Diwali through my eyes, Part 2

I don’t know how I feel about Diwali. I love it, look forward I for the whole year, but I loathe the work it comes with. I often find myself wishing for Diwali to be fast-sped and over, once it begins.

It’s one of the only times the whole family comes into my backyard, I get to spend time with each of these little people I love so much, all at once. Away from the fast paced lives, we all meet and enjoy each other’s company.

But, for me, the preparations of Diwali start almost a week before. I, out of habit, partake in a spring cleaning of the absurdly-huge house. Every nook and crevice, hidden cupboard is opened, its contents spilled and neatly arranged again. I kid you not when I say that there are certain items that I had not touched since I had cleaned that cupboard last Diwali, but I just can’t bring myself to part with them. This process is time-consuming, tiring and not very rewarding- it just makes me cranky and more likely to lash out at everyone. 

Then I have to make preparations to host all of these ‘lovely’ family members. Even though we live in this old, border-line mansion, we only ever use a third of the space. (We are an old couple; we are doing the best we can. Don’t judge.) The rest of the house has to be opened, and made live-able. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children with all my heart, but making all these arrangements for them to occupy it for only a weekend can seem a bit futile.

Then the aspiring chef in me, mixed with a sprinkle of motherly love, sets to work to cook hordes of meals and sweets I think everyone would like. I make everything in excess to avoid the chances of having people not getting enough servings. Even though no one asks me to make these delicacies and they shower me up with praise after eating them. Anyways, all my grandchildren are far thinner than what I would like them to be, and a few bouts of tasty calories should do them good. In hindsight, I have noticed that as these ‘teenagers’ are growing up, their appetites are diminishing. They are getting more ’health conscious’, pfft that’s bullcrap. I will feed them well, don’t they worry.

You know how you pine for your family to come, but on their arrival the constant bickering, gossiping and demands make you wish for a little quiet? That’s what I feel during Diwali. Having them around is great. There is constant hustle-bustle, but there is no time to rest. I’m constantly spinning like a top in my quest to appease everyone. 

When we were younger, Diwali was just a time of unlimited fun and now also I get glimpses of those times on my grandchildren's faces. 

The whole atmosphere of Diwali is electric- The fairy lights, fireworks (or lack of), sweets, beautiful dresses and puja. It is one of the times that everyone, without debate, sits in serenity to pray (or pretend to). Making Rangolis excites the child in me once again- getting to scribble on floor is great. 

Seeing the neighbourhood I have lived in for half my life adorned in Diwali lights is a surreal experience. We all get together, bake sweets, exchange wishes and watch as our kids or grandkids rush in and out. It’s like everyone is on a vacation together, there is no stress, no routine-work, a break from dull everyday life.

Even with every nuance of the festival I may not like, I still look forward for it to happen again next year.       

Diwali through my eyes: part 1

Oh boy! This weekend is stretching out to be a bit longer than what I thought it would be.

Two days ago, my dad had bundled me, a five year old hyperactive ‘munchkin’, in a car and drove 3 hours to reach this weird, old but amazingly huge house, where we were to ‘spend a couple of days, enjoy and celebrate Diwali.’ Great! A change of pace; a break from the monotonous life. 

Two people- a slightly older version of mom, and a grey-haired dad- had emerged from the house, followed by a herd of relatively less important (younger) members of the clan. I guess that the owners of this majestic bungalow had ‘grand’ aspirations to be grand when they grew up, and hence forced us to call them grandpa and grandma. (A bit unimaginative and lacking in grandeur, if you ask me)

My parents, who were tasked with looking after my well-being, ignored their responsibility and had jumped head-first in the afore-mentioned herd. I was put in the ‘grand’ centre of the shenanigans, and was forced to sit through a tormenting session of cheek-pulling and adhere to instructions of bending over backwards (literally) to touch (lightly massage?) the feet of ‘elders’. After these people were bored of their new toy, aka me, we could get on to the best and most important part of Diwali- great, tasty, oily food.

While eating my fifth (or maybe sixth) serving of ladoos and churma, I had a few minutes of peace to take in all our surroundings. The house we were in was at least 13 times bigger than our matchbox flat back home. I could spy almost a dozen other people who I sort of know (they are called family members? Semi-strangers? People you are stuck with for life? Something like that, I don’t remember). Almost all of these people are way more ancient than I am. 

The car ride and the heavy meal had exhausted me, and I was ready to spend the next few hours in peaceful slumber. I usually snuggle between mom and dad in a comfortable bed, covered in a warm blanket, being read stories or sung lullabies till I drop. (perks of being an only child.) Here, I and some of the less ancient people of the family (cousins? Remote-snatching monsters?) were bundled on a mattress on the floor, told to ‘behave ourselves’ and shushed off. The two other ‘roommates’ were up till 2, playing games on the console they had snuck under their blankets, making noises and fighting over whose turn it was to play. Why wasn’t I playing? Well, apparently the console was to ‘priceless’ to be allowed in ‘my’ hands. (I guess half-a-decade of experience in surviving life isn’t enough.)  

Next day, I was sure that the ‘elders’ have officially lost it. They were doing stuff that if I had tried to do I would have been grounded for life. They chose different corners and started painting ON THE FLOOR. The red colour they used will surely leave permanent stains. I kept waiting for THEIR mother to emerge and reprimand them, but Grandma just sat and giggled in the background. (psst! Apparently they were making Rangolis? Like, what’s that? What a dumb excuse. Double standards.)

Then at night, a horde of strings of lights illuminated the windows. They would change colours, or blink in unison- they were fascinating. But no, elders were not satisfied with that. They needed to light these small boat shaped candles, which hardly flickered or lighted up the area. They were small, had no impact in front of the gorgeous fairy lights, but we can’t argue with stubborn toddlers, can we?

‘We’ then went down to burst ‘green crackers’. But only the earlier mentioned idiotic roomies got their hands on some of the ‘less harmful Diwali polluting agents’ and burst a couple. I was too young to do anything, it seems. I am too young to do anything fun, too old to have any tantrums – what a tough time to survive.

We changed into our finest traditional wear to get ready for pujas. This was the first time I actually remember sitting through such a strange ceremony. People spend hours to get ready, to sit and chant mantras in front of a tray of candles/diyas, and then proceeded to spend longer on getting the perfect angle in their hundred pictures. They seemed to assume me to be their prop, once again. I was made to pose awkwardly with a ton of people, and was told to make faces which would be captured in photographs to last an eternity. Well, at least I would get good food at the end of it all.

I take back my stance of food. Even though they seem to be heaven for my taste-buds, they create a ruckus later down the digestive track. I was guilt-tripped into eating multiple helpings of meals, which then forced me to spend extended amounts of time on the pot- valuable time that could be spent running around and getting into everyone’s way.

I had sacrificed my sleep, my bed, my stomach-needs, encountered adult-hypocrisy and agreed to be a human prop for almost 48 hours, and now I’m at the edge. I’m even ready to go back to school if we can just go home right now. Dad, please lets bundle up in our car and call it ‘quits’ on Diwali.

The unexpected knock

The plans for the weekend were lit. I and my friends would be reunited after ages, and would spend the next two days living alone, in a friend’s old ancestral home in a different town. While I would only need to short train ride to reach to our destination, my friends were all flying out of different parts of the country for this reunion. I was ecstatic.

I reached our destination early, collected the keys from the allocated caretaker (a woman who I had been advised to be careful of. She was known to be cruel), and took over the two-storey, majestic, ‘medieval’ empty home. I went and prepped the house, (which was surprisingly clean, and well kept, almost as if someone would regularly live here), so that it was ready for my exhausted, jet-lagged friends. The day was cloudy, foggy and misty, and a storm could be seen brewing overhead. I had an inkling at the back of my mind that their flights may get delayed, but I pushed that thought away.

Unfortunately the inkling had indeed been right and I received the news that the flights were delayed indefinitely (until the weather was deemed to be clear). This put our plans in Jeopardy. I waited patiently, finding solace in my thriller mystery book, and whiled away the time. It didn’t strike to me that there would be a possibility that my friends flight would not land that night, and when I was informed by my apologetic friends that they wouldn’t be here till the early hours of tomorrow morning, I was taken aback. 

Not only had our day’s plan vaporized, but now I had to spend a night alone in a two-storey, un-burglar-proof, fragile house, in a weird, little, unknown-to-me town. Now, I know, you ‘expect’ a 17-year to be responsible and adjusting enough to be able to overcome such a trivial obstacle, but I was mortified. I had never been the adventurous kind, and was described to be ‘a person with a weak heart’. I didn’t want to do this, but i would have to. Welcome to the real world, Vritti. Wow.

I satisfied my now-gone appetite with an apple and a cup of yogurt. I kept away my ‘thriller’ novel (I wasn’t going to read about serial killers at night, when I was the perfect target for one.), and took out a light-hearted rom-com storybook, and snuggled into my blanket. It was 10 pm. My friends would, hopefully, be here by 4 am. I just needed to be brave, and stick it out, for 6 hours. Yes, I could do that.  I would do that.

I was super engrossed in my novel, and time seemed to fly by. It was a little past 3 am, when I finally put down my novel, and was about to doze off. But, then I heard a knock. Or at least a thud. It was kind of far-off, and I was sleepy, so I lay in my bed trying to convince my brain that I had made that sound up. It was quiet for a while, and everything should have been fine. I didn’t let paranoia get the better of me. Yay!

Well, I soon heard another unexpected thud, and then another. And then I could hear faint but rapid knocks, continuously for a minute. I definitely had not dreamt that up. I was scared out of mind.

I made my way to the front door, but there was no one there. However, I could still hear the knocks; and it seemed even further than before. This was strange, and I was scared out of my wits. I could do nothing but clutch my phone and make my way around the home trying to make out the source of the sound. Surprisingly, the sound seemed to be loudest in the room I was sleeping in. Yikes.

I, frantically, called my friends and shouting at them to hurry up, while simultaneously trying to send my panic over by osmosis or something. I needed help. I made my way around the whole room, and pinpointed the source of ruckus to be a supposedly empty cupboard.

This was my worst nightmare. I had always feared that I would be stuck in such a situation, and get freaked out of my mind, but, I guess, my instincts kicked in, and I took the most rational decisions I had taken in any ‘life-death’ situation before. I pushed a couch toward the cupboard, and jammed its door. And then, I vacated the room, locked it, and went downstairs. I called up the cops, but the lines were all busy! I was evacuating the house and just leaving the front porch, when I heard a car pull up.

Ah! They were my friends! Finally! I loudly beckoned them over, and forgetting all about their long journey and lethargic-ness, filled them in with the latest developments. And then we strategized a plan. The cupboard should not have been able to hold more than a person, a small person to top it, and we hoped that it was a small teenager pulling a prank, a prank he would be sorry for.  The four of us decided to tackle it. The friend, whose family owned the house, got around to the neighbours ‘houses and asked for help. Soon, a party of 15 people gathered, and by consensus we decided to explore the room, while a couple of us were to race to the police station for the necessary back-up. 

I couldn’t let this juvenile knocker get the better of me. I unlocked the cupboard, and pushed it open. It was empty! Oh boy! I must have indeed dreamt the noises. Now, I made a fool of myself in front of everyone.

But, the noises seemed to be even louder than before. I heard an un-expectantly loud rapt, followed by a cough, and sensed the back of the cupboard shake. Shake pretty shakily. We all shared a look of apprehension, and couldn’t figure out our next move. We just stood there, exchanging glances, for 15 seconds, when a friend pointed at a latch at the back of the cupboard.  There should be a cavity at the back of the cupboard. It must have a false back. I was excited now, the mystery-book nerd in me awakened, and I could feel the adrenaline rush through my veins. I could literally sense a person behind the piece of wood.

Right at this moment, the police burst into the scene, and we hushing-ly diverted their attention to the offending latch. We didn’t need to explain any further, they sprang into action and took control. We were side lined, and were told to form a ‘quiet safety ring’ in the far corner, and instructed to not interfere with ‘a possible confrontation’. We were told to ‘brace’ and be ready to ‘run’ if told to do so, and then they proceeded to gather around the cupboard. The latch seemed to be faulty, and the police decided to break the back. They asked the ‘person’ behind the false back to stand aback, and informed them that ‘their game was up’. On the count of three, they burst open the false back, and were caught off-guard.

We had expected a semi-dangerous youngster to be in the cavity, but we found an old miserable ninety-some year old woman there, struggling to breathe, wrapped in a thin blanket. The sight was sad. She couldn’t breathe, and instead of calling a police car, an ambulance was swiftly called over. Even the assuring police commissioner later confessed that the situation had been ‘strange’.

It was later found that she had wandered into the empty house, one day, to avoid the cold, and had anticipated to not be disturbed here, and made it her home. Even though she knew it was illegal, this seemed to be her only mode of survival. She had not expected us to show up and had, swiftly, gone into ‘hiding’ behind the cupboard, when I showed up. Unfortunately, the hidey-hole was poorly ventilated, and she felt claustrophobic and couldn’t breathe in the small cavity. She had been forced to reveal herself, and had prepared to come out of the cavity, but she couldn’t appear to push open the false back from behind. The latch had jammed on her. God! It was a sight of pity. Fortunately, her injury was not life-threatening, and she soon got better. 

Well, it a bit cliché or all stories to have a ‘happy ending’, but this story does have one. The police took pity on the old woman, and seeing our friend’s family reluctant to press charges, they dismissed the matter. They did conduct a background check on the woman, and found out that she had a clear record, and had been abandoned by her family. Our friend’s family had been looking for a person to take care of their house, and let her continue living there. And I got the perfect story for my blog!

Leave studying on 'study leave'

Wow. The dreaded exam season is back.  Now I can witness my elder sister carry on doing things she did all year, ie. binge-watch Netflix and sleep, while being tensed 24/7. Now, I can again experience everyone wanting the house to be as quiet as an empty library (or libraries in general, as they’re always empty) to facilitate my 16 year old sister to concentrate (on doodling another unrecognizable figure on the edge of her notebook).

She has added a task on her daily quota of annoying me- ranting on the phone for hours on the ‘mind-numbing’ nature of exams.

“The concept of exams is perfect. You test kids on their ability to cram up data which won’t affect their life in any way, ‘taught’ during a year-long class, in which no one paid any attention, in a few hours.  Yeah, it makes perfect sense. Like, a piece of paper can determine how great I am, right?”

I hear her saying something along these lines 5 times a day, to different friends, when they call each other to ‘study’.

Yesterday, I was watching Family Feud on youtube’ like she does for the whole existence, in our room, when she enters and shushes me out as she had to study. I pouted, but was leaving when she said:

“You should just be thankful that you are too young to be forced to sit for hours at a time, writing stuff you are unsure of on a piece of insignificant paper for no good reason.”

“Well, I would also get like 5 days of ‘study’ leave a week for 3 weeks. I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Shush! Don’t waste my time, I need to study. Mom! Look, she won’t let me study.”

“Tattle tale.”

And this was the cue for Mom to come to the scene, declare me to be guilty, escort me out of ‘my’ room and send me ‘to do something worthwhile’. Ironically, when I passed my room 5 minutes later, I could hear the noise of the same Family Feud episode coming from it. This is just one of the millions of such instances where I ‘interrupt her studies’.

Another drawback of exam season, especially my sister’s exam season which occurs during March, the perfect time for having fun, is that she is always at home. The school gives her ‘study leaves’, in which she literally ‘leaves studying’.  She can’t have her daily dose of roaming on the streets with her ‘gang’, she calls this socializing, and can't be a menace somewhere other than home. She is on top of my head at all times. ALL THE TIME.  I can’t have my friends over, I can’t play noisy games, I can’t do this, I can’t do that.

The only thing which increases during this time is, not her knowledge, nor my sanity, but her stomach. She sits on her bed all day, munching chocolates (to ‘relieve stress’, that’s her excuse for everything.) and then moans about gaining 10 pounds in a month. Mom gets all her favourite fried snacks made, and she stuffs her face with unhealthy fat. Like, you sit around for days at a time, long enough for a hen to hatch her eggs, and then expect that to make you lose your food baby?

She sleeps till 11 each morning of her study leave, and spends the afternoon watching youtube, and then stresses over the amount of syllabus left the entire evening (stresses, not studies) and then has a headache by 9 pm and snoozes off. This cycle repeats, and she goes to her exam ‘unprepared’, resolves to do ‘better next time’ and sleeps. Again.

And when results day comes, she has forgotten all about her laziness and blames all her ‘borderline decent’ (read failing) grades on her ‘incompetent teachers’ and ‘a noisy atmosphere’. She really is the master of the art of ‘not doing anything but still diverting blame’. 

Picture Perfect Proposal

I had woken up at 4 in the morning to catch this train. This train, as usual, was late. Four hours late. FOUR hours. 

I spent the first few hours of that day, on a cold misty platform, in my formal clothes, cursing the entire railway system, and channeling all my ‘inner powers’ to convert my measly, no-good-for-early-morning-winter-weather shawl into a blanket. Yeah! This was the perfect start for the ‘most important day in my life yet’.

Thankfully, His Majesty, the almighty Train God, decided to grace us with his presence at 9, and I was on my way to complete the quest. Oh, I am sorry, amidst my rant, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Thia, short for Thiam, and was crossing all the 7 oceans, (Metaphorically! Geez! The train ride was only 3 hours long!) to be reunited with and surprise the love of my life with, possibly, the greatest gift of all time.

My partner, Aza, who also happened to be the person of my dreams, had been living and working in another city, alone. Even though ‘advanced technology’ had made communication very easy, and I saw that face practically every day, I was very worried about physically meeting Aza, today. Nah! It’s not the first time we were meeting. But, it would be the first time, and hopefully the only time, I would have to ask anyone for their hand in marriage.

This day was going to be huge for both of us. We had discussed marriage for a while now, and we both felt we were finally ready. My efforts would just make our plans rock solid, and official. What I had planned was to reach Aza’s residence by 9 in the morning, and then to spend the whole day on the beach where we had first met, and propose just as we were passing by our favourite spot. Don’t worry, I had already organised for a friend to be present, along with an expert photographer, to capture our special moments, which would be followed by a celebration with both of our supportive families around. I had picked out the perfect engagement ring.

 I had really hoped everything would work out, but it was now spoiled. Aza left for work (where I had already called, explained the situation, and asked Aza to be granted a leave) at 9. I can’t believe it. The train’s inability to follow its schedule would cost us a ‘messed-up’ perfect day.

I spent the three-hour train journey in distress, jumped out of the carriage the moment the train drew up on the platform, and sprinted towards Aza’s apartment. Aza’s empty apartment to be precise. I was late. Four hours late.  

I made a dash for Aza’s workplace, and sure enough, the love of my life was there, as large as life. Thankfully, Aza's colleagues, who were already aware of my crazy plans, were a great help. On a mere text message from my side, they managed to get Aza ‘out of work’, and arranged for me to ‘bumped’ into them.

Situation was less than ideal. I looked like a wreck, was huffing, and had randomly whisked Aza away to ‘someplace special’. The day was not going as I had planned. I didn’t know whether the photographer would still be there. The ‘celebration’ afterwards would be an organised chaos. But the one thing that didn’t worry me, but in hindsight should have, was the prospect of Aza rejecting my proposal.

I pulled a ‘happy to see me’ Aza to the beach, blocking out all the other thoughts from my head. We approached the ‘favourite spot’, a rock draped in sea moss, and just as I was about to propose, Aza, with a dead serious expression, said, “Damn. This is exactly the place I would have proposed to you, but I don’t have a ring on me.” I burst out laughing, and took out our engagement ring. The moment was perfect, and will forever be saved in my mind. Aza’s expression of amusement changing into one filled with love and emotion, was my sole answer. The scenic place was the perfect backdrop for our perfect story. (Did I really use these many ‘perfects’ in this paragraph? Perfect!) I was down on my knees, looking straight into Aza’s eyes, when we heard the camera shutters go off. Wow. Everything actually worked.

We always wanted to be surrounded by our families after this moment, and that’s what I had wanted to arrange, but I had ran out of time. Even though the families were in town, I hadn’t really arranged a dinner, or a place to celebrate in. I was just about to reveal this problem to Aza, when we heard a shout from a nearby eatery. It was Aza’s brotherb beckoning us over, with Aza's mother shedding a tear of joy, standing nearby. Both our families were present in the hall, with a table of delicious food behind them.

Even though my plan had gone out of the window, the day was still ‘perfect.’

God, if I could, I would relive this day, every day.

A trip to Schmedeswurtherwesterdeich

On a fateful day of my gap year, I packed a hefty duffel bag, which was filled to the brim with “adulting essentials”, left home and headed to the station for my first ever solo trip. It was an ambitious plan; I would scale across Europe for 2 weeks, as a backpacker, at the age of 18. I caught an overnight train from my hometown’s railway station to reach a small picturesque town in Germany, where I would spend the day before heading out for Frankfurt the following day. Pumped with energy, and levels of adrenaline in my blood alarmingly high, I caught the train and being a vigilant solo traveller (and paranoid!), I double padlocked every compartment of my duffel bag, plopped it on the luggage rack beside my seat, and sat staring at it, hoping to scare away any potential petty thieves from eyeing my precious towels, shampoo or change of clothes. The eight hour long train journey seemed a bit too exciting at first, but towards the 4 hour mark, my excitement had definitely died down. I sat munching my ‘peasantry’ snacks, and trying to imagine seeing ‘stunning scenery’ through the darkness, but the prospect of spending rest of the train journey in an empty compartment seemed bleak. Being a broke high school graduate, I couldn’t afford to spend the precious data pack I had bought to entertain myself, I relied on my thoughts to keep me busy for the remainder of the journey.

After an eternity, the train pulled at my destination, and I lugged my luggage off the rack and jumped off the train. I was sleep-deprived, tired and hungry, which coupled with my inherited clumsiness, made me ‘accident-prone’. At 7 AM, in this ‘off beat’ town I found the whole station to be deserted. To add to my problems, all the directions were in German, a language I knew literally nothing about. At just a glance, it looked like gibberish written in English and I spent literally minutes trying to make sense of it. I am a complete fool.

Even though multiple articles online seemed to list this place as ‘one of the lesser known German gems’, Google seemed unable to locate a café in vicinity which could serve me breakfast. Google suggested that the best way for me to fill my tummy was to go to the supermarket and shop for more ‘grocery’. I headed to the supermarket, and the language barrier I felt horrified me. No one seemed to speak English, and I had to ‘act as a supermarket’ for someone to finally understand me. Those angels finally directed me to the right location. All the labels in the market were in German, but buying bread should have been a simple enough task. I grabbed a loaf, and went up to the cashier, who kept pointing to a weird metal thing, and refused to take the 2 euro note I was offering. I still do not know what he meant, but being frustrated at my inability to understand him, he snatched the bread from my hand, scanned it, jabbed a couple of buttons on his computer, and help out 2 fingers. I paid him two quid, and hurriedly left the shop.

I then hiked all the way to my hostel, following vague directions of Google Maps, and stumbled into the lobby. The receptionist seemed to be a pleasant lady, but she, too, didn’t speak any sort of comprehensible English, and we stood, facing each other sheepishly. After what felt to be an eternity, an absolute angel of a hosteller approached us. She acted as a translator, and I finally got the keys to my lodging. I dropped my luggage, freshened up, made a sandwich for myself, and went out to explore.

Despite my linguistic limitations, I explored every part of this pretty little German town and could see why this was ‘a hidden gem.’ The weather was brilliant. It had a crystal clear river, hordes of bridges, a magnificent town hall and a well-articulated museum. It was filled with chirpy locals, and a few backpackers like me, but was not infested by loads of tourists.  There was a rustic charm around this underrated place.  

Hair-Raising Day as a Hairdresser.

After a whole summer of sitting on my butt, the first day of my second semester in college was tough. I was bombarded by lecture after lecture from 8:30 am till 4 in the afternoon and by the end of the school day, I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was to hibernate, but one of the consequences of living alone was getting a job to support part of my expenses, and coincidently my first day of school was also my first day at work.

I had been lucky enough to be offered a job as an “Assistant Hairdresser” at “Shear-Locks Comb Beauty Salon”, a small parlour, situated down the street, and owned by a merry 60 year old woman, Mrs. Merryweather. When I had been younger, I would often help out at my aunt's salon for extra pocket money, and i was quite excited to start this job. Moreover, I was just thankful that I would not have to spend hours in the back of a café, washing dirty dishes, for minimum hourly pay, like some of my friends.

I was not very energetic or ecstatic, when I walked into “Shear-Locks Comb Beauty Salon”, for my first 4-hour shift, but I forced myself to put on a very bright smile, as I greeted Mrs. Merryweather. I soon changed into my ‘work attire’ (Black T-shirt, black pants, and a hideous bandana), and was shown how to put by hair in the perfect tight “Shear-lock Bun” and do the “Ideal Make-up”. Being the elder sister to 3 younger girls, I had always been a good hairstylist, and was surprisingly excited to start ‘working’.

I had to be honest, even though my job was not the most paying of part time jobs, I was quite optimistic about my working conditions. Even though I was tired, I was all set to start snipping of locks of customers’ hair with my nifty little scissors, and braiding the soft silky hair of the brides which came to avail our services.

As I entered the salon again, I saw my colleague finish working on a customers’ hair. As soon as the customer exited our premises, a broom was thrust into ‘my’ hands, and I was told to clean up ‘locks of hair’ which my colleague had allowed to fall on the floor. Being the newest employee, I guess, this was what was expected of me, and I mopped the place to the best of my ability. After this, I was ordered to make and bring cups of coffee for the whole staff. And then, I was told to empty out the trash can and clean out the gross basins where everyone got their hair washed.

By the time I was done, a couple of customers had already entered our salon, and my colleagues were attending them. I stood, alone, at the back of the room and tried to ‘arrange’ the bottles of the wide variety of slightly different hair products.

Soon, one of my co-workers beckoned me over, and I, finally excited to be working on someone’s actual hair, came forward. My co-worker asked me to fetch a huge haul of hair and cosmetic products from the storage above, and I, presuming that I would help with the actual hair treatment, hurriedly got the bottles of conditioner, hair colour, shampoo, serum, and a load of heating tools down. I wore a pair of gloves, which were meant to be worn while operating with hair, kept nearby. Seeing me wear the gloves, my co-worker instructed me to call another colleague and proceeded to explain the procedure of hair treatment to the third colleague, instead of me.  I was super embarrassed, and hurriedly opened the gloves and went back to the back of the room.

With more than three quarters of my shift already over, I thought that I would not be able to work on actual hair that day. I sat about, admiring the artistry of my colleagues, and running small errands whenever required.

Soon a woman, with the most tangled, dirty, messed up hair I had ever seen walked into our shop. I felt thankful that I wouldn’t have to work on ‘that’ hair. I didn’t know that this lady was going to be ‘my’ first customer.

Passing apologetic glances my way, a colleague called me and introduced the client to me. All the excitement I had about ‘working with hair’ went out of the window as I escorted the customer to the basins. Then, I put on two pairs of gloves on, and started shampooing and conditioning her hair. Heck, I washed her hair about 4 times before letting her proceed to the ‘snipping area’. I was not going to let my hands touch a dirty messy wig.

Unfortunately, her attitude stank even more than her hair. I felt helpless when she would keep barking orders while I was trying to dry her hair. We had not even reached the part of discussing her ‘hair cut’ yet, but she had already schooled me on the best procedures to be used while blow-drying one’s hair and on how to apply just the right amount of serum.

Thankfully, this torment was soon over. I swiftly dried her hair, and handed her over to our “Head Hairdresser”.

When my shift was finally over, I was dead- both physically and mentally. I sleepwalked my way to my dorm, and flopped onto my bed, only to be woken by my alarm at 8 the next day.

Boy, my idea of a hairdressers’ job proved to be a fantasy.