by Balli Kaur
‘I’m Hassan,’ the barber called from the back room. ‘You want a cut? Hold on, ah. I got moustache dye on my fingers, lah. Must clean properly otherwise next time fingers become all funny colours.’ He was still chuckling when he emerged but when he set his eyes on Narain, the joy faded from his face.
‘I’ll pay you double,’ Narain said. He had expected some reluctance – there was, after all, an entire lifetime of hair growth to tackle. He pulled out his wallet. Hassan shook his head. ‘Cannot,’ he said. ‘Please go.’
Narain turned around and left the shop. It was only a minor setback, he told himself. There were plenty of barbers who would be happy for business. He crossed a playground and passed a community centre before noticing another barber shop. When he entered, the Chinese barber was busy with a client. He caught a glimpse of Narain in the mirror reflection. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in Malay.
‘Haircut,’ Narain said, removing the cap. The ponytail spilled out eagerly and danced down his back. The barber’s eyes widened.
‘So much hair? So much?’ he kept asking. ‘Why have you grown so much hair?’ Narain’s answers did not seem to satisfy. ‘So much hair!’ he exclaimed, circling Narain, but reluctant to touch him. ‘How often do you wash it? How can a man have so much hair?’ Other customers in the shop looked up and tried to hide their amusement. Frustrated and humiliated, Narain hastily tucked his hair back into his cap and left. He wandered again through the neighbourhood until he found a single shop wedged between a dental clinic and an abandoned clothing store where naked mannequins lay scattered like corpses across the floor. This man was also Chinese, with an oblong face. Even before Narain confronted him with the heavy task, he looked worried.
‘Cannot,’ he said apologetically. His eyes followed the rope of hair.
‘I’ll pay double. Triple.’ Narain offered. He was beginning to understand, however, that money was not the issue.
He left the shop feeling dejected but still willing to try a few more. In the next housing estate, he saw an opportunity in a small shop. The barber had left a sign with a drawing of a clock indicating what time he would return. In the ten minutes that Narain waited, he couldn’t take his eyes off the altar in the corner of the entrance. Rows of pudgy, grinning Buddhas were crammed into the lopsided shelf of a bookcase. Tall – candles some new, some half-melted – formed a semi-circle around a pair of oranges and a plate of sticky rice. When the barber returned, he was all smiles. ‘Welcome,’ he said, jovially. His tone quickly changed when he saw the task Narain laid out for him.
‘Your God hate me!’ he exclaimed. ‘Cannot! I cut your hair, your God curse me!’ he shooed Narain away as if Narain were the smiting God himself.
Narain stormed out of the shop feeling the weight of his hair – years of growing, tending, tying, washing, neatening, oiling – pressing down on his scalp, like a cancerous lump. He passed a stationery shop and had a passing thought to buy a pair of scissors, find a spot and simply cut it all off himself. But this had to be done properly. He re-traced his steps and returned to the first shop, where Hassan was reading the paper.
‘Who will cut my hair?’ he demanded. ‘If not you, if not any barber, how am I supposed to do this? I just want to get rid of it.’
‘It’s not the length, son,’ Hassan said.
‘Yes, I know,’ Narain said impatiently. He recounted for Hassan the incident with the barber who was afraid of being punished by his God. ‘It’s the religion, I understand it, but what am I supposed to do?’
Hassan shook his head. ‘It’s not just the religion. It’s your community. If one person sees a Sikh man sitting in a barber shop window getting his hair cut by a Malay or Chinese barber and word gets around, there goes that barber’s reputation. That barber has helped to get rid of your hair. Do you see what I’m saying?’
‘But Sikh people don’t go to barbers, so what’s the big deal if they think you’re bad?’
‘When one shop has a bad reputation, all the other shops in the same row suffer,’ Hassan said. ‘People might stop going to buy desserts from the bakery next door. They might avoid getting their lottery tickets from the provision shop on the other side. I don’t want to cause that kind of trouble for this row. Shops are being stacked together now, joined by walls. It’s no longer individual kiosks and carts; we have to think about each other.’
Narain put his head in his hands. A haircut could be so complicated; the absurdity of it! Hassan sat down next to him. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Narain,’ he said.
‘Narain, what will your family do when they see you with short hair?’ he asked. When Narain didn’t reply, Hassan sighed and said, ‘Okay.’ Narain looked up.
‘No, not me. I won’t cut your hair,’ Hassan said. ‘But I know a few places where you might find someone to do it.’
‘Where?’ Narain asked eagerly.
Hassan drew out a simple map of intersecting junctions. Narain’s hopes fell. ‘I was just there,’ he said. ‘I went to all those places.’
Hassan shook his head. ‘Not the row of shops. The alley-ways behind them. There are a few back lane barbers there.’
‘I didn’t know they still had those,’ Narain said. ‘I thought they were being cleared out and made to license their businesses.’
‘Mostly,’ Hassan said. ‘But they crop up here and there. I’ve got a friend who does it. He was saving up to rent a shop but then the government caught him doing the back lane trade and he was fined. Now he’s started all over again. If you get caught, you’ll be fined as well.’
Narain was willing to take that risk. He thanked Hassan and left the store.
As per Hassan’s directions, there was a service lane between two coffee shops. It was so narrow that Narain had to press his arms to his sides to avoid scraping them against the walls. He emerged into an alleyway and was relieved to find that Hassan had not been merely trying to chase him out of his shop. A varied network of makeshift businesses seemed to thrive here. There was a row of small tents, some with tin sheets for roofs, strewn along the narrow path. Inside each tent, an upturned fruit crate draped in cloth made a table for the barber’s tools: scissors, razors, combs and powders arranged in order of size. The men inside the tents worked quickly, glancing occasionally at the mirrors their customers were instructed to hold up.
Narain went to the closest barber, a stout, tired looking man who was gazing up at the sky and lamenting in Hokkien. When he made eye contact with Narain, he called out for somebody. A young man appeared from behind the tent. ‘I’ll take you,’ he said. ‘My uncle has had enough for the day.’ He smiled and Narain felt a distinct tingle. This was going to happen. It would be this easy.
Inside the tent, Narain warned the young barber about his circumstances. ‘I’ve got very long hair,’ he said, before removing his cap.
The barber looked at him thoughtfully and quoted his price. ‘Twelve dollars,’ he said. It was four times as much as a normal haircut but Narain was happy to pay it up-front.
‘I’m Adam,’ the barber said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Narain,’ he replied. Adam raked his fingers through Narain’s hair, sometimes touching Narain’s back as he separated the long locks. Narain felt another tingle, this one more electric. He took in a sharp breath.
‘You okay?’ Adam asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Narain said. ‘This is just a big deal. It took me a long time to find a barber who would do this.’
‘You came to the right place. We can’t afford to turn down customers back here.’ He handed Narain a mirror.
‘I didn’t even know this existed,’ Narain said. ‘Another barber told me about it.’
Adam picked up a pair of scissors. There was the sound of crunching, and then Narain felt the hair grazing his back as it fell away. He shut his eyes and placed the mirror in his lap. Adam chattered as he worked.
‘I help my uncle with this business. I’m saving up for my studies. I think I might go abroad,’ he said. ‘Pert
h probably.’
‘I studied abroad,’ Narain said. ‘In America.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Engineering. If I could do it all over again, though, I might have chosen a different course.’
‘Why did you do Engineering?’
‘My father wanted that,’ Narain said. He opened his eyes. He could feel Adam’s stare on his back, urging him to move beyond the small talk. ‘I had to do what he wanted.’ This was all Narain could manage. His stomach was twisting into knots now; as more hair fell away and clustered around his feet, his head felt lighter.
‘What will your father do when he sees you with your hair cut?’ Adam asked.
‘He’ll probably ask me to leave the house,’ Narain said. He had not spoken the consequence aloud until then. Adam paused for a moment and then resumed the cutting.
‘There are lots of rental rooms,’ Adam said casually, ‘around the area. People leave home all the time. It’s not such a big deal anymore.’
‘True,’ Narain said.
‘If that happens, come back here. Anyone who works in a back lane will know how to find you a cheap place to live.’
‘Thanks.’ His heart had begun to drum in his chest. He brought the mirror up to find a crude hair style of uneven lengths. But it was short. Most of it was gone. As Adam picked up a razor and began to shape it, Narain closed his eyes again.
‘Remember the long hair ban?’ Adam asked. ‘You would have been exempt from that.’
‘Yeah,’ Narain said. ‘Sikhs didn’t have to cut their hair but everyone else did.’
‘Good times for barbers,’ Adam said, laughing. ‘I had some friends who were caught with long hair and they were made to go to the police station to get their hair cut. One of my friends dared to ask why all of a sudden the government had banned citizens from growing long hair. The policemen didn’t really know the reason. One said it was to eliminate hippie culture infiltrating from the West. Another one said long hair was unkempt and dirty – citizens have to look respectable and clean, he said.’
Narain smiled. As Adam continued to tell him stories, he felt himself relaxing into the chair. For some reason, he felt like telling Adam about Amrit. ‘My sister is getting married overseas,’ he said.
‘You’re close?’ Adam asked.
‘Yeah,’ Narain said, wishing it weren’t so.
Adam dusted the hair off his shoulders and tipped his head back for the shave. Within minutes, it was complete. ‘Ready to look?’ Adam asked, excitedly. ‘Bring up the mirror.’ He tapped Narain’s wrist. His fingers, light and playful, lingered for a moment and Narain knew what was happening. Over the years he had had moments like these with men – the familiar anxiety, the anticipation, and the subtle passing of signals. They usually occurred out of sight, in places like these. He had never brought it beyond these tentative touches; the turban and beard had prevented him from acting upon his impulses.
‘Twelve dollars?’ Narain mumbled. He reached for his wallet and paid Adam. ‘Thank you,’ he said, stumbling away and only catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It was all too much for now. He needed to go home first.
It was early evening by the time he arrived home. The sun had begun to set, bathing the concrete apartment towers in amber light. He only hesitated for a moment before pushing his key into the padlock and popping it open. The gate swung back and bounced against his shoulder. As he picked the door key from his wallet ring, he noticed something strange. The door to their apartment was ajar. A familiar anxiety filled his chest. Had somebody spotted him and called Father, before he had a chance to explain himself? This means nothing, he told himself, but it did not erase an image of Father sitting in the living room, forewarned and waiting.
The sharp squeak of hinges made him jump back. Gurdev poked his head out. ‘You’re home finally. Where—’ his gaze travelled to Narain’s head. His eyes became wide and round. ‘Have you gone mad? There’s so much trouble in the house already,’ he hissed, stepping out and shutting the door behind him.
‘What are you doing here?’ Narain asked. ‘What happened?’
‘Amrit,’ Gurdev said. He took in Narain’s appearance again and shook his head. ‘They’re about to call off the wedding.’
‘What? Why?’
‘They know. Her in-laws. They know what she’s like. People have been talking. Param’s brother – you know, that man who works in the civil defence? – he saw her in a bar yesterday. Not even ten o’clock yet, and she was so drunk she couldn’t tell the bartender where she lived. Then her purse fell and all kinds of rubbish fell out. Underpants. Cigarettes.’ He looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Condoms also. The guy told his cousin, who told his wife, who happens to be the sister of somebody married into Amrit’s in-laws’ family. It’s over. They don’t want her. They’re inside right now telling Father he deceived them, calling him all kinds of names. That’s why he called me over. He was looking for you as well. So this is what you were doing?’
Narain straightened his shoulders at the hint of anger in Gurdev’s question. ‘This has nothing to do with you. It’s my choice.’
Gurdev snorted. ‘Try, lah. Tell Father that. Maybe he’ll slap you in front of everyone also.’
‘He slapped Amrit? In front of them?’
‘What did you want him to do? Sing her a song?’
Narain didn’t say anything. Gurdev located his shoes on the rack and brushed past him, pushing his feet into them as he walked lopsidedly towards the lift. ‘I have to go. Simran has an ear infection. I can’t sit inside there listening to them anymore. They’ve been blaming Father for deceiving them.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They said, “we should have known something was wrong with a girl who didn’t have proper guidance from her mother.” Father lost his temper then.’
This information made Narain feel a bit dizzy. His mouth went dry. Panic made his heartbeat seem audible as he realised he could not walk through that door looking like this. Any day but today. He fished in his back pocket for the cap and threw it on. Gurdev waved grimly at him as he stepped into the lift.
The figures in the flat were shrouded in shadows when Narain entered. The curtains were drawn, allowing only a sliver of weak light into the room. Father must have done this as soon as he received the call, attempting to drown his shame in darkness. Narain reached to switch on the light but a movement caught his attention. Amrit’s father-in-law, a small-boned man in comparison to Father, had stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. His wife turned away, the pain in her face unmistakeable even in the bluish dark.
‘I’m sorry we cannot go through with this,’ the father-in-law said. ‘We cannot have this girl in our family.’
‘You’re mistaken,’ Father said pleadingly. ‘It wasn’t her.’ The family had begun to walk out. Father trailed after them, making excuses. Narain lowered his head but when Father passed him, he sensed him staring. Narain looked up to face him. Father’s eyes flickered and Narain felt his heart stop, knowing in that instant that Father had noticed the shaven face and figured out what he had done. After a moment that seemed to last for days, Father was the first to speak. ‘Get out,’ he said softly.
Narain raced blindly to the road and hailed a taxi, but when the driver asked him where he wanted to go, he didn’t know the street name. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said, as he shut the door. He led the driver through the streets and landmarks, squinting to recognise the shops as they were closing, the streets as the lamps cast shadows on them. The taxi went as far into the back streets as it could go. ‘This is fine,’ he said, passing the fare money to the driver. ‘Thank you.’ He leaped out of the taxi and ran, his feet thumping against the ground, his heart thumping not from exhaustion but from the excitement of what he was about to do. In the distance, he saw Adam, alone in a corner, packing up his tent. He pushed past the other vendors. Conversations broke and then resumed again. Adam looked up as Narain approached and touched his wrist. They stepped into the shadows of t
he narrow service lane. There it was, that shot of pleasure, one he had been waiting to feel for such a long time, as he pressed his lips, and then his chest, his limbs, his thighs, to Adam’s.
Part 3:
1984–85
Gurdev
In the hallway, Banu called out another reminder to the girls to button up their cardigans. Their protests came bouncing back.
‘You knew these dresses were sleeveless when you bought them, Ma,’ Simran whined.
‘We’ve worn them before anyway,’ said Kiran. Both of them appeared in the doorway of Banu and Gurdev’s bedroom. They stood tall in their defiance, their cardigans hanging limp in the crooks of their folded arms.
‘You haven’t worn them in front of the Punjabi community. It’s different,’ Banu replied. ‘I don’t want my daughters walking across a stage to receive their honours and people only focusing on their bare arms. This is like going to the temple.’
‘It’s the Hilton,’ Kiran corrected.
‘Yes, Kiran Sandhu, I know very well where we’re going, thanks,’ Banu said. ‘Now put on that cardigan or you’re not going anywhere.’
With matching scowls, the girls reluctantly put on their cardigans. Banu turned to Gurdev with a sigh. ‘The same battle every day. They’re shameless. You should see what they do with the Sacred Heart uniforms – how they tighten those belts and roll the waists of their skirts.’ She shook her head. ‘Do you think this is too much?’ she asked. She held up a pair of glittery earrings. ‘I don’t want people to think I’m showing off.’
‘You look very nice,’ Gurdev said. He stole a quick peck on her cheek. She gave him a playful shove in the chest. ‘Chee. In front of the girls!’ The girls were nowhere to be seen. ‘Rani!’ Banu called. ‘Rani, what are you doing in the toilet?’
Rani’s tiny voice came as an echo. ‘Just finishing.’
Moments later, the sound of the toilet flushing, the tap running, and Rani appeared in the doorway in her puffy pink dress. ‘This is my baby,’ Banu cooed. ‘This little baby doesn’t want to look silly, hmm?’ Rani giggled and buried her face in the pleats of Banu’s sari. ‘Go sit in the living room and wait for us, okay?’