MEMORIES OF DAYS GONE BY AND A TRIBUTE

 

MEMORIES OF DAYS GONE BY AND A TRIBUTE

Radheshyam was a middle aged, tall and a bit heavily set man. His face never reflected any stress whatsoever in life. Pleasant and always with a welcome tilt of the head and an occasional bow when he sees his regular customers. All this while his hands magically circumnavigated the head of a customer, deftly trimming and shaping the hair.

As always, he had a tale to tell, an incident to narrate and a couple of political points to make. To whoever was in his shop and willing to lend an ear. He was not unduly concerned if anyone participated in this attempted conversation or not but an occasional nod or a smile would suffice to egg him on.

The radio, ever present, tuned to Vividh Bharti, relentlessly in the background, rendered those wonderful and evergreen melodies of Rafi, Mukesh, Lata and Kishore. While we went about losing a bit of hair, the memory cells replaced matter lost with the lyrics and tunes of these songs. Forever etched.

He and his brothers or village pals from, maybe Jumritallaya or Allahabad, who helped him run the barber shop, had been doing this ever since this Mumbai suburb sprouted, possibly in the sixties. He was there through summers and rains but for the occasional visit to his family. The tales of which and the innuendoes attached to those visits were matter to guffaw about  for us brats but not to be mentioned here.

I hate to now call that shop as a saloon or Radheshyam as a hairdresser as that would rob the shop and him of an ancient charm, of the valuable role he and his ilk played, every month, during one's growing years. His stories, his views and his narration had its own rustic logic, empathy and in a subtle manner exposed us to the ways of the world.

We, my friends, often went there, together. Most often than not, this was never planned, nor was it dictated by the growth of our hair and the necessity to trim it. It often happened at the spur of the moment, probably one among us felt that his personality looked a trifle less impressive and could be rectified by Radhashyam's magical fingers and scissors. So along we trouped into Radheshyam's domain.

It stood at the corner of a residential cum shopping complex on a moderately busy street. A kind of nukkad! It had Mammu's pan shop perpendicular to it. Mammu was a quintessential panwala. Together both of them and the radio in attendance provided an adda for us youngsters to while time waiting for Radheshyam or his assistants to be free. The wait was often aided by a smoke and/ or a pan for some.

Either of them would never fail to notice if one of us is not present and inquired about his whereabouts.

For me getting a haircut was not a canvas to my personality. It was the rendezvous with my mates, with Radheshyam and Mammo as hosts, that I loved. The time, sometimes couple of hours, spend doing nothing yet every moment building bonds.

Often someone would comment, typically in an Indian way " Oh, you cut your hair" More than correcting the person, I was not ready to steal the credit from Radheshyam! I would emphatically retort " No. I got it cut!"

Days went by, childhood turned into adolescence which turned into manhood and as life took one beyond the now busy suburb, Radheshyam and Mammo remained but memories. Fancy Saloons cut hair and pockets too, hairstylists made numerous attempts to convince me that my hair must be given its due in shaping my looks, I had no use of them other than get my hair cut. None ever provided the warmth and bliss that my friends and me were lucky in togetherly brotherhood, to have been blessed with by Radheshyam. Much more was he than a crafts man, than a barber for us. Bonds, his roof help build between us friends, meant he was also probably a mentor. Salutations thus to those like him of a bygone era.