A great shave, some ruins, papu, nasty train ride
Trip Start
Oct 01, 2005
1
10
19
Trip End
Mar 27, 2007
Orchha, India
Friday, September 1, 2006
I wander back towards the center of the village, passing elderly women squatting against the cool walls of their mud homes. Their frail bodies so small yet so powerfully strong from decades of manual labor. Heads covered, their eyes expressive and observant, worn and wrinkled hands held in front of their knees. The main square, as always, is peaceful although it's filled with men, women, children, dogs, cows, goats, salesmen, beggars, cripples. (No Western tourists today, except me.) Some sell, some just hang out, some beg. Many have moved to the side of the square next to the temple to take advantage of the shade. Lying on the pavement or straw mats, they doze away the hottest portion of the day. My pace slows down as I approach the sweet shops. I step into the small area of cool provided by the shade of the overhanging tarp and indulge in some desert and chai.
Next door music is cranked to eardrum-splitting volume. Three young mustached men with fancy coifs are enjoying the cacophony of sound which streams out of the tinny sounding speakers. The pyrotechnics are pretty basic - a stick of incense and a cigarette or two. No this is not Anthrax playing some out of the way club in Madyha Pradesh. It is your local barber shop. It's shave time. An amazing weekly ritual.
I step into the "salon" - it measures roughly 50 square feet - plenty of space for two ancient barber chairs and a little bench. I ask, "How much for a shave?" The man replies with the usual, "Cut and shave?". "Just a shave." "Thirty." "I will give you twenty." He wobbles his head side to side in the peculiar way in which Indians often do. Sometimes it is in response to a question, other times it is a form of acknowledgement or agreement. The gesture can mean yes, maybe, I am not sure, I did not understand, no problem, etc. I climb into the wooden chair. The armrests are smooth and have a shiny patina from repeated use. The seat (high quality naugahide)is lumpy, the headrest quite rickety. Next to me a man is getting his hair dyed red. Not a good look.
I lean back and get ready to enjoy the ride. In front of me is a large mirror with a blue wooden frame. Its border is plastered with fading, black and white magazine photographs of varying 70's and 80's hairstyles, including a mullet. On the rust colored wall is a florescent tube, a small flashing Krishna lamp, a hair cutting license of someone - definitely nobody who is still alive today, a calendar, an impressive string of multi-colored plastic flowers and electrical wires. Below the mirror is a busy but organized counter with a blue Formica top - this is the life center of the shop - the cockpit. It holds everything - straight edge razor, blades, talcum powder, small water bowls, pig bristle foam brush, shaving cream, stack of small pieces of newspaper on which to wipe the excess shaving cream, cheap cologne, cheaper cologne, cheapest cologne, white cream, pink cream, a few not so clean towels, some pink napkins, hair spray, combs, scissors, electric razor and of course stereo. The remaining walls have mirrors as well. One is crooked and warped, slightly contorting its reflections - reminiscent of a mirrored room in a fun house at Coney Island.
My barber places a towel around my neck and standing behind me, begins to knead my face with his hands. Dipping his fingers into the bowl, he sprinkles water on my face. Working up a lather with the bristle brush he begins - cheeks, throat, chin, and finally, after confirming twice - the upper lip. No moustache for me, thank you. A new blade is in the straight edge razor. Every shave starts on the cheek in front of the ear and then moves towards the moustache area, often leaving it for last. Folds of skin are pulled and tightened. Excess shaving foam is wiped onto small squares of newspaper on the counter. The entire lathering and shaving process is then repeated, concluding with a spray of water and rubbing a chunk of rock salt to disinfect. Smelly cologne is optional. Out comes the dirty towel (or if you are lucky the pink napkins). A vigorous face massage follows with the pink or white cream - have no idea what the difference is. At this point, my face is glowing. And now for today's highlight. The head massage. Sometimes it's just a nice relaxing conclusion to the shave but today it's the main attraction. Opening a small package of Ayurvedic oil the barber pours it on my scalp and begins rubbing it in. It feels cool. He smacks my head around with his lightly closed fists and digs his fingers into my neck and scalp. I slowly start feeling the day's heat related fatigue disappearing. Very rejuvenating. This lasts all of 2 minutes. I pay, include a nice tip, and walk out only to be assaulted by a massive wall of wet, oppressive heat.
I am off to see Papu the tailor. Papu hangs in front of his shop, wearing a white wife beater, nylon-mix dress trousers and sandals. He smokes 40 beadies a day. He never eats. He loves making clothes. Papu is one of the millions of talented tailors throughout India, with no more than a small cubby hole for a shop, a manual sewing machine, big metal scissors, thread, some leftover material and a huge heart. Over the course of few days, we enjoy many chais, beadies, cigarettes and laughs together. Eventually, Papu makes me some great cotton shirts and shorts (four total) for a ridiculously low price. Yeah Papu!
My return trip to Delhi starts with the bumpy tempo ride to Jhansi - about 18 km away. The vehicle is relatively unpacked for Indian standards - a woman breast feeding her child, loads of kids, a few small time businessmen, a cop (in the front seat next to the driver), the cop's friend, a woman with a large clump of betel leaves, more kids and me. However, the bubbling sensation in my stomach, which had started earlier in the day, is slowly developing into waves of nausea and sweats, as well as general weakness. Makes for a pleasant little drive. By the time we arrive at the Jhansi train station, it is blatantly obvious that the next 12 hours are going to be complete misery. I spend the bulk of the train ride considering the fine workmanship of the Indian Railways western style and Indian style toilets. Between raging bouts of vomiting and diarrhea, I stumble back to my seat, smelling quite ripe, and gingerly sit down. Several people take pity on me and actually do not make me stand, returning my seat each one of the 20 or 30 times I come back from the toilet. People offer me food and drink. Some qualified individuals even make wise statements based on hard scientific evidence, such as 'You look to be sick.' or 'Perhaps you ate something bad at the train station.' Of course these comments are highly appreciated by me. I was on the India Diet Plan - drink some foul bacteria laced water, take some antibiotics and lose 15 pounds in a week.
Several visits to the toilet later the train suddenly stops. A group of men are running through the wagons screaming and pulling the emergency brakes. This initially does not illicit any response from the other passengers. Of course, I proceed to ask what is going on. Turns out the men are supposed to have seats in an AC coach but the coach is not attached to the train. They want to show Indian Railways who is boss. They want the company to be accountable. It's understandable. The station master is drunk and there is no figure of authority who will give these irate passengers a straight answer regarding, refunds, etc. I engage in a conversation with one of the "cord pullers" and try to explain that their actions will not result in the sudden appearance of an AC coach. He replies that, 'India is a democracy and that I would not understand.' At that particular moment I do not understand. I do not want to understand. It's 100 degrees out, I am shitting and puking chapati, paneer and rice all over the place and am stuck in the middle of a hot dusty plain. Crowds are forming outside the train. Discussions are becoming heated and it now seems highly likely that a violent confrontation is about to occur. Some solders show up. But they do nothing. The crowds continue to grow in size and vociferousness. Then as quickly as it started the group breaks up. Everyone gets back on the train, allowing me to focus all of my energies on purging myself. That night I stay in a plush air conditioned room in Delhi and watch HBO. No other way.
