Epigone

D was an ambitious twenty-year-old. His mornings were spent at Prakash General Stores – the three longest hours of his day, where he played delivery boy, salesman and shop-owner’s personal punching bag. Mr P, though not an evil man, was a bit of a misanthrope. Like the eye of Sauron, his presence was piercing and pugnacious.

As soon as the clock struck noon, D would rush over to his other job as a part-time hair-stylist’s assistant, at Gazelle Beauty Parlor – an up-market establishment that offered to bring out the inner woman in you, or so it said. It is widely rumored that all women secretly believe that they can look like Angelina Jolie, given half the chance. And they chase after this mirage with unrelenting determination. For a whole battery of professionals, technicians, researchers, retailers and surgeons, this notion proves to be the butter on their baguette.

D’s profile was to cut and trim. But he ached to also crimp, color, perm, straighten and curl – his hands would itch whenever a woman having a bad hair-day walked through the door. His ambition didn’t end there. He envisaged himself as a hair-consultant. Lift a strand here, feel a lock there – and know exactly whether it should be sent for scalp-cleansing or follicle-strengthening. The hair industry beckoned him – it was his calling. But the climb was uphill.

Thus spluttered the lorry of D’s life – a vector without much speed. And then - he saw her. V turned up in his life like a jack-in-the-box and hit him squarely on the jaw. She came into the shop and asked for a note-book. Violins played, bells jangled. D never recovered from the assault.

The days after that passed-by in a blur. He followed her home. He peeked in through her window. He even threw a stone and bolted. His nights were feverish and days pregnant - with wait. He discovered he knew a friend of hers and plotted to somehow get himself introduced. After that, D was sure his natural magnetism, years of observation and careful planning would win home the bacon. He knew to the punctuation how he would persuade her to go out with him. He would take her to one of those Salman flicks at Galaxy, on his neighbor’s rickety Honda; he would buy the popcorn during the interval and regale her with funny stories. To clinch the deal, he would take her to Rajesh Khanna Park where they would stroll around talking, and upon getting tired, would park their asses on a bench. And then he would open his heart out to her.

That little imp that we call - luck - was probably looking the other way. And so, his plans fell into place.

Location – Rajesh Khanna Park. Ambience – Fresh breeze and verdant greenery. Him – Clean-shaven, spanking new and moony-eyed. Her – Fragrant, tinkely-voiced and coy as a beetroot. They sit there looking at each other, hope in their eyes and moths in their stomachs. V seems as afflicted as D. Her hands are fidgeting with her handkerchief. He is wondering whether to take the next step. He steels himself, clears his throat and is about to spew forth, when he notices a strand of hair – blowing across her face. His right hand shoots forth to put that errant strand back in its place. He notices that it, the hand, is trembling. Her mouth is slightly open – the moment is magical. His hand makes contact with her hair and runs the length of it lightly; he finds himself saying – You have split-ends, you need a hair-cut.