HAIRCUT DAY

Today was “Hair-Cut Day” (signifying I’ve managed to push my mom’s patience quite far, by growing my hair longer than she thinks makes me look like a “good boy”). Every soul on Planet Earth definitely knows, and has experienced, what “Hair-Cut Day” is. This is one of the few special days, the mention of whose name brings out a different reaction from almost every other person.

Well, my personal reaction goes like………………………………”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!”

Yes, I strongly despise the cutting of my hair. It’s like the Third Degree (to me), the only difference being that the pain and embarrassment is in much smaller measure (embarrassment toh is non-existent only, baal kaatne mein).

Today, mother dear finally coerced me into cutting my hair. Rather, she ordered and blackmailed me into it. Yes, that’s more like it.

So I pick up the phone, dial the number, and set an appointment for 3 o’clock at the salon.

Time flies by (as it always does when you least want it to, and vice versa) and it 2:45 p.m. the salon is close by, so I walk it down (making it all the more painful).

It is now five minutes to 3:00 p.m., and I’m standing right outside the door of the salon.

I look up at the skies (suddenly turning a tinge of dark purple), say “Waheguru Satnam”, and push the frosted glass door open. As the door swings open, a mighty gust of wind blows right into my face. Suddenly the sweeper is the size of the Empire State building, his eyes red (not to mention extremely oversized), his eyebrows in W-ish shape, his long black hair (on each of his ten heads) all over the place, and there is an extremely shrill voice to be heard riding on the wind. Well, no. Not really.

I push open the door, walk right into the salon, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand I’m told by an anorexic woman with terrible hair (presumably the secretary) that there’s some waiting to be done. I can almost imagine Dharmendra say, “Tadpa tadpa ke maaroonga main!”

My insides are cringing, my heart calling to me, “Run, Forest, Run!”. But then, if I do, I’ve got another storm waiting at home. You know they should officially change the saying to “Hell hath no fury, like a MOTHER scorned.”

So I wait, and after about 15 minutes of me chuckling away to myself (the result of my imagining myself with an array of different hairstyles, all shapes, sizes, and colours), the call comes.

I lift my enormous backside, and head further into the salon, only to put it back down three chairs away.

 

The Haircut - A True Emotional Atyachar

As I seat myself there, I hear the “tchk-tchk” of the scissors that are going to raze my 4 weeks of defiance of my Mumma. Well, I manage to come through it. Through all 45 minutes of bucket-fulls of my hair being ripped (with blade), and snipped right off the top of my head.

I get up, and having given money to the barber for my torture (my mom’s supaari to him, a token of thanks for torturing me) I walk out the door violated. I walk out feeling like Julius Caesar (big, but with 23 knives in the back and front of his bosom and bowels). Thank you, barber, thank you, Mum.

PEN AND PAPER, IN THE NIGHT

The night has only just begun,

With me sitting on the window sill, night to the right, my room to the left,

I have no company,

But for the night, my pen and its paper.

The moon and the stars, seemingly smiling,

Of what cause, I wonder,

Perhaps it is the pen and paper,

Or perhaps, my posture is vulgar.

Many options lie before me, for the passing of my time,

Each more attractive,

But all that concerns me is my pen, its paper,

And the creature I keep looking for over my shoulder.

Pen is to paper, as food is to the mouth,

In this incident though,

Pen goes to the mouth,

Food is not involved, and blank remains the paper.

My aim for the night,

Was to write, and to write,

What to write about though, I wonder,

And I start to colour the paper.

All the interesting subjects,

Such as Dorian Gray, Black Beauty,

Julius Caesar, have already been taken,

By the likes of Oscar Wilde, Anna Sewell, and William Shakespeare.

Staring out, once again, into the night,

I ponder my subject,

Nothing strikes me, but for the cool wind that blows,

And I ponder again, only this time, the subject being the tearing out of my hair.

Seeing now, why the Moon and Stars ridiculed me,

I crawl to my bed,

Albeit submittingly,

That I would write something, someday, I swear.

First Day in Degree College

Most people, must, by now, have understood the great clutter of emotions that one experiences coming to the fore, on the first day of school, junior college, degree college, tuitions, workshops, jobs, and what not.


The night before the Big Day is one preoccupied with the thought of the new journey that he/she is about to begin. "What will it be like?" "Will I find people like myself?" "Will I have friends that can match up to the ones I've made in the past?" "What if I don't like it?" "What if the other students, or the teachers don't like me?" Such are the questions that arise in the mind.

Then, one goes to sleep, anxious...maybe even dubious about the success of the next day.
Some sleep deeply, as a result of depression. Others lose sleep, to the same cause.


The next morning, the clock strikes 7 a.m., at which time said individual's eyes pop open, earlier than ever before. Seriously so. Having awoken earlier than ever, one spends more time in the bath, and in front of the mirror, than one has ever done. After all, one needs to create the best impression possible. As they say, "First impression is the last impression."


As a result of having awoken earlier than usual, one has more time to pass than usual. To eat the breakfast one never does, to say the prayer one never does, and so on and so forth. But on this day, some don't want to eat that much, because after all, when you're nervous, you feel it in your tummy. Others, on the contrary, stuff their faces, as a result of anxiety, and maybe even a little fear. Once this is done with, one carries on to, as is customary in our religion, ask for and receive blessings from the elders in the house.


Then finally, when said individual is ready to leave, he/she presses the button for the lift....and guess what? Someone on another floor is holding it up. The usual reaction is "Let it be bachcha, it's not a good day to fight." This coming from Mumma. At long last, the lift does arrive, and one gets into it, and leaves.


Then one walks out of one's building/residential complex, and heads off to find a mode of transport. Being the first day, Mummy Dearest has already provided the rickshaw fair, for that day only. The rickshaw driver is probably smoking, one asks him to get rid of his 'beedi', and then we're off. There is no need to mention that Traffic has a cameo in the whole hustle and bustle of the first day.


When one reaches, the butterflies start flying around in the one's stomach, or the rats start running around, whichever way you would have it. One finds the classroom, and enters it, searching (sometimes in vain) for familiar faces. 
If one finds a familiar face, then the process becomes much easier.
Otherwise, its rrrrreally complicated. Some people approach every other person in class in the endeavour of finding SOMEONE to "hang out with". Others find one seat in the class, and wait for random persons to fill the seats around oneself. Eventually the seats get filled, one starts to converse, and (if i may) AAL IZZ WELL.

The teachers enter, introductions start, and one often gets lost in the whole flow of the FIRST DAY, not realising how one had already fit in!

Whatever one chooses to do, ultimately, there is a God above, and EVERYTHING gets sorted out.It always does.     


Just Remember, Aal Izz ALWAYS Well!!




:)

New Beginnings

Okay, so….here’s my first post ever. You can’t even begin to imagine how nervous I am. So I’m just going to write about the beginning of a “New Era”. Lol, rrright. The beginning of this blog, that’s what this is about.

When I was building my stage, that is this blog, it never really struck me that people may or may not read it. Now that I write my first article here, the questions are showering down upon me. “Who will read my blog?” “What if I don’t have enough followers?” “What if people laugh at me, for what I write?”

Come to think of it…you know what? I just can’t care enough. My aim is to build a stage for myself, where I can voice my joys, my pains, my opinions, my ideas, my likes and dislikes, etc. And that is what I’m doing. So there.

With this first post, I just want to say, that I HOPE everyone, that is, people I know, and don’t know, read and understand what I’m trying to say. And like it. It’s a bloody big word, Hope, innit? Apparently, there’s a God above.