Last weekend, I visited the barbershop in the neighboring street. The barbershop where my barber friend offered me a haircut for 70 rupees and his political opinions for free.
Last weekend, the topic of discussion happened to be Karunanidhi's death. As hair strands kept falling before my eyes, we discussed about the possible protests that would have erupted had Karunanidhi been denied his final resting place at the Marina beach. In the middle of our discussion, my friend suddenly paused and held a mirror behind my head. He asked if I was satisfied with the amount of trimming on the back of my head. I did not care to pay much attention and hastily nodded in agreement.
Our discussion continued and a couple of minutes later, my friend paused again to ask if the trimming on the sides of my head was enough. I smiled and calmly replied, "Just give me a haircut that will keep me out of your shop for at least 1 month." My friend laughed and continued his work.
After about five minutes, he wrapped up his finishing touches and admired my hairstyle. He held the mirror again to the back of my head, to the sides of my head and eagerly looked at my reflection in the mirror hung before me for my approval. I showed him a thumbs-up and as my friend happily began to untie the cloth that had covered me from the falling hair strands, a realization hit me.
My barber friend cared more about my hairstyle than I did.
For me, the haircut was just a solution to keep my hair out of my ears and eyes. Nothing more. Nothing less. But it wasn't so for my friend. Which gladdened and saddened me in equal measures.
I was glad because I had met a man who put his heart and soul into his work. I was sad because I did not even attempt to understand his work.
****
Four days after the haircut, I visited an Italian restaurant near my office. I ended up there since my team was in a mood for authentic pizzas and pastas. As my teammates patiently examined the menu card to decide upon the most mouthwatering dishes, I downed my second glass of drinking water in an attempt to prevent my face and stomach from emitting signs/sounds indicative of my terrible hunger.
My hunger made me wonder if my teammates assumed that they were on a real Italian vacation. They seemed to be conversing and laughing and deciding dishes at a very leisurely pace. Screw you, Dolce Far Niente! In comparison, I seemed to be a man stuck in a Bangalore traffic signal, irritated by the ten seconds remaining for the signal to turn green.
Fortunately, after what seemed like the time required to explore the entirety of Venice and Rome, the waiter brought the starter dish. It was called bruschetta. My hunger did not care if it was bruschetta or bhel puri or bisi bele bath. All that mattered was that it was edible.
I did not care for dining etiquette and reached out for the dish. The waiter stopped me. "Let me serve you the dish, sir." I agreed with a forced smile as my stomach growled.
The waiter took a piece of roasted bread and slowly applied olive oil to one side of the bread. Meanwhile, my stomach armed itself with a pistol. The waiter then took a tiny piece of garlic and gently rubbed the same side of the bread. My stomach unlocked the safety lock in the pistol and was ready to fire at the waiter. The waiter then placed a basil leaf on top of the bread and slowly arranged diced tomatoes one after the other on the basil leaf. Boom! Boom! Boom! My stomach had fired 3 fatal shots already.
The waiter then carefully placed/presented the dish on my plate. "Oh you poor soul! You have already been executed." My stomach let out an evil laugh at the waiter. I picked up the bruschetta and ate it, only to be reminded of the bread-sandwiches I would prepare with my brother when we did not have enough time and ingredients.
My hunger satisfied itself, giving up all hope on food, and I relaxed on my chair, embracing the Italian lifestyle.
But as I relaxed, I noticed the waiter passionately preparing the bruschetta, one after another, for my teammates. His face glowed as he repeatedly applied the olive oil, rubbed the garlic on the bread, placed the basil leaf and arranged the diced tomatoes. His face glowed more as he saw smiles spreading out on my teammates' faces as they chewed upon the bruschetta. Which gladdened and saddened me in equal measures.
I was glad because I had met a man who put his heart and soul into his work. I was sad because I did not even attempt to understand his work.
****
For me, fashion and food are only the means to an end (a good life) and not an end in themselves. Owing to this, I have missed many opportunities to appreciate the artistry behind hairdressing and cooking/serving.
As I understood this aspect of mine through the above incidents, I also understood people who have missed many opportunities to appreciate the artistry behind writing and filmmaking.
For many people, books and films can be only the means to an end (a good life) and not an end in themselves.
After this realization hit me, I visited the barbershop in the neighboring street. My barber friend was discussing about the floods in Kerala with a customer. I interrupted him, shook his hand and thanked him. My friend did not understand. "I feel extremely light-headed now." My explanation did not help him. I thanked him again and walked out.
Last weekend, the topic of discussion happened to be Karunanidhi's death. As hair strands kept falling before my eyes, we discussed about the possible protests that would have erupted had Karunanidhi been denied his final resting place at the Marina beach. In the middle of our discussion, my friend suddenly paused and held a mirror behind my head. He asked if I was satisfied with the amount of trimming on the back of my head. I did not care to pay much attention and hastily nodded in agreement.
Our discussion continued and a couple of minutes later, my friend paused again to ask if the trimming on the sides of my head was enough. I smiled and calmly replied, "Just give me a haircut that will keep me out of your shop for at least 1 month." My friend laughed and continued his work.
After about five minutes, he wrapped up his finishing touches and admired my hairstyle. He held the mirror again to the back of my head, to the sides of my head and eagerly looked at my reflection in the mirror hung before me for my approval. I showed him a thumbs-up and as my friend happily began to untie the cloth that had covered me from the falling hair strands, a realization hit me.
My barber friend cared more about my hairstyle than I did.
For me, the haircut was just a solution to keep my hair out of my ears and eyes. Nothing more. Nothing less. But it wasn't so for my friend. Which gladdened and saddened me in equal measures.
I was glad because I had met a man who put his heart and soul into his work. I was sad because I did not even attempt to understand his work.
****
Four days after the haircut, I visited an Italian restaurant near my office. I ended up there since my team was in a mood for authentic pizzas and pastas. As my teammates patiently examined the menu card to decide upon the most mouthwatering dishes, I downed my second glass of drinking water in an attempt to prevent my face and stomach from emitting signs/sounds indicative of my terrible hunger.
My hunger made me wonder if my teammates assumed that they were on a real Italian vacation. They seemed to be conversing and laughing and deciding dishes at a very leisurely pace. Screw you, Dolce Far Niente! In comparison, I seemed to be a man stuck in a Bangalore traffic signal, irritated by the ten seconds remaining for the signal to turn green.
Fortunately, after what seemed like the time required to explore the entirety of Venice and Rome, the waiter brought the starter dish. It was called bruschetta. My hunger did not care if it was bruschetta or bhel puri or bisi bele bath. All that mattered was that it was edible.
I did not care for dining etiquette and reached out for the dish. The waiter stopped me. "Let me serve you the dish, sir." I agreed with a forced smile as my stomach growled.
The waiter took a piece of roasted bread and slowly applied olive oil to one side of the bread. Meanwhile, my stomach armed itself with a pistol. The waiter then took a tiny piece of garlic and gently rubbed the same side of the bread. My stomach unlocked the safety lock in the pistol and was ready to fire at the waiter. The waiter then placed a basil leaf on top of the bread and slowly arranged diced tomatoes one after the other on the basil leaf. Boom! Boom! Boom! My stomach had fired 3 fatal shots already.
The waiter then carefully placed/presented the dish on my plate. "Oh you poor soul! You have already been executed." My stomach let out an evil laugh at the waiter. I picked up the bruschetta and ate it, only to be reminded of the bread-sandwiches I would prepare with my brother when we did not have enough time and ingredients.
My hunger satisfied itself, giving up all hope on food, and I relaxed on my chair, embracing the Italian lifestyle.
But as I relaxed, I noticed the waiter passionately preparing the bruschetta, one after another, for my teammates. His face glowed as he repeatedly applied the olive oil, rubbed the garlic on the bread, placed the basil leaf and arranged the diced tomatoes. His face glowed more as he saw smiles spreading out on my teammates' faces as they chewed upon the bruschetta. Which gladdened and saddened me in equal measures.
I was glad because I had met a man who put his heart and soul into his work. I was sad because I did not even attempt to understand his work.
****
For me, fashion and food are only the means to an end (a good life) and not an end in themselves. Owing to this, I have missed many opportunities to appreciate the artistry behind hairdressing and cooking/serving.
As I understood this aspect of mine through the above incidents, I also understood people who have missed many opportunities to appreciate the artistry behind writing and filmmaking.
For many people, books and films can be only the means to an end (a good life) and not an end in themselves.
After this realization hit me, I visited the barbershop in the neighboring street. My barber friend was discussing about the floods in Kerala with a customer. I interrupted him, shook his hand and thanked him. My friend did not understand. "I feel extremely light-headed now." My explanation did not help him. I thanked him again and walked out.
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