.” A statement that I have been taught since childhood…something I always abided by.
I was born with sparse hair on my head. And being a girl child in an Indian family, it became a matter of concern for all the elders in the household. Even the visitors who came to see me began offering advice and remedies. But my ammuma pacified them by reminding that my mother too had just three strands of hair at birth and now look at her knee-length thick tresses. They all nodded in unison.
The audience was quelled. However, ammuma still grappled with the thought of ‘what if this baby inherited the genes of her balding father? The wedding prospects, the mockery of these visitors….’ The ideas gave her a sleepless night. The next morning when the midwife came to massage me and my mother, she was given a special oil to be applied just to my scalp. Ammuma had woken up at three that morning and collected all the herbal ingredients from her garden, boiled them in oil and extracted their goodness in a glass container. The greatest gift I had received!
After three months had passed, my father came to take my mother and me to our home in the city. Ammuma bade us goodbye, while she smoothened my thick luscious hair with pride. Amma was instructed to continue using the oil twice a week and she was supposed to write to ammuma before the bottle would be empty.
Ammuma's handiwork was admired by all the visitors who came in to see me in the city. Amma mentioned to them how this miracle oil had turned a hairless head into Rapunzel.
People generally ask about your child's grades in school when they met. However, in my case it was always the hair. ‘Which hair oil does she use?’ ‘Which shampoo?’ ‘Do you trim her hair every month?’ My father didn't allow a pair of scissors to come anywhere close to my hair. He was a staunch believer that women should never cut their hair.
Once appa had gone to Chennai for an audit and I fell ill. The doctor gave me some pills but late at night my fever was extremely high. Our elderly neighbour came in to help my mother to look after me. She advised my mother to pour cold milk on my head to contain the fever. Too distraught by my ailment, amma did as she was instructed. Hours later the fever had subsided. But my hair was a sticky mess. The older woman further forbade my mother from washing my hair since I had not completely recovered. So two days later when the tangles were beyond repairable, a hairdresser was summoned to chop off my long thick hair.
When appa returned, he wore a look of disappointment as he looked at my ‘lost beauty’. His expression made me feel guilty. I vowed never to cut my hair again. Amma began complaining that the neighbour old woman was jealous of my lustrous hair so she offered such a remedy. And I believed her as well.
Years passed by and my hair surpassed the older length. My thick braid swung below my hips, earning it the nickname 'horsetail'. I was a quiet, shy girl so my hair was the only reason people knew me.
We were in the last year of college with the term nearing its end. My friends asked me to leave my hair loose for a college event. But I was against it since ammuma always reiterated that open hair invites the devil. As a silly prank, they pulled the band which fastened my hair together and hid it. My braid got undone and fell like a veil over my head and shoulders. Too embarrassed by the unwarranted attention I received, my face turned red. I quickly tied my hair up with a handkerchief and almost sprinted back home.
I didn’t share the incident with my mother. My friends' calls were dodged by me the whole evening. I dreaded going to college the following morning but I had no excuse to present to my mother. So reluctantly I had to attend my lectures. I ignored my friends. But their persistent apologies melted my heart into forgiving them. Though it was harmless fun, I told them that I didn’t like practical jokes. They promised to never play such mischief again.
During class, a note was passed to me which had my name written on it. I opened the folded paper and read its contents. My fingers turned cold and numb. I quickly hid it in the pages of my book. I discreetly turned around and looked at the guys at the back. Krishna, the popular poet in our college smiled at me. I at once looked away and as soon as the class was over, I excused myself and left for home.
I skipped college that week since I wasn't feeling well. Then my exams were approaching and I stayed back home to study. I managed to avoid college at the end of the term. Even before the results were out my parents had accepted a marriage proposal for me.
Things were different since I got married. My husband was equally shy. However, once he surprised me by bringing a gajra of flowers to adorn my hair. I realised that it was how he professed his love for me. That day onwards, for every occasion, be it a festival or a wedding, he'd buy a set of fresh flowers the previous evening. He did so for thirty-seven years without fail.
Two months before our thirty-eighth anniversary he left me and this world. It was heartbreaking. And every occasion was never the same again. Sometimes my son would bring a gajra if he remembered, but I didn't wish to put it on. It just made me tear up.
I always took out a yellowed paper that was safely kept along with some other tokens of memories. It was the note that Krishna had written to me in college. It wasn't a romantic letter but it was just some sweet words that served as a beautiful reminder:
A thing of beauty
Shouldn't weigh you down.
Make it your strength,
A part of your being.
If tomorrow it will be gone,
Don't morn the loss of it…
But just cherish the memories.
These words of wisdom had given me courage, particularly after Ramanuj's death. Today, I am rereading it to find the strength I need. I'm going to shave off my head. Chemotherapy has weakened the glorious mane I once wore with pride. I know they will grow back, perhaps not the way they used to be. Yet, I am ready to let go for a while and discover myself without the hair that had been my identity.
I always wondered, would life have been different if my hair were listless or curly or short? It's not an unfulfilled wish but merely a meaningless thought. Sometimes, a trivial thing can alter your whole life. In my case, I was fortunate to have so many memories bound to my hair. At the moment, I'm just letting go of my identity. The memories will stay with me forever while I look on at life from a new perspective.
Beautiful❤