My Dad’s love for reading the newspaper is something that we have come to live with over the years, we fought all we could in the beginning but gave up.
The world comes to a standstill the moment the doorbell rings at 6:30am and the paper enters the Handa’s household.
We for the record get 3 newspapers which luckily does not include the local daily.
He is basically a quiz junkie(and his quest for knowledge is fuelled by the newspaper).
It has its advantages. :-)
Trophies adorn the mantle ,And he recently even won a titan collection as the first prize at some corporate quiz(Yo !! Am his nalayak beti who doesn’t even remember the last quiz he won and FYI:I have got the ladies watch from the pair on my wrist now.)
but we don’t have his attention for those 2 hours when the black and white sheets now even colored 2 feet long sheets are in his hands.
I think it flows in the blood as my Dadaji still reads the paper religiously every morning and thinks that the Mr Vermas 10 yr kid would understand his comments on how things are going not so right in the nation (Dadajiiiiiiii he is just 10 years old.)
Now that I have clearly stated a few(it is impossible to state all) instances of what good the newspaper has done to/for my family ,Lets come to the part where it proved as a boon for a barber(he is not worth calling a hair stylist) and spelled trauma for me.
My school batch then read my age as 9 years.
We were all excited as my cousin was getting married, we were aping Madhuri to get the steps right and then the dreadful moment came (these are the times when you wish you had a portable time machine in your pocket) when my mother felt I needed a haircut.
I sported a short pony, but my mom felt a trim would make me look better.
My mom was busy packing so my dad was told to take me for a haircut. He really didn’t feel the need. He seldom does when it can have implications like leaving his newspaper and going for errands but then he finally agreed as it occurred to him that he could still read the paper there.
So off we went and he decided to take me to a men’s saloon.
For him “A haircut is a haircut. What’s so complicated??”Anyone with scissors in his hand qualifies (I thank my stars till date, he could have even settled for the Gardner)
So with Kumar Sanu crooning in the background I entered the battlefield. (This is not exaggeration but is a preamble of what follows!)
It seemed funny initially when the man was trying to impress my dad and start a conversation and all my dad wanted to do was to get back to his paper quickly responded to his namaste with a quick nod and came with not so elaborate instructions of
”baal kat do bache ke”.
Period.
No explanations of length, style what so ever .Just one line.
So there I was left at mercy of a man who made the kitchen Gardner look smarter. And whatever seemed funny a few minutes back suddenly started taking shape as a nightmare.
He started with his job.
I was sitting stiff in the chair with a white sheet tied around my neck.
Hair all wet and making faces or to reword it …trying to find angles at which I should pose at the wedding.
The snip snap of the scissors started and I started getting not so good feelings about how things were turning ,I told papa ”kuch theek nahi hai”…and my dad all busy in agreeing with the editor responded as “hmm”…now my sixth sense again warned me and I again cried .. ”PAPA”…..and I got a reply from behind the paper “hmm good girl”…
So after multiple repeated cries and my dad’s hmm..and umms the haircut got over.
The barber(read barbarian) highly pleased with himself showcased his piece of creation to my dad.
And my dad was satisfied too(He had finished reading the paper).
Looked pleased and said “chalo”.
I was near tears and said “yeh ache nahi kate”.
My dad told the fellow..”Han, yeh ache nahi kate”.
The guy replied…”sir..yeh sanjay dutt style hai”(Remember “saajan” movie..with thick hair on top and thin streaks at the end )
My dad tells me “…”Beta..yeh sanjay dutt style hai”
I sniff and say “mujhe sanjay Dutt nahi banana”
My dad goes “Han yeh theek nahi hai…par ab kya kar sakta hain .Chalo”
All the way back I was a quite kid. No crying .No howling. Not even a small sniff.
But the moment I saw Ma at the door nothing in the world could stop me from telling everyone how My dad preferred the newspaper to my cries which my dad till date states where not explicit enough(yeh right!!!!)
No the trauma does not end here.
I had to face my cousins at the marriage.
So it turned out I was dressed like “Madhuri Dixit” and my hair resembled “Sanjay Dutt”.
Not a pretty picture I assure you.
My cousin bro commented “Tere baal to murgi ki puch hai”
And I proudly replied back nahi “Yeh to Sanjay Dutt style hai…tumhe nahi pata”
What else could I do. But all my attempts to convince my cousins that I adore my hairstyle went down the drain and till date the album has pictures of me sulking at all times.
Most of the time I resemble (or was) a harassed, irritated kid.
I have had short hair till 2 yr engg and now I can boast of strands crossing my waist.
The longest one being three feet.
Don’t ask for secrets…there is just one explanation for them.
I have never asked my dad to accompany me to the salon with his newspaper after that day ever again.
:)
Love you papa.
The world comes to a standstill the moment the doorbell rings at 6:30am and the paper enters the Handa’s household.
We for the record get 3 newspapers which luckily does not include the local daily.
He is basically a quiz junkie(and his quest for knowledge is fuelled by the newspaper).
It has its advantages. :-)
Trophies adorn the mantle ,And he recently even won a titan collection as the first prize at some corporate quiz(Yo !! Am his nalayak beti who doesn’t even remember the last quiz he won and FYI:I have got the ladies watch from the pair on my wrist now.)
but we don’t have his attention for those 2 hours when the black and white sheets now even colored 2 feet long sheets are in his hands.
I think it flows in the blood as my Dadaji still reads the paper religiously every morning and thinks that the Mr Vermas 10 yr kid would understand his comments on how things are going not so right in the nation (Dadajiiiiiiii he is just 10 years old.)
Now that I have clearly stated a few(it is impossible to state all) instances of what good the newspaper has done to/for my family ,Lets come to the part where it proved as a boon for a barber(he is not worth calling a hair stylist) and spelled trauma for me.
My school batch then read my age as 9 years.
We were all excited as my cousin was getting married, we were aping Madhuri to get the steps right and then the dreadful moment came (these are the times when you wish you had a portable time machine in your pocket) when my mother felt I needed a haircut.
I sported a short pony, but my mom felt a trim would make me look better.
My mom was busy packing so my dad was told to take me for a haircut. He really didn’t feel the need. He seldom does when it can have implications like leaving his newspaper and going for errands but then he finally agreed as it occurred to him that he could still read the paper there.
So off we went and he decided to take me to a men’s saloon.
For him “A haircut is a haircut. What’s so complicated??”Anyone with scissors in his hand qualifies (I thank my stars till date, he could have even settled for the Gardner)
So with Kumar Sanu crooning in the background I entered the battlefield. (This is not exaggeration but is a preamble of what follows!)
It seemed funny initially when the man was trying to impress my dad and start a conversation and all my dad wanted to do was to get back to his paper quickly responded to his namaste with a quick nod and came with not so elaborate instructions of
”baal kat do bache ke”.
Period.
No explanations of length, style what so ever .Just one line.
So there I was left at mercy of a man who made the kitchen Gardner look smarter. And whatever seemed funny a few minutes back suddenly started taking shape as a nightmare.
He started with his job.
I was sitting stiff in the chair with a white sheet tied around my neck.
Hair all wet and making faces or to reword it …trying to find angles at which I should pose at the wedding.
The snip snap of the scissors started and I started getting not so good feelings about how things were turning ,I told papa ”kuch theek nahi hai”…and my dad all busy in agreeing with the editor responded as “hmm”…now my sixth sense again warned me and I again cried .. ”PAPA”…..and I got a reply from behind the paper “hmm good girl”…
So after multiple repeated cries and my dad’s hmm..and umms the haircut got over.
The barber(read barbarian) highly pleased with himself showcased his piece of creation to my dad.
And my dad was satisfied too(He had finished reading the paper).
Looked pleased and said “chalo”.
I was near tears and said “yeh ache nahi kate”.
My dad told the fellow..”Han, yeh ache nahi kate”.
The guy replied…”sir..yeh sanjay dutt style hai”(Remember “saajan” movie..with thick hair on top and thin streaks at the end )
My dad tells me “…”Beta..yeh sanjay dutt style hai”
I sniff and say “mujhe sanjay Dutt nahi banana”
My dad goes “Han yeh theek nahi hai…par ab kya kar sakta hain .Chalo”
All the way back I was a quite kid. No crying .No howling. Not even a small sniff.
But the moment I saw Ma at the door nothing in the world could stop me from telling everyone how My dad preferred the newspaper to my cries which my dad till date states where not explicit enough(yeh right!!!!)
No the trauma does not end here.
I had to face my cousins at the marriage.
So it turned out I was dressed like “Madhuri Dixit” and my hair resembled “Sanjay Dutt”.
Not a pretty picture I assure you.
My cousin bro commented “Tere baal to murgi ki puch hai”
And I proudly replied back nahi “Yeh to Sanjay Dutt style hai…tumhe nahi pata”
What else could I do. But all my attempts to convince my cousins that I adore my hairstyle went down the drain and till date the album has pictures of me sulking at all times.
Most of the time I resemble (or was) a harassed, irritated kid.
I have had short hair till 2 yr engg and now I can boast of strands crossing my waist.
The longest one being three feet.
Don’t ask for secrets…there is just one explanation for them.
I have never asked my dad to accompany me to the salon with his newspaper after that day ever again.
:)
Love you papa.
