When I started this blog last June, I had something in mind when I chose the blog header and the link. Back then I was quite a keen follower of Prison Break ( I still am, but I've not yet gotten my hands on Season 4 ). So I thought anagrams of the names of the lead characters Scofield and Sara would be a good idea for the blog. So the blog kicked off, and I started writing about things that interested me. Music. Crosswords. Cricket. Humour. Food. But I never thought I'd get a reason to post something that would have the remotest of semblances to Prison Break, considering I don't do reviews.
I was wrong.
October 18, 2008.
5:45 AM. It is a chilly morning in Bangalore City.
I alight from the bus, dodge the Autowallas ushering me, and march towards the opposite side of the road. Koramangala 2nd Block. Shortly one of those BMTC buses comes along, and 10 minutes later I find myself outside TGI Friday's on Airport Road. I cast a doleful look at the building and plug my headphones back on. Three Air Supply numbers later, I knock on Heaven's door, the entry to my abode during the course of my internship until June past.
My sisters are finally back in the country. It's a family reunion after more than a year. Understandably, there's a bit of emotion surrounding all this, but since that's a family affair, we'll just let that be. This post is not about the reunion.
My Dad is the first to notice it.
'You've gone down alright, but you'd look smarter if you got rid of your unkempt hair. Why don't you get it trimmed?'
Smarter? I think it over. Sure. Why not.
8:00 AM.
I head towards the nearest saloon, mutter 'Short' to the barber like I always do, and set my specs aside. It's usually a peaceful process, a consequence of which is everyone's happiness. The barber gets his due, my head becomes lighter and well, honestly I think Bangalore's Radio Indigo 91.9 plays pleasant English numbers which you can almost doze off to.
I notice that the scissors are conspicuous by their absence. Machine, the barber complies. Go ahead, I tell him. I close my eyes. These guys are pretty adept at what they do, I mumble to myself, and recalled the last time my haircut had gotten screwed up.
Sometime in 1993. Lazy Sunday evening.
You need a haircut.
Dad, no. I have homework!
Trust me, you need a haircut. Let's go.
But it's a Sunday. Saloons are not open today!
And sure enough, no saloon is open. We go back home. Dad is disappointed. And then he takes matters into his own hands.
Scissors. Comb. Anyone can do a haircut, he says.
Twenty minutes later, he examines my head. First this way, and then the other. I have no idea how I look, yet. Mum happens to walk in, and she gapes at me. A hollow patch on the right side of my head greets her. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, and Dad is sheepish. Anyone can do a bad haircut, Dad corrects himself.
Just to screw things up further, the class photo-session is scheduled for the next day. Later, looking at the snap, my friends would scorn at my novel hairdo while I hung around peevishly.
'Done, saar.'
The barber removes the shroud off me. I put on my specs.
It's hard to exactly describe my reaction. My face expressionless, I manage to mouth 'How much?' and pay him.
'Saar, if you want Ghajni style, I can do that also. Five more minutes.'
I shake my head vigorously, unable to utter a word. I get back. My knock is greeted by one of my sisters.
'Hey, look who's home! It's Michael Scofield!'
Guffaws follow. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, but this time, Dad is overjoyed.
'15 years ago, this is EXACTLY what I intended!'
Addendum:
October 20, 2008. Monday.
Seen on the work-board of my cubicle:
I was wrong.
October 18, 2008.
5:45 AM. It is a chilly morning in Bangalore City.
I alight from the bus, dodge the Autowallas ushering me, and march towards the opposite side of the road. Koramangala 2nd Block. Shortly one of those BMTC buses comes along, and 10 minutes later I find myself outside TGI Friday's on Airport Road. I cast a doleful look at the building and plug my headphones back on. Three Air Supply numbers later, I knock on Heaven's door, the entry to my abode during the course of my internship until June past.
My sisters are finally back in the country. It's a family reunion after more than a year. Understandably, there's a bit of emotion surrounding all this, but since that's a family affair, we'll just let that be. This post is not about the reunion.
My Dad is the first to notice it.
'You've gone down alright, but you'd look smarter if you got rid of your unkempt hair. Why don't you get it trimmed?'
Smarter? I think it over. Sure. Why not.
8:00 AM.
I head towards the nearest saloon, mutter 'Short' to the barber like I always do, and set my specs aside. It's usually a peaceful process, a consequence of which is everyone's happiness. The barber gets his due, my head becomes lighter and well, honestly I think Bangalore's Radio Indigo 91.9 plays pleasant English numbers which you can almost doze off to.
I notice that the scissors are conspicuous by their absence. Machine, the barber complies. Go ahead, I tell him. I close my eyes. These guys are pretty adept at what they do, I mumble to myself, and recalled the last time my haircut had gotten screwed up.
Sometime in 1993. Lazy Sunday evening.
You need a haircut.
Dad, no. I have homework!
Trust me, you need a haircut. Let's go.
But it's a Sunday. Saloons are not open today!
And sure enough, no saloon is open. We go back home. Dad is disappointed. And then he takes matters into his own hands.
Scissors. Comb. Anyone can do a haircut, he says.
Twenty minutes later, he examines my head. First this way, and then the other. I have no idea how I look, yet. Mum happens to walk in, and she gapes at me. A hollow patch on the right side of my head greets her. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, and Dad is sheepish. Anyone can do a bad haircut, Dad corrects himself.
Just to screw things up further, the class photo-session is scheduled for the next day. Later, looking at the snap, my friends would scorn at my novel hairdo while I hung around peevishly.
'Done, saar.'
The barber removes the shroud off me. I put on my specs.
It's hard to exactly describe my reaction. My face expressionless, I manage to mouth 'How much?' and pay him.
'Saar, if you want Ghajni style, I can do that also. Five more minutes.'
I shake my head vigorously, unable to utter a word. I get back. My knock is greeted by one of my sisters.
'Hey, look who's home! It's Michael Scofield!'
Guffaws follow. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, but this time, Dad is overjoyed.
'15 years ago, this is EXACTLY what I intended!'
Addendum:
October 20, 2008. Monday.
Seen on the work-board of my cubicle:
8 comments:
Har har har,
Don't tell me you're BALD!!!
Nice one, Mr Willis.
I'm confused though, your reference to shroud was the large locks of hair you lost or the fact that your glasses were missing??
:-D :-D
So much word play I just couldn't resist.
Mr Shaved Field, I mean Schofield.
:-D
Bald? No. I still have something left on me. Hopefully it'll get back in a couple of weeks ;)
But I like Willis, thanks ;)
You have gone bald?! :D Take a pic! :D
Brilliant post by the way :)
Thank you!
By the way, do you think Scofield would mind if I stole his thunder for a couple of weeks? ;)
Bril! And your work-board rocks :)
P.S. Have you tried Boston Legal? That's my latest addiction.
P.P.S. Oh, and really enjoyed the last post about your cousin. I'd like some of that spunk!
Thank you! :)
Nope, I have no access to sit-coms/series. Have to hunt around for some!
woooow !!! i d like to hv as luk at that.. n wats with ths 1993 incident??? i d like to hv a luk at tat pic too.. we cud do a comparitiv study ! :)
The blog owner reserves the right to reveal/shred any pics that may feature anywhere in respect of this post. And comparative studies are banned! ;)
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