Capitalism and Kabali

Dr. M. Sathya Prasad. May 1, 2020. 5:15 PM.

As a child I had wondered at many things around me – grasshoppers, dragonflies, beetles, butterflies, crabs and even ants. I used to spend hours observing these creatures with amazement. Though a little child I was, this amazement was never expressed by me to others. I neither had the need nor the ability nor proclivity. Words are poorest forms to express experiences. The best experiences, as a rule, are those that cannot be expressed, but simply savoured in silence – too intense and personal. My wonder would all be within me in my own little world. Imagination was my best friend and the hours spent in solitude with little blocks of wood with which I used to build bridges or run the train my mother would make for me (when I was three) out of half dozen empty match boxes, inserted into one another, were experiences still fondly etched in my mind. I enjoyed being an introvert. I still do, though sometimes I am forced to masquerade as an extrovert due to existential compulsions. Generally, I relish my solitude. I detest loud, boastful, vexatious, superficial and aggressive people – unfortunately I was surrounded by many such when I grew up and felt like the protagonist in Saint-Exupery’s classic, ‘The Little Prince’. As a child I had no choice to select those in whose presence I would want to be with. I had to adapt myself to those around me, just taking enough precautions to save myself from any harm they could possibly inflict upon me. Unreasonable surroundings taught me patience. Now, as an adult, I have some freedom in picking and choosing friends and avoid those that are vexatious and harmful. I still make mistakes (quite less though) in selecting friends but try my best to quickly correct myself and only move with those where there is a healthy barter of value systems. I must be of value to my friends and vice-versa, though the spirit behind such relationships is seldom material.

But then, I am digressing.

It was the mid-seventies and India was still in the thick of socialism. Add to it the dark days of emergency. Disposable income was scarce. I was then a little child in single digit age. Possessions were far and few. Things were expensive. All you could do was to just look around, fantasise and wonder at things big and small! Imagination was and still is my best friend.

Take for example the steam locomotive. It was masochistic. It used to make some real noise and puts a chain-smoker to shame. I used to watch it up close at every opportunity. When a steam locomotive starts to roll, it doesn’t get enough traction and hence freewheels for a few seconds on its tracks. So noisy it was, it would seem as if the whole locomotive would derail. Then one of the wheels would bite on the track and the train would start slowly chugging along, puffing and panting as it emits bales of thick black smoke and rhythmic jets of white steam. The dark black engine and the two or three guys who man it would be my objects of envy. Most of these railway steam engines were manned by Anglo Indians, spotlessly clad in white uniform. It is unimaginable to see these trim folks wearing such a clean dress, and that too in a steam locomotive. A steam locomotive is as far removed from cleanliness as you could think! Grease, coal, smoke, dust! It was my dream to become a steam locomotive driver. These drivers were my heroes and role models.

For a long time, astronomy was another dream of mine. I would often imagine being a lone astronomer in an observatory in the middle of nowhere, spending dark nights scanning the limitless cosmos for stars and planets, through a giant telescope. Even to imagine the solitude of an observatory, far removed from the hustle and bustle of society, was comforting. Add to it, watching the celestial objects and keeping track of their activity! Sheer bliss even to imagine. That was one of my biggest dreams – to become an astronomer. Never materialized.

When I was three, I strongly believed that there were little people inside radios and whenever the radio was turned on, these people became alive and active. I used to imagine tiny men and women, formally dressed, not more than an inch tall, permanently dwelling inside the radio set with the sole purpose of entertaining my parents! I used to peer deep inside, searching as to where these little fellows were hiding.

Before my father purchased a ‘Rivex Bim-Bam’ wall-clock in the early seventies, we used to have a small timepiece with a white dial. It was kept prominently, and my father used to wind-it-up every day, setting time as per the broadcast in Vividh-Barathi. Occasionally, a clock repairer used to come home and overhaul the timepiece. “White petrol is used to clean the gears”, I remember my dad telling me. The clock repair guy was a serious fellow of sorts with a loupe that fits snugly into his eye socket. He would concentrate so much on his work, for a long time I felt that he was a scientist since he was doing something so complicated as clock overhaul. Somehow, I felt that a good scientist should know how to repair clocks and all clock repair fellows must be scientists for sure. Don’t ask me why! I was just four or five years old.

But then, I am digressing.

Another object of wonder was a stapler that was to be found only in the coffee grinding shop. Half kilo ‘Pea-Berry’ (pronounced locally as Pee-Bree) with the same amount of ‘Plantation A’; roasted, ground and blended, was my mother’s formula for a good tumbler of coffee. She would add, “The powder should neither be too fine nor too coarse. Tell the shop keeper that it should be ideal for filter decoction.” The shopkeeper would finally staple the pack with a stapler that was tethered using a long piece of chord. Stapler was a prized possession owned only by a chosen few such as the coffee shop owner. We were not allowed to even touch it.

Talking about coffee grinding, how could one forget the wonder a child gets when he sees what the women used to call, “The Machine”. The Machine is a place (flour mill of sorts) where you could get everything else ground, except coffee. The grinding machines were painted blue in colour and driven by motors connected via belts. The whole place was extremely loud and noisy. The grinding noise and the “Machine Man” beating the hopper with a stick to drive down wheat, rice or red chilli or grains or whatever that should get pulverized, into the machine was a part of existence those days. You experience all kinds of aroma from turmeric to masala to chilli… Mostly women and occasionally a little boy like me would be patiently grounded in the mill for the ground reality of getting our items ground to powder. The belt drive would sound like throbbing. For some loud noise, one must visit “The Machine”.

But then, I am digressing.

It was in 1977 we moved back to our own house in Kolathur – thanks to the emergency which mandated people who own houses not to avail government quarters. During that time, Kolathur was very under-developed. There were just a few houses, with plenty of open grounds, palm trees and bushes. Walk a few hundred meters and you were invited to lush green paddy fields. The breeze was full of flavour and life. It was different back then. Serene and peaceful.

Hair-growth in children, like time and tide, waits for none. Soon after we moved back to our own house, my father decided it was time for me to have a haircut. He took me to Kabali, the only barber in that locality with a shop. He had an older relative by name Ramanan, but the latter simply moved around with a small wooden box that contained his haircutting equipment. Ramanan never had a shop of his own, but Kabali had a nice little barber shop. If you need home service, simply hail Ramanan. No… No… Ramanan was a nice guy. Absolutely mean of you to even think, “Hail Hitler!” Ramanan used to cut only hair while Hitler used to cut people. You cannot compare both. Hail Ramanan and he would immediately come home at the speed of hailstorm. You would be asked to sit on a stool in the garden and off he would go scissoring. He only knew one style of haircutting – crew crop (called as ‘sadura-vattai” in Chennai Tamil). But Kabali was far more versatile. Add an extra rupee or two and he would even give you a step-cut, also called as hippie-cut. But remember, you cannot have a step-cut from Kabali immediately after having crew-cut from Ramanan. Step-cut requires a lot of hair to start with.

As a child, Kabali’s shop excited me so much that I wonder now if I would have gotten similar excitement if someone had taken me to NASA to watch Apollo mission! Kabali’s shop was the pinnacle of technology. The small shop had large mirrors all around. Two corners opposite to entrance and three feet above the floor were two small wooden cupboards where Kabali kept his towels. There would always be a Bombay Dyeing calendar of the year on the wall, in between these cupboards, bearing a large portrait of some popular Indian actress. Then there would be a gaudy blue colour poster of a lion drinking water in a forest with hills and meadows and trees. Kabali’s workstation was a long shelf with two drawers, beneath the largest mirror. Inside one of the drawers, the one closer to entrance, Kabali kept his extra scissors, shaving razors, Ashok blades, etc. The other one contained all his day’s earnings. I could see coins and rupee notes in this drawer that, somehow, I felt Kabali was a rich man. I used to feel the same way when bus conductors would jingle their leather bags full of coins and rupee notes folded and neatly tucked between their fingers – they ought to be rich! Underneath one of the cupboards was a wide leather belt which was used to sharpen the razor. Kabali nonchalantly swishing his razor on the belt was a sight to behold. You would also see a smooth lump of alum, used as aftershave. And then there was a long wooden bench on which his customers sat. A few very old Tamil newspapers were intended to keep the waiting customers engaged. The floor was of simple cement and the wall was plain white with some cheap lime coating.

The shop had no fan and just a single 40-watt tungsten filament bulb that was seldom switched on. Kabali worked only during daytime and his shop did not have a name board. When you were the only barber in the locality you don’t need to carry an extra identity. It was simply called “Kabali Kadai”. You are the identity. It is like, “Chuck Norris doesn’t need a weapon because he himself is one!” There was nothing cabal about Kabali. A simple fellow.

In the seventies, usually big boys or office going men would wear pant. As far as women were concerned, all grown-ups wore sarees and the younger ones wore half-sarees. The much younger girls wore Paavaadai-Chattai. Such traditional dresses are becoming obsolete in these days of modernity. The concept of churidhar or any of the western outfits were largely unheard of for women in those days. Almost all shop owners were men and wore a lungi – a truly versatile invention from Kerala, a state which boasts highest literacy rate in the country. Perhaps on busy days lungi offered unrestrained freedom to lunge forward and hence got the name?! Or was it called so due to the logic – ‘what oxygenates our internal organs are lungs and what oxygenates our external organs are lungis”? I don’t know for certain. A pant might not take such extreme movements of legs as a lungi can. A lungi could be quite airy in the hot summers of Madras and reduces greenhouse effects on the wearer. The mean lungi level indicates the prevailing ambient weather conditions.

Kabali was different. I had never seen him wearing a lungi at work. He always wore a pant and a shirt, neatly ironed. Afterall, being the only barber in the locality is a position of paramount importance and Kalabi’s formal dress indicated the heavy burden of responsibility he carried on his shoulders – nay- scissors! Kabali was short and wiry – may be around five feet two inches, like Napoleon Bonaparte. He had a thick lock of hair which was beautifully combed and curled on his forehead. Young though I was, still I was sure that there was no way on earth Kabali could have cut his own hair. He might have gone to some other barber to get his haircut. But the only other barber around was Ramanan, with whom Kabali was not on the best of terms. A blow-hot, blow-cold scenario. Given a chance Ramanan would not have missed an opportunity to ruin Kabali’s lovely tresses. So, it remains an unsolved enigma to date across the world, “Who cuts the village barber’s hair?”

Since the shop was not too far from my home, I would walk just a short distance for haircut and take my position on the wooden bench. I am inclined to think that the concept of bench was first introduced by Kabali much before IT industries. There would be a few more people with whom Kabali would be engaged in all sorts of conversations ranging from the latest flick to politics to neighbourhood gossips. His shop was a cosmopolitan melting pot for information; a veritable cauldron for gossips; a strategic den for how our country should be governed. Simple, off-the-cuff and banal wisdom! The area was laid-back, and everyone knew each other. Kabali would take no notice of me. There would enter some young fellow, light-up a beedi, comb his hair and just walk away after sharing a few words with Kabali. But Kabali, though engaged in conversations, would focus completely on his work. With all beedi smoke around, I would simply wait for my turn uncomfortably. I was all of eight years old.

Kabali was in no hurry and neither were his customers. He took a good twenty minutes for a single haircut. If shaving was included, add another ten minutes. Kabali had perfected the art of working-up a great lather from his rather worn-out Godrej Round shaving cake and a shaving brush inherited from his great grandfather. His aftershave (used very sparingly) is a white turbid solution prepared by mixing a few drops of Dettol with one hundred percent pure corporation tap water.

One must be prepared to wait for a length of time before he gets his haircut. And finally, my turn would come. I would get to sit in that exalted chair of his, which had multiple degrees of freedom. It would rotate, recline, etc. It had a ratchet mechanism to rest the head during shaving. A wooden plank would be placed on the arm rests to seat little boys – simple ergonomics of Kabali. To me this chair was nothing short of a mechanical marvel. Kabali’s way of spraying water to wet the hair was a hair-raising experience although the real intention was to not allow hairs to raise in the first place!

Kabali would not even ask me the type of cut I wanted. It was always summer cut. Summer cut was an all season cut for me. I had no complaints since I liked and still like short hairs on my head. It would also prolong the time for my next haircut. Last but not the least, for a lower middle-class family like ours, less trips to the barber is money saving. So, no problems there with short hairs.

The thing I used to dread the most was ‘the machine’. It was hand operated and kind of like pliers, used to mow-down hair like a lawnmower. The only problem was, ‘the machine’ sometimes would pull a hair or two and it would cause pain, making me quiver a little. Kabali would sharply hold my head and command, “Stay still, don’t move”, just like a hijacker straight out of action movies. Anyway, after some twenty minutes, I would get down, pay him after some haggling and head home. No more Kabali for a little while! When he is the only barber around with a shop, he calls the shots. However, all said, he was not such a mean fellow either and so it was OK by and large.

But then, I am digressing.

Until the early eighties, it was Kabali’s monopoly. The locality slowly started seeing some development and suddenly sprang a new guy whose shop was called “J.M. Hygienic Saloon” just few steps away from Kabali’s den. This new fellow’s shop was fancier and he had also recruited two more barbers as underlings. The furniture and upholsteries were clean, and the wait time was less. Unlike Kabali, this new fellow would finish a haircut in just ten minutes. The new guy was a novelty in an otherwise laid-back locality and even undercut Kabali. The quality of work was not as good as Kabali, but the waiting time was less and there was mass exodus of customers from Kabali to the new guy. People now had a choice between a swanky and affordable “J.M Hygienic Saloon” versus our good old ‘Kabali kadai’. Novelty won. Still Kabali was managing with his remaining old and trusted customers, including yours truly.

Kabali never expected and was not simply prepared for the competition. It was an onslaught. As a lone barber, Kabali kept his working capital low and heavily relied on his skills. The new guy, however, invested a bit in his business to make it look swanky although he never was close to Kabali when it came to skills. Kabali was an old warhorse relying on the brutal strength of his ability to cut hair properly. But it was too late. Already the new guy had made a name for himself by glib speech, superficial courtesies and a shop that clearly outclassed Kabali’s – not to mention the self-proclamation of “hygienic”. However, Kabali was undaunted. He used to tell me, “Look at how he cuts hair and look at my work. I don’t know why people go to him. Wait for a while and people, after realizing his shoddy work, would come back to me running. Good work and skills always have a place.”

But that never happened. People never gave as much importance to precise haircutting as Kabali did. Once I persuaded Kabali to trim my hair shorter than usual, which he clearly did not like. He rebuked, “If someone asks you who had cut your hair, don’t mention my name.” To Kabali, cutting hair was a penance. It was sacred. It must be done well. To the other guy, it was just a means of survival and he used other tools in his arsenal such as fancy title board, etc. to attract customers. Kolathur started getting more inhabitants and real estate prices started to increase. The other guy was able to manage while Kabali was struggling to even pay his rent. It was very early nineties and IT boom had just begun. The other guy was able to invest in his business and keep his clients happy. Kabali’s shop was literally falling apart. He did not have the money to repair or pay rent. It was at this time I had to go abroad for my higher studies. But every time I would visit home, unfailingly I would visit Kabali and every time I would see his shop a lesser embodiment of its prior glory. The poster of lion drinking water was now eaten by insects and had only a fraction of its old charm that I had admired as a kid. The shelf was shaking, and the cupboards were wobbly, the chair was worn-out.

It went on until a point when Kabali was totally unable to pay the huge rent demanded by the greedy landlord (when it comes to money, there is no room for heart) and hence had to move his shop a few meters away, near a butcher. This was not exactly the kind of place people would want to come for haircut. Even the loyal customers now withdrew and started patronizing the other guy. Still, out of sympathy, every time I would visit home, I would go to Kabali. On one occasion, sometime during mid-nineties Kabali asked me, “Sir, I heard you are in foreign”. I simply said, “Hmmm.” He continued, “Is foreign located in Bangalore?” I simply kept quiet. “Sir, I heard machines cut hairs in foreign. How is that possible sir? Cutting hair is an art. I am not able to imagine. Does the haircutting machine have hands or something like that?” His statement was inquisitive but innocent. His shop was now in shambles. Ever since I went abroad, I used to always tip Kabali generously and he truly felt thankful. The last I saw him was in the end of 1999, when I visited India for my marriage. I told Kabali, “Look, I am going to get married and give me a nice haircut.” He did the best he could and said, “Sir, there is no place for quality these days. Everyone is in rush and they get attracted to swanky barber shops. I can bet that no one around can cut hair as good as me. I can never understand people. I have been here for so many years and just look at my shop now. I don’t know why people go to others despite their low skill level.” He was correct. I had no answers. Kabali even offered to buy me a cup of tea – a poor man with a large heart. I politely declined.

I patted him and said, “But I am still coming to you Kabali,” and gave him a generous tip. With tears he replied, “You are different sir. You are a good man. You have never left me. But you are in foreign and I don’t get to see you often”. I replied, “I have known you since a kid Kabali. Where else do you think I would go? So long as you are here, I would only come to you.”

Two years later when I visited India, I learnt that Kabali couldn’t afford even that ramshackle and hence had to retreat further down, which was quite far from my place. I had never seen him since. Only recently his relative, who worked as a cleaning maid with us told that Kabali couldn’t sustain his business and hence left for his native village somewhere in North Arcot for good. He was old and his arthritis didn’t make things better for him. His kith and kin apparently failed to take good care of him as well.

Capitalism could be cruel. It could crush raw skills until and unless one has the knack of meandering through its unforgiving dictates. Capitalism could make true talents irrelevant, much the same way as a wily Edison destroyed a Tesla of colossal talent.

But then, I am digressing!