Metamorphosis: Episode 5
The Decision
It was a short drive, but it felt like the longest drive of his life. When he reached his destination, Gurpreet parked outside and sat in his car for fifteen minutes, thinking. Thoughts and emotions were swirling in his mind like the wild currents of the ocean. But nothing was concrete. There were nothing he could hold on to, nothing he could grasp. Just as soon as he tried to latch on to something, it evaporated like a thin wisp of smoke. And he was again left with nothing. He struggled, mentally and emotionally. He was wrestling with his own mind. He tried different approaches, came at it from a different angles, tried reason and logic. Nothing seemed to help. At the end of it, he still always came back to being lost and alone, with nothing to show and no foundation. Nothing to anchor his metaphorical boat to. He sighed and looked out the window. People were walking about, entering stores, going about their business. It was life as usual. Humdrum.
Finally, without having resolved anything in his mind, he slowly took off his turban and placed it on the passenger car seat. He unraveled his joora so that his long hair came down all around him making him look like a lost member of an 80's rock band. He then untied his beard, letting it flow open and long. Then he opened the car door and stepped out.
The redhead in the barber shop who had been sweeping the floor looked up when Gurpreet walked in.
"Hi!" he said cheerfully, waving at her, "I need a haircut and shave, please."
She stared wide-eyed at his waist-length long hair and his flowing beard, not quite sure what to make of his look.
"Sure!" she said, smiling brightly, and guided him to one of the chairs. "Been a while since you had a haircut, it seems?"
"Yea," said Gurpreet, taking his seat, "something like that."
She was young, maybe in High School. Gurpreet didn't inquire, he was just waiting for the deed to be done. She was very pleasant and friendly, which gave him an uncanny feeling, considering what he had requested. He had only ever been inside a barber's shop once, and that too for a few minutes, standing by the door while he waited for his friend. So being in this situation now was more than unsettling to him.
She asked him what style he would like. He said he didn't care. She thought carefully about what would look good on him, and then made a few suggestions. He shrugged, telling her to pick. It seemed like it was taking forever. But she was just trying to make sure she did a good job and that the customer would be happy.
When it was over, she showed him the mirror casually. He looked at a face he had never seen, and stared at it for a few minutes in silence.
"What do you think?" she asked, holding her breath.
He nodded, then quickly got up from his chair, paid for the haircut, and left.
The redhead picked up her broom and began sweeping up the hair that was strewn all about the floor. There was so much of it that it seemed to be everywhere. It was long and wavy and lay in such thick layers on the ground that it resembled the waves on the ocean.
Her grandfather entered the shop a few minutes later. He saw what she was doing and asked her, "Who was that?"
"Oh, it was a customer, this guy with really really long hair, and a long beard," she replied, "He came in and said he wanted a haircut and shave. I've never seen him before. Never seen anything like his hair and beard before."
Her grandfather sat down heavily in one of the chairs, and looked down at the long hair lying on the ground sorrowfully.
"What's wrong grandpa?" she asked, dropping her broom and coming to sit next to him.
He shook his head.
"You didn't know, it's not your fault," he said sadly, "I shoulda told you before. I just never expected it. That man's hair, you shouldn't have cut it, my dear."
She looked perplexed. She didn't understand why.
"He was a Sikh," her grandfather explained. "I served with a bunch of them in the war. Some were in my battalion. Finest soldiers I have ever known, and the finest men. They were courageous, and honorable, even in war. If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't be here today. They saved my life many times during that terrible war. I will always remember Ajaib Singh, he took a bullet that was meant for me. And he died in my arms. You know what his last words to me were?"
She shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes as she listened to her grandfathers emotional account.
"He said, 'Ensure that my articles remain intact.' We cremated him, later, with all his articles of faith, just as he had requested. It was the most important thing in the world to him. I honored that. His hair was on his body when it was burned. Not like . . . this."
He gestured toward the hair strewn all over the floor.
"Oh grandpa, I didn't know," she said with regret.
"It's not your fault, my dear," he replied. "But next time if anyone like him walks in, tell him to go to two blocks down, there's another barber shop there. We won't cut a Sikh's hair. That's not the business we're in."
Gurpreet sat in front of a mirror in his apartment, dressed immaculately in his expensive suit, hair neatly cut, perfectly clean shaven, looking like a model from a magazine. He looked at himself from different angles, turning his face left and right. Finally, he smiled, pleased with the final result.
He felt free, as if a burden was lifted off his shoulders and he could finally relax. He wouldn't have to stick out like a sore thumb anymore, he could blend in with the crowd, he could be anonymous. No more irritating questions about why he looked the way he did, no more having to explain what the meaning of the turban was, no more glances and looks from strangers, no more awkwardness about his appearance when trying to talk to girls. Now, he felt he was finally free.