Simply Being | Simple Being

Category: This-That (page 22 of 234)

Hair Trajectory

“Ooh, she has such lovely hair.”

Growing up, I heard this one a lot from my mother and aunt. No, they weren’t talking about me; it was about other women. Mummy and Veliyamma noticed hair A LOT. And you get to see a lot of fabulous hair in Kerala. Thick plaits, shining long ringlets, swinging braids, lustrous sheets of dark hair… Ahh.

Now, my sister and I are reasonably blessed in the tresses department. She has a full head of hair, somewhat wavy in texture. As for me, I have always had stick-straight hair, shining and smooth. Not as thick as my sister’s mop but it isn’t too bad.

But I always wished for more. “God, just give me 15% more, that’s all I want.” Like many Indian girls, I sometimes wished for lighter skin but hair featured higher on my “please-God-give-me” list. It must have been the constant refrain I heard while growing up that did it. Good hair was golden. I wanted it, and more of it.

As I turned 16 and headed off to junior college, my hair gained a life of its own. Guys seemed to want to touch it, play with it. Of course, I was flattered. My hair grew in length. It swung happily around my shoulders, bouncing joyfully… finally pleased to get some decent attention.

(When I introduced P to my friend A, she asked him, what do you like about Lakshmi? He responded, her hair. Ahh. I still wonder if he meant it! Or maybe he had to come up with a good response, pronto.)

When I traveled to Egypt, my hair went on a trip of its own. I got loads of compliments from men and women alike. One of my Egyptian workmates took me to her hair stylist to get a color job. It was my first time. The color was strong, and most likely it seared the roots. But it was glamorous in a way that I’d never been. Of course, I reveled in the attention. Those were some heady days (pun unintended), and hair was a huge part of it all. Plus, I was going to marry the love of my life soon, and that added to the drama and excitement. I tried hard to see myself as less girl, more woman. Long hair, shapely hips, slim thighs, dark eyes… Just like movie goddess Rekha.

Girl-Woman

I enjoyed the woman phase for a short while post-wedding, then reverted to “girl” soon after.

The hair obsession is mildly amusing. I would spend a substantial amount of mental energy thinking about hair, style options, cuts and color, etc. I am a tad spoilt too because I have a spectacular hair stylist, and she indulges nearly every whim I have. So I kept dreaming, and she kept fulfilling my hair fantasies.

Until one day I felt that I had had enough. I wasn’t ever going to age like Rekha or Shobhana. I didn’t look like those gorgeous women. I’d forever look like my Dad’s daughter — big lips, broad nose, greying hair et al. Plus I was tired of the constant evaluating of styles, cuts, etc. I decided to pick the option to end all options. No, I didn’t go bald. I picked a short pixie.

Cut to the present. My hair is short, cropped. It began the inevitable descent into silver-grey a few years ago. I half-heartedly tried color but my heart wasn’t in the endeavor. It cost money, too much for my comfort. And I reasoned, as long as there is hair, why bother about its color?

Of course, it isn’t just hair. It was/is an entity of its own. It gave me a fresh and exciting aspect to life when my own felt lacking and dull. It made me a bit of an It Girl. It got guys to take a look, then another. I had been gawky and skinny for so long… my hair gave me a personality that I never had.

(There is a story that appears in a Ruskin Bond novella about a young girl (Munia?) with beautiful hair. A well-meaning aunt warns Munia that she shouldn’t be leaving her hair untied because that presented the perfect invitation for jinns who are said to take a fancy to young women with open, beautiful hair. And such women were ultimately doomed.  Of course, Munia ignores the warning. Ultimately, she falls deathly sick, and all that remains of her is the luxuriant hair.)

Electric

You are in an elevator, or on an escalator. And there is another person who gets on. You catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, then look away. You don’t want to be caught staring. You don’t exactly know how he looks. You couldn’t pick him out of a crowd if you had to.

But there is a spark there, a faint bit of electricity in the air.

Of course, you look away. But you are so aware of his presence. The awareness lingers on in the atmosphere, like a sprite of sorts. The charge feels real, more real than you or him or the escalator or elevator.

The elevator comes to a halt. You step out, then he does… and both of you go your respective directions.

And just like that a magical moment came into being, shimmered for a few moments in the humid Atlanta air, and disappeared into hazy imagination.

Write like an American

A few days ago, I was feeling rather sorry for myself.

Sorry that I never learned writing formally. That I didn’t ever learn composition. That I simply began writing one cold December (or January?) day — sad, lonely, homesick. That I, despite having written diligently in English all my life, still fumble for words, phrases. That I get tons of “likes” from my Indian friends but very few from my American ones.

Perhaps my writing only appeals to Indians? Because I write in a typically Indian-born-American-resident-writing-in-English manner?

(Does any kind of writing have universal appeal? Why am I bothered?)

But then it occurred to me that this is the perhaps the best time for a “hybrid” writer like me. My writing cannot be divorced from who I am. It can be read and appreciated only on its own terms. I cannot write like an American. Because all my writing is personal, it is inextricably tied to my life, my personal narrative, and all the little-big stories I carry within me. And that is perhaps its biggest strength.

Locking Eyes

This evening, as I drove home from work, I passed a white van. “State Prisoners” was inscribed prominently on the front and back. I couldn’t recall the last time I had seen a vehicle of this kind. I wondered if it was actually transporting any prisoners.

I got a little ahead, and looked again. There were two men inside, dressed in white. One was middle-aged and white, looking out at the traffic. Behind him sat a young, handsome black guy wearing a headset. He had large eyes and thick eyebrows, a prominent nose. And he looked straight at me.

I couldn’t look away. I had sunglasses on, so I felt somewhat comfortable looking right back. His gaze didn’t waver. Neither did mine.

The van moved ahead, and I kept pace with it.

Again we drew level, and I found him looking at me. I returned the gaze.

The traffic moved swiftly, and the van sped forward. I fell back, and lost my place in the traffic.

I prayed silently, let me catch up with him again. I removed my sunglasses.

The traffic continued to flow forward, and again I caught up with the van. There was a lane separating our two vehicles, but there were few cars, and I was able to look right at him. He looked back at me. He had a direct and open expression. It wasn’t unfriendly. There was no question in his eyes, or any curiosity. It was a clear, simple look. And I was able to reciprocate the simplicity.

It felt special, this brief interaction. Later I wondered, should I have smiled? Given a thumbs-up, a tiny wave, perhaps?

In hindsight, I am happy that I did nothing to spoil the moment.

Not for a single instant did I “feel sorry” for the young handsome man. Neither did I feel intimidated locking eyes with him. (I am not always comfortable looking into another’s eyes; it feels too direct for my comfort.)

What did I hope to convey? That I was sympathetic? That I hoped things would improve for him? Or did I mean to send a blessing?

None of the above, actually. I was caught in a brief moment of sharing, and I was able to participate fully. And I came away from that interaction, feeling strangely intimate and connected.