No Hair, No Oil; #HumorinDesiLife

 

No Hair, No Oil

To put it diplomatically, I have scanty hair on my scalp. It is better than saying I have almost no hair. Alopecia is my family inheritance, passed on dutifully from generation to generation. At the best of times I have difficulty in keeping my hair in place. My hair style becomes precarious after hair cuts as every hair starts behaving like a disciplined soldier and stands up erect. To get them to take it easy, I need to apply either hair oil or gel. As I suspect hair gel or its earlier avatar brylcreem of having depleted my crop, I have taken to using coconut oil to bring some semblance of kempt to my hair.

In late autumn of 2021, I had a planned trip to Brussels for meetings with the EU. As I expected the weather to be cold and windy, I decided to take my black woolen cap to protect my exposed upper story. A concomitant concern was the effects of using a woolen cap on my hairdo. I was particularly worried about the consequences of taking off the cap before entering meetings. Obviously the hair would be all ruffled and standing. To mitigate this potentially disastrous outcome I decided to pack some coconut oil in a small bottle that I had, much like the one we get in airlines for moisturizer. In the kitchen I found two similar looking big bottles, one was of cold pressed coconut oil and the other was cold pressed groundnut oil. They had been presented by a friend who was launching a range of satvik products by the name of Haribol. I carefully poured the oil from the big bottle to the tiny one, taking care not to spill any oil.

On the KLM flight to Amsterdam enroute to Brussels, I found to my delight, a jar of hair gel in the aircraft toilet. Such is rarely the case in airline toilets. Normally one finds liquid soap, moisturizer and eau de toilette. This was different and certainly an auspicious omen. I made several trips to the bathroom to tidy my hair by applying hair gel, on the not so long flight from Delhi to the Dutch city. 

In Brussels we checked into the imposing BeauxArts style Steigenberger hotel, with impressive lobbies, hallways and guest rooms. In the washroom with gilded fittings, I confidently placed my small bottle of hair oil on the marble shelf alongside with the other custom made toiletries such hotels provide. I was ready to take on the force of the wind on my hair.  

Early next morning, after the ablutions of shave, shampoo and shower, I was ready for my well groomed look. I looked reassuringly at the mirror, poured oil out of the small bottle and applied it liberally on my head, conscious that I would need my hair to sit pretty on my head throughout the day, even if I had to use the cap. 

The oil slicked in nicely. I combed my hair and was all ready to get dressed when my nose sensed a strong smell emanating from close proximity. I sniffed around, not sure about the source. Soon I realised that it was coming from my hair, not the pleasing sweet smell of coconut oil but the cooking oil kind of smell of groundnut oil. I was smelling like a person who had fried samosas all day. I panicked!. I had bungled it by pouring the oil from the wrong bottle back home in Delhi. 

There wasn’t sufficient time to shampoo again. Instinctively, I looked around in desperation and my eyes settled on two bottles on the bathroom shelf, one the ubiquitous hand sanitizer and the other my travelling companion, a bottle of CK perfume. I decided this time the perfume would be a better choice, so instead of spraying it on my clothes and neck, I sprayed it profusely on my hair to mask the smell. 

Throughout the day in meetings my nose was on overdrive, sniffing. I wasn’t at all confident of the outcome of the potent chemical reaction of perfume with groundnut oil. Most likely the strict Covid protocol of social distancing and wearing masks worked in my favour and saw me through the day. 

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Om Suryay Namah

 Om Suryay Namah

The 47th business district in Manhattan, New York, is known as the jewellers district, for the gold, diamond and precious stone businesses that operate here. It is dominated by the Jewish community, Gujaratis (mostly in the diamond trade), and Rajasthanis, who manage the coloured stone business. One such businessman is Ashok Sancheti, who was also the president of the Indian Diamond and Colorstone Association, a trade body of the 47th street business district. I knew Mr Sancheti well because of his business, and his philanthropy and community work. He remains a big supporter of Jaipur Foot USA. 

When my mother passed away in 2012, I began wearing the gold chain that she used to have around her neck. I liked wearing it because through it, I felt the warmth of her presence. When I moved to the US, the airport security procedures (body scanners and frisking) forced me to take it off and keep it at home. 

One Friday, I woke up particularly missing my mother’s presence, and felt like putting the chain back on. I asked my wife if we had an ‘Om’ shaped pendant to add to the chain. We didn’t, she confirmed, but could get one made when we next travelled to India. I filed away the thought.

On the following Sunday, I was invited to Mr Sancheti’s granddaughter’s first birthday celebrations. As he is both well-to-do and admired by the community, it was a big affair, held in a banquet hall in New Jersey. I made it a point to attend. The setting was impressive, with many tables in a large hall and elaborate catering. The hall also had a stage where some performances were held. The arrangements were quite similar to that of  a desi wedding. 

As we all took our seats, there was a sudden hushed silence. The reason was a gentleman in silken robes, who was being accompanied to the stage by the Sancheti family. I was informed that the gentleman was Guruvadanji—a renowned guru, who was close to the Sancheti family. I remembered Mr Sancheti mentioning him to me and recalled that Guruvadanji was his friend, philosopher and guide.

Guruvadanji, who appeared to be from north India, is based in an ashram in Tirupati. Amazingly, he is proficient in several languages including south Indian languages. Mr Sancheti spoke about how his guru had positively influenced his life. He narrated an anecdote about the birth of his granddaughter. He had hoped that she would be born by natural delivery, but then got a call from the hospital saying that his daughter-in-law was being moved to the OT for a cesarean section. Mr Sancheti called Guruvadanji, who told him not to worry. When he reached the hospital, he found that the attending doctor had been replaced by another one. The new doctor, after examining the would-be mother, felt it was a fit case for a natural delivery. Mr Sancheti’s granddaughter was born the natural way. He then went on to narrate several other anecdotes about Guruvadanji’s remarkable clairvoyance.  

Guruvadanji then took the stage. His speech expounded on the power of chanting, particularly the syllable Om and the Gayatri mantra. I was a bit startled by the coincidence, given the recent conversation with my wife about the Om pendant. Soon, the formal function ended and we were invited to start lunch. As I was heading to the lunch buffet, Mr Sancheti took me aside and told me that Guruvadanji wanted to meet me. 

As I approached him, I could feel the warmth of his amiable nature. He held my hand, smiled, and said that he’d heard about me, and that the people he had met were happy with me. It’s always a good feeling to know that you are appreciated, so I bowed respectfully and thanked him for his kind words.

Guruvadanji then asked me which day of the week was my favourite. Having no favourites as such, I said “Sunday”, just because it happened to be a Sunday that day. Guruvadanji held my right hand, took something out of his pocket, placed it in my palm and closed my hand. I couldn’t see or sense what it was. Then, with one finger, he drew the Om symbol on the back of my clenched fist and asked me to open my hand. To my utter surprise and disbelief, when I did, I found a pendant shaped like the sun, with an Om symbol in the middle of it. “May you always shine like the Sun”, he said.

My mother’s chain found the pendant it needed, and I have been wearing it ever since, feeling both the warmth of her presence and Guruvadanji’s blessings. Om Suryay Namah. 

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Chasing a Jet Plane, Not Only Diplomacy

 Chasing a Jet Plane

My wife grew up in Nigeria in the 80s. She has very fond memories of Port Harcourt, and our dinner conversations have on many occasions been about her pastimes, play times and friends from those years. Her childhood stories of staying in a compound with many friends of the same age group fascinated me, as I did not have such a childhood and I perhaps yearned for it. Her childhood stories filled in the gap in mine, and over the years I have got to know and befriend many of my wife’s childhood friends. 

Once, all of a sudden, an opportunity arose for me to travel to Nigeria. I used to be a press officer in the Ministry of External Affairs of India and the Prime Minister of India was to travel to Abuja, the capital of Nigeria, for the Commonwealth Summit. As a press officer in the MEA, I was supposed to be part of the advance recce team to tie up arrangements. I had heard so much about Nigeria, that I decided to go a few days in advance of my colleagues and visit my father-in-law, who continued to live and work in a Birla enterprise in Port Harcourt. There was a great deal of excitement and nostalgia amongst my in-laws’ family when they learnt I was going to visit pa-in-law in Nigeria. Apparently, I was the first family-member-by-marriage to travel to Nigeria. 

I reached Port Harcourt after changing from the Emirates aircraft to a Virgin Nigeria Embraer at Lagos airport. In an hour or so, flying over the emerald green Niger Delta, I reached Port Harcourt in Rivers State. I spent a weekend with my pa-in-law visiting his factory and friends. I also visited the house in which my wife grew up, and saw the trees and plants that my mother-in-law had planted back then in the compound where they used to stay.  While the compound was well kept, the road leading to it was potholed and bumpy. When I asked my father-in-law the name of the road, he said that the locals called it “Man must walk road”—in obvious reference to its being a potential graveyard for motor vehicles. While being dismayed at the state of the road, I marvelled at the Nigerian sense of humour. 

Traffic, rather, traffic jams in Nigeria, are legendary. Unlike in other parts of the English speaking world where traffic congestions are known as ‘jams’, in Nigeria, they are known as ‘go slow’. It is clearly a misnomer, as there is nothing slow about them—they are a dead stop. When I had to catch the flight on Monday morning, at almost mid-day, my father-in-law reminded me of the ‘go slows’, and said that we needed to leave early in the morning to avoid traffic snarls and catch the flight. I had to travel to Lagos and then to Abuja, to meet my team who had arrived the night before. As it was related to a PM visit, I was anxious and readily agreed to leave early in the morning. 

We were either too early or very lucky and we reached the airport in a breeze. I checked in and handed over my suitcase, and with our boarding cards in hand, we found that we had many hours to kill before the flight’s departure. I called my wife in Delhi and gave her a detailed account of my visit to the town where she grew up. I must have earned several brownie points then. She asked me what my plans were. I said we would kill time in the airport as we’d arrived very early. Then she came up with a killer suggestion: the Federal Government Girls’ College Abuloma (her former school) was close to the airport—why not visit it and take some pictures? After she left Nigeria for India, she hadn’t been back to her school and had many fond memories of it. Not to lose out on this opportunity of staying on her right side, I readily agreed. Being a small town airport, there were few security restrictions and with boarding cards and time in hand, we set off to see the FGGCA. 

We zipped out of the airport and within minutes crawled into a ‘go slow’. There was a total standstill. The only movement was the hawkers selling their wares. My anxiety levels started rising and I asked the driver about the prospects of being able to reach the school. He just muttered “wahala,” (Nigerian pidgin for trouble). I asked my father-in-law whether we needed to abort the plan as the bank of time we had was rapidly evaporating. Pa-in-law seemed like a sea of tranquility but I could sense the turmoil within him, obviously divided between parental love for his daughter, and his responsibility to see his son-in-law on the plane. However, when the ‘go slow’ soon turned into a “no go”, he took the decision of aborting the Abuloma mission and returning to the airport. Luckily there was not much traffic on the other carriageway and we were able to reach the airport in time for the flight. 

When I entered the departure lounge, I found several people calling my name out loud. K-leg (very suspicious)! I didn’t know I was so popular in Nigeria, and on a first time visit, that too! Visibly surprised, I went up to one of them and presented myself. He was aghast, rather furious, and demanded to know where I had been. I told him that since there was so much time for the flight I was hanging around. His reply? “Oga, your flight don go! See the tarmac, there it goes!” What!!! I rushed to the door, saw the Virgin Nigeria plane taxiing away, and panicked. If I did not get on this plane, I would miss the connecting flight to Abuja, and the important prime ministerial mission. Without thinking, I darted out of the terminal building and ran after the plane. This was certainly a big security breach. Soon, many well-built security personnel and airline staff came running after me and held me, restraining me from going ahead. It simply couldn’t be done. They were angry. I saw that the aircraft was now taxiing on the runway. Suddenly I had a brainwave. I told the guys holding on to me that it was fine if they wouldn’t let me get on the plane, but my suitcase was on it. Which led to a series of disbelieving cries of “Wetin!!” (Nigerian pidgin for “What!!”). That was an even bigger security breach, so it was decided that we would run to catch the plane. This time, rather than just me running after the plane, I had a phalanx of fitter companions, running much faster than I could and waving the pilot down. Luckily the aircraft had to taxi to the end of the runway and then turn to take off, and we caught it somewhere in the middle of the runway. The pilot stopped, opened the window and asked what the matter was. “Sir, his suitcase is in the plane!” The gentlemen with me said. The pilot replied saying that in that case, I’d better be on it too. 

I was lucky. It was a small jet with built-in stairs on the door, which the stewardess kindly lowered for me to climb in. I was a bit worried about how the passengers would react to me. But in true Nigeria style I was greeted with a round of applause. Notin spoil, as they say. All was well!

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