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Gone With The Wind

Discussion in 'Snippets of Life (Non-Fiction)' started by ojaantrik, Jun 19, 2017.

  1. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Like the rest of humanity residing on the wrong side of seventy, I often lament over the good old days when a family physician visited your home. Somewhat in the manner of a dear old friend, he smiled and briefly chatted during visits, and these constituted the best part of the cure. But he prescribed medicines too, usually referred to as mixtures. They were liquids of varying shades and colours, which well-trained compounders in pharmacies served in corked up bottles. On the body of the bottle was pasted a slim strip of paper, whose sides were carefully snipped off at regular intervals to mark the doses for the medicine. There must have been a simple technique the compounder employed to produce the markers, whose total lengths as well as the sizes of the tabs that indicated the quantum of the mixture in each dose varied across bottles, depending presumably on their sizes and the intensity of one's illness. I am pretty sure that they spent quality time with a pair of scissors and a paper roll designing the markers. The mixture preparation art with the clearly demarcated dosages glued to the bottles has disappeared completely with the arrival of proprietary medicines. But then so has the family physician.

    The physician was not the only example of the species that visited your home. I remember Hari in this connection, from seventy odd years ago. He was the first barber I came across in my life and I realise now to my surprise that Hari is an anagram of hair! I doubt though that his parents had named him Hari to initiate him to his profession. In fact I am not even sure if they knew what the word hair meant. On the other hand they might have known, for once in a while you did come across hair-cutting saloons even during those primitive days.

    Hari was inseparable from his little wooden box of implements and knew precisely when his clients needed him for their haircuts. Like the compounder, Hari too started off his job with paper. Not the compounder's spotless white roll, but an old sheet of newspaper that he borrowed from his client's home. He spent at least ten minutes or so patiently folding up the sheet right down the middle, making the three sides of a page perfectly align with those of the facing page. Then he carefully selected a spot near the centre of the common side and carved off a semi-circular section around it with his scissors. When the pages were reopened, the semi-circle transformed into a circular hole large enough for any normal sized head to pass through. Finally, the perfectionist that he was, he slit up one side of the circle vertically downwards, a few inches or so, to give the thing the appearance of a shirt front (without button holes of course).

    The garment, worn by his client seated on a chair, looked like a shirt of sorts, projecting on both sides over his shoulders. If there were two more holes, one to the right and one to the left of the shirt front, a person's arms could well be pushed out through them, making the newsprint cover resemble a pillory from the middle ages advertising the imminent arrival of the printing machine. The shirt was meant to protect the best part of the torso of the person undergoing a haircut from the shreds of hair that soon began to travel downwards.

    Once the newspaper cape was ready, he put on his nickel framed semi-usable glasses before shifting over to the actual business of hair-cutting. The haircut ceremony at our home invariably took place on the ground floor balcony facing the street. The newspaper clad client had to sit quietly for at least half an hour, announcing stale news from a few days ago to all interested passersby. Once the ceremony was over, Hari helped him slip out of his newspaper confinement, neatly folded it up again and carried it away. I don't know what he did with it, but it is unlikely that he used it for bedtime reading.

    My memory suggests that he was the same old man, from the very first day of our acquaintance to the last, and that could have been several years. As I look back in time, he appears to me to be the closest approximation of the Old Man and the Sea that I had come across in real life, except that he wasn't interested in the sea. He was happy with his dark wooden box, containing a pair or two of hair-cutting scissors, a time-tested razor, a couple of not so clean looking combs with missing teeth, a single pair of vintage clippers, and almost invariably a tin framed mini-mirror, for clients who had to be convinced that they had received value for money. He was slim and clad invariably in a once white dhoti and shirt and sported silvery hair with occasional patches of grey. As a child, I used to be afraid of the razor and insisted that he used the clippers alone instead of shaving the back of my neck with his razor. He wore a constant smile on his wrinkled, sunburnt face however, and assured me that there was nothing to worry about. I don't think he could convince me, but I couldn't persuade him either.

    Hari charged a sum that should not exceed today's equivalent of 50 paise. Once the job was over, he released his captives from newspaper confinement and invariably parted with a wisdom filled advice on the way to take a bath after a hair-cut. "Start off by pouring pots full of water over your head to wash off the hair sticking to your body. That will clean you up," I might have tried out his counsel, but cannot recall anymore if it brought me success.

    Hari, as I strongly suspect, was born old, but unlike Benjamin Button, he continued to stay old till he died. I don't know where he died, except that once he had passed away, his son, Panna, showed up, claiming his right to take charge of his father's business. For some reason though, he didn't continue for too long. Either he died from natural causes or he lost out to the slowly developing barber shop culture. And I distinctly remember that he had not mastered the technique of transforming newspapers into shirts.

    Hari with his newspaper capes took a final curtain call many years ago. But newspapers still exist along with their home delivery service. This brings Sharma to my mind. Sharma used to deliver newspapers to my home, a silent and never complaining person. Unlike Hari's wooden box, Sharma had a bicycle and he cycled around the locality with his daily newspapers. He was well-informed about our preferences and every morning, as soon as I opened the front door, I found all the four newspapers I regularly subscribe to waiting at the entrance. His specialization was not limited to newspapers alone. He showed up during festival seasons with a list of annual issues of popular magazines, which my wife enjoyed reading. And once every month, he came up with his bill at a late morning hour when he knew we couldn't be asleep. He was particularly helpful during emergencies as well. Once in a while I found out somewhat late in the morning that I needed the day's edition of a paper I did not normally buy. Sharma had left his phone number with me and all I had to do was give him a ring. The issue I was looking for arrived soon enough.

    Old time residents in my locality told me that Sharma's did not live an enviable life. He was a bachelor and took charge of a bunch of useless nephews his brothers had left behind them. So, Sharma spent his life caring for the nephews and probably their mothers as well. Once in a while he used to go back to his native village for a vacation, asking his nephews to take charge of the newspaper delivery to his regulars. The nephews though were not dependable and the newspapers arrived at my home with random gaps. This was most annoying and we complained to Sharma when he came back. He smiled in embarrassment and told us that he would try his best to have the matter resolved, but I don't think he had any control whatsoever over the nephews. Matters continued the same way over years, but having known and trusted Sharma for so long, we continued to patronise him.

    Till one day when we heard that he had sustained an accident in his old age and lost use of both legs. He was packed off promptly by the nephews. One of them showed up at my residence and informed me that he was going to ensure the regular delivery of newspapers then onwards. He failed to keep his promise of course and finally, out of sheer disgust, I engaged a different newspaper boy. This new boy is dependable and has not failed me so far.

    In the meantime though, Sharma himself showed up all of a sudden, bearing a complaint from his nephew that he had not received his payment. Sharma was not able to walk at all and had to be helped by someone to climb up to my first floor apartment. It was a sad spectacle, but I had no choice but to explain to him the nature of the problem. I was unwilling to accept Sharma's nephew as his replacement. Sharma didn't complain and left without demanding any payment whatsoever, though I offered to compensate him for the newspapers I never received.

    I asked him whether he was planning to come back. In response, he drew my attention to his knees, which appeared to be permanently enclosed in strange looking casts bound to his knees with wires. That such a person could not possibly ride a bicycle was pretty obvious. Though newspapers will still be delivered to my home, Sharma at least has gone good. Where to, I cannot even guess, even though it occurs to me that coincidentally enough, the word Ashram is an anagram of Sharma.
     
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  2. Viswamitra

    Viswamitra IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear Sri Ojaantrik:

    So, you are one of those old timers who had the pleasure of having a haircut at home with newspaper shirt on top of you. :) The tools Hari possessed in his wooden box must be his most valuable assets and would never let it go under any circumstance. It is unfortunate, his son didn't learn the trade from his dad properly how to make the newspaper shirt.

    Regarding Sharma, it is tragic that he lost his legs in an accident. As a committed newspaper deliverer, he tried his best to continue his business with his nephews and it is unfortunate they didn't have the same business ethics Sharma had. Many times, we see more values with people like Sharma who work so hard in life and it is nice on his part to refuse payment even though you offered to pay him for the newspapers you never received.

    Viswa
     
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  3. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Thank you Viswa for taking the trouble to read this. It was influenced by a Ruskin Bond blog I read recently. You will find it here: Why I miss the good old GP who kept it simple

    I have a long way to go to reach Bond's standards. In fact, even if I try very hard, it will take me several years to be anywhere near him. I cannot possibly live that long. But I think I have at least figured out why I am a failed writer, which is better than being a pompous fool. And believe me, I am not practising humility when I rate myself as third rate, whatever IL may have to say.

    Best regards.

    oj
     
    Last edited: Jun 20, 2017
  4. Cheeniya

    Cheeniya Super Moderator Staff Member IL Hall of Fame

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    My dear OJ
    Your humility sometimes gets on my nerves. A remark like this is an insult to your devoted readers like me. I'll shout from the top of any nearby hill that you are incomparable. Like the child in the TV ad shouts 'My daddy is the strongest'
    Pack up your humility and keep it in your over-stuffed bank locker for heaven's sake!
    Sri
     
  5. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    :tired::weary::tired::weary::mad::(:rage:
     
  6. PushpavalliSrinivasan

    PushpavalliSrinivasan IL Hall of Fame

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    @)Ojaantrik
    I remember those good old days family doctor, Barbar, and dhobi who used to come home.
    When anyone was sick the family doctor used to come home and we used to send some one with him to take the medicine from his home cum clinic. A compounder used to mix different powders and colored liquid and then mixing them and pouring them in a bottle and then give it. Earlier they used stick the paper for dosage, but later bottles with dosages marked were used.

    My father used to have his monthly hair cut at the front varanda on a raised structure known as thinnai in Tamil. We used to wash the thinnai with water after the barber left
    Father would go to the backyard and take bath immediately without touching anyone.

    Our dhoby used to come once in a week and collect the clothes for washing. He used to mark the clothes with some marker so that it didn't get mixed up with others' clothes.

    Now we have to go to specialists for our ailments, And saloons have taken the place of barbers. Though washing machines have taken the place of washermen still people use isthri men/ launderers.
    Now online laundry services available in Chennai and they come home and pick up the clothes and delivers at home after washing.

    We subscribe to newspaper online and so we don't even see the one who delivers it as he just inserts the paper in the grill door and goes off.
    PS
     
    Last edited: Jun 20, 2017
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  7. satchitananda

    satchitananda IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear OJ-da,

    As usual a delightful narrative of gentler times and lifestyles. Your story brought to mind many of the characters from my childhood - the maid, the beggar who used to come every tuesday evening, the dhobi who used to come home, the sugarcane vendor, the postman ..... oh your snippet has just taken me back in time. :)
     
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  8. SCSusila

    SCSusila Gold IL'ite

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    Wonderful memories, and wonderfully narrated with all details to bring the peope and scenes alive .
    My father used to tell us about the barber who came home to give hair cuts to all the. boys of his extended family whenhe was young . Tbe barber also trimmed their nails , removed sprains , cleared ear wax etc. A mobile beauty salon . Sometimes he was paid with a " seer " of grains , andvegetables from the garden itseems . And myfather used to remember that the man was also a carrier of town news , and gossip about everyone . :)
     
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  9. ojaantrik

    ojaantrik IL Hall of Fame

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    Dear SCS,

    Perhaps such people exist even today, though they look different. If we keep our eyes open and take an interest in the life that surrounds us, we may still find them. Funny things happen all the time. For example, I was reading a Ruskin Bond blog recently in which he describes waiting for his flight in the airport, just watching people. Suddenly a young woman comes up to him and asks, "Are you Bejan Daruwala?" Then a mother approaches him with her son and tells him that she has recognized him as a well-known author. Would he mind sign an autograph on one of his books that his school requires him to read? He agrees of course and then asks the boy which book he read. The boy told him it was Tom Sawyer. Upon hearing this Ruskin signs Mark Twain!!

    Such things happen to you. Some small, some big. I notice them at times and then often forget. That's a pity.

    oj
     
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  10. AhujaGirl

    AhujaGirl Silver IL'ite

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    Dear Sir,

    This is the first post of yours that I have read and I wonder, how did I miss out the other posts? How did I miss reading the other posts until now!!!

    The narrative is absolutely captivating and I was so lost into the story that now I crave for more!

    You definitely have found a fan for yourself :)

    P.S: I have never seen a barber come home, but your story made me see one. Thank you :)

    Regards,
    Your Fan ;)
     
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