggy picture of myself, I had tried to recreate for him sometime back.
An hour later, he gently pushed me to awake from my stupor which had engulfed me while our man was busy with his task, leaving me to my own thoughts. I looked at the reflection of a dreamy eyed 25 year old, with a half smile etched on her face, while the master stood behind me encouraging me to frame a response for his work. The half smile widened – in appreciation and admiration. Bitoo had done a great job.
I continued to smile as I walked out of the beauty parlour that Sunday evening. Not only had a stranger given me a great haircut and glow around the face, he had also unknowingly helped create a new glow in my heart.
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