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Riding High By- Radha D'Souza Radha is currently a lecturer at the University of Auckland. Before coming to New Zealand four years ago, Radha was a labour and democratic rights lawyer in Mumbai. She has been a free lance writer, columnist and campaigner for democratic rights and social justice in India and now in New Zealand.

I settled down to a thirty hour journey by train ... a window seat, an absorbing book, the comforting feeling of having reserved berths ...

I ran my hand through my cropped hair ...

Around me, the second class compartment hubbed with chatter. People settled down to mutual introductions. As always, the introductions began with complaints about delayed departures or expected arrivals. The conversations went on to occupations, trade, business, subjects that built up a rapport among fellow travellers, setting the tone for animated discussions on the deeds and misdeeds of this or that politician currently in the news or controversies over caste and religion. Ultimately all themes ended in philosophical resignation and sharing of tea, food and tobacco.

Across me sat a young woman in her early twenties. She looked poor, but not destitute. I could tell she was employed and earned her living.

There was something odd about her appearance.

The veins on the back of her palm stood out proud. Her nails were broken and cracked exhibiting years of abuse. The blood red nail polish, the red glass bangles and a red bindi all blended with her bright expressive eyes.

None of this explained the oddity in the girl.

I became conscious I was staring at her. To compensate for my intrusive behaviour, I ventured into a conversation in the manner of train conversations.

She was shifting uncomfortably in her seat. I pushed a little towards the window: "Stretch out your legs and put your feet on this side of the seat if you like"

She planted her feet next to me and smiled.

She seemed to think I was not such an angrezee memsahib after all.

How far are you going?" she asked diffidently, apparently testing to see if I was a brown memsahib.

Madras. What about you?"

"Madras," she replied.

"Isn’t it hot," she added running her hand through her hair.

That was it!

The oddity of her appearance ...!

It was her hair!

All other aspects of her appearance, the cracked dry skin, the snub nose, the large dark eyes outlined with thick black kohl, the tight fitting blouse, the cheap nylon saree, the pallav tucked clumsily around her waist, everything about her was like any other woman of her class. The cropped hair stood out incongruously like an alien imposition ... it looked so odd!

"You cut your hair too! How come?" I asked.

"When I was a little girl I had long luscious hair. It was thick and fell like a straight sheet of blackness right down here below my buttocks ...

She got up to indicate the exact level her hair had once fallen to. She adjusted the pleats of her saree and sat down uncertain whether or not to continue with her account.

Go on, what happened to it? I asked.

Oh! That’s a long story, she said somewhat wistfully.

Well we have a whole day ..., I must have sounded genuinely enthusiastic.

Her mood revived quickly and the sparkle returned to her eyes once again as she told me the story of her cropped hair:

Our family had shifted to Bombay. My father was a peon in a private company that made glue. We lived in a chawl in Mulund. My mother was very proud of my hair. All through the day she was on her toes, attending to some detail of her domestic chores. She did all the house work. She swept, scrubbed, washed, cleaned, cooked, economised in every small way. Yet she always found time to oil my hair comb it and plait it into long snake-like plaits ...

When oiling my hair she ran through it with the full strength of her hands. My neck twisted, I yelled in pain. She twirled my hair round and round and with the comb, tugged at the ends to remove the knots. Sometimes single strands of hair left out of the twirled parts sent sharp shooting pains at different spots on my scalp. I gave out fresh howls of agony. When my writhing became too much my mother's hand came crashing in a loud thud on my back, followed by a snort. I pursed my lips and vowed to suffer in stoic silence. She divided my hair into two parts and began plaiting each part. The first twist of the plait began with a painful jerk but after that the plaiting continued without too much trouble. When three fourths of the plaiting process was over, she picked up the ribbon which I had to ready in the meantime, ironing it out by rolling it into a tight roll. She plaited it into the end of my plait, turned it around the tip and knotted it . She gave a final tug to make sure the knot was secure and tied up the end of the plait to the beginning in a U shape. She made a big bow with the ribbon at the top of the plait. Having completed the proceedings with the other half of my plait she evened out the plaits with her hands and patted my back with great pride.

Thankful the ordeal finally ended, I turned my neck from right to left and left to right making sure it was not broken and ran ...

Sundays were traumatic. My ordeals multiplied several times over due to the ‘oil-bath’. A cupful of oil was heated with garlic and red chillies. It was massaged into my hair. My mother's power packed hands pounded, twisted, turned, rubbed, jerked, shook in every possible type of motion. I didn’t dare protest or complain. I knew when she became angry, the power of her hands multiplied and the pace of its movements doubled. By the end of the massage I felt faint.

In that faint state I was dragged to the mori at the corner of the room and made to sit on a wooden plank. There the process of washing commenced. It was similar to the oil massage except that the oil was substituted by shikakai powder. My back served as the washing board over which my hair was rolled, wrung and rinsed, until the oil washed off. Blobs of shikakai powder found its way into my eyes. My hair was washed with hot water and rinsed thoroughly, wiped vigorously with a towel, combed, and knotted at the tip to let it dry. The Sunday ‘oil-baths’ left me drained. I went through the motions of lunch and collapsed into a comatose siesta.

At school the teachers arranged my plait in the front or back according to their aesthetic inclinations and admired it. The girls touched my plait and exclaimed. That compensated for all my suffering and pain.

‘Want to be vain, suffer pain’, I told the girls with pride ...

Those days we went to our native village regularly. My grandfather was immensely pleased with my hair. Every time I went to our village during school vacations my grandmother braided my hair and decorated it with flowers. She ferreted into the deep recesses of her old trunk and fished out the most beautiful hair ornaments - one was a round disc studded with red rubies and a peacock set in white stones at the centre. The peacock's eyes were made of blue stones. There was another one with three black velvet balls set in intricately carved gold caps and suspended from thick black strings. While the stone encrusted disc was fixed at the top of the plait, the three velvet balls hung at the tip ... the golden caps clinked softly as I walked.

My grandmother's prestige went up enormously in my eyes. I thought she must be an extremely rich woman to possess such treasures. Much later I learnt the ornaments were made of silver. They were only plated in gold ...

In a sense my grandmother was an artist. She designed various patterns on my plait with flowers. I remember, once she sewed the flowers patterned like the national tricolour. My grandfather took me to a photo studio and had a picture taken of me, standing in front of a mirror, so that the plait was reflected in the photo. It was considered a great extravagance.

My mother went down with typhoid. For the first time the onerous responsibility of looking after my hair fell on me. Despite best efforts I could not manage the ‘oil-bath’. The oil from my hair would not wash off. The mixture of oil, water and shikakai powder left sticky grey lumps on my head. Soon armies of lice and nits invaded my hair. My mother was mortified. Despite her slender means she hired a maid to oil and wash my hair.

When you think of it now, the whole thing seems so illogical ... as the oldest daughter, I took over all the chores. I went to school, cooked, cleaned, kept home because we could not afford a maid. For my hair we had to hire a maid ...

The maid was an ugly looking woman. For some reason I imagined Surpanaka must have looked like her. Her nostrils were dilated and you could see the nasal passage half way down. Her lips were fat and pursed. It gave such a feeling of unpleasantness. She went through all the motions, just like my mother, but without the pride of purpose. One day I had to rush out of the mori,. because the water was so hot, it scalded my back. I begged my mother to stop her from coming and vowed to do better on my own. My mother was feeling the financial strain too ...

Then, both my parents died suddenly in a train accident. I was eighteen. Overnight I became the breadwinner of the family. I had two younger brothers. Both were in school. It was as though someone had flung me from the highest mountain into a bottomless pit ...

Things moved quickly after that. I had neither time nor resources to bemoan my fate. I had to cook clean and keep house for my brothers. I had to find some way of earning a livelihood for all of us. My father's friends persuaded his boss to employ me in his place as peon, on compassionate grounds ...

You cannot imagine what a wily old man my boss is ... you should see the saintly expression on this face! I suspect he has a calculator in place of a brain. He agreed to employ me at half the wages he paid my father and made out as if it was a great act of charity. He paid me four hundred rupees a month. What choice did I have?

I started working in my father's office. I was determined to do everything possible to educate my brothers and settle them well in life. I was fired by noble thoughts of self-sacrifice, duty, bravery in adversity and all that. It made me feel like a heroine in a Hindi cinema. That lightened my burden ...

My daily routine changed. I had to finish cooking and sundry household tasks, pack lunch for myself and my brothers and leave home by 8.30 a.m to reach the office by 10 a.m ... My hair became a major saboteur of my service record. Amidst all the hectic morning activities my hair took up a good 15 to 20 minutes each day. You understand what 20 minutes mean to a working woman in the mornings!" she paused and looked at me as though trying to gauge my response. Oh! you don't have to tell me that ... don't I know!" I said, glad some things were common to all.

She continued the story of her hair:

Every other day I was late for work. There were days I just piled up my hair into a bun and rushed. By the time I reached the railway station the bun uncoiled and fell helplessly. The boss looked irritated.

‘Late again?’

His words pierced my pride. I felt humiliated ... and in front of all those people in the office! ... you know how it feels ... but how do you explain to a man ... your boss at that ... what it is to keep hair like mine ...

Things were bad at home. My brothers’ education was costing a lot of money. What I earned was barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. I could never spend a rupee on myself. The other girls in the office bought themselves sarees, went to the movies, regularly visited their native village ... I longed to buy a few trinkets ...

One day I left home determined to reach work on time. When I reached the railway station, imagine my absolute despair ... the trains were running late. Two earlier trains were cancelled ... thousands of people, abandoned by their regular trains, tried desperately to squeeze into any train that came by. I was determined to make it to the office on time. There was barely enough space for one foot. I pushed my way in. The women's compartment was packed. I was hawed and hemmed in from all sides. My chest had no place to expand, I was breathless. There was no room for sensation of any kind. I was compressed into a kind of paralysis ...

At last the train reached V.T. Station. Along with thousands of others, I was emptied out onto the platform ...

When I got off, I felt light ... light as feather ... I shook my head ... It moved so easily. At first, I thought it was the release from the crowded compartment. Other women on the platform stared at me, bewildered. Some sniggered. Some tried hard to smother a laugh. Others looked away out of a sense of decency. Some nudged one another. All of them walked on ...

I swung my head in a huff and started to walk on. My plait did not respond and fall in front as it always did. I swung my head once more, but no plait leapt forward. I ran my hand over the nape of my neck ... and imagine my horror ... there was no plait at the nape. Instead a short stub stuck out in the place of what had been until a few minutes ago a serpentine plait ... I slumped into the nearest bench. Impotent rage welled up within me ... I could not bear the thought of the ridicule and humiliation that awaited me at the office. My stub in the meanwhile unwound slowly exploring its new found freedom. Uneven discordant ends stuck out ... I could not bunk work ... if I bunked that day the boss was sure to take some drastic action ... dismiss me perhaps ...

When I reached the gates of my office building I was gripped by a feeling of intense shame. I walked into the office in a daze. Post-rape scenes from Hindi films came to my mind ...

As I stepped into the office, the whole office did a right about turn. Even the wily old boss gasped. I collapsed into a chair and wept uncontrollably ...

Everyone crowded around me ... choruses of ‘what happened’ filled the room. Between sobs I told them. Then choruses of ‘poor thing’ filled the room. After a while everyone went back to their work. Only our office typist stayed back. Gently she held my hand ... she too had short hair ... but she was a Christian girl ... like you ...

She paused looking pointedly at me as if to underscore the universal axiomatic truth that only Christian girls had short hair.

But ... I am not Christian," I said indignantly. She looked at me quizzically and continued: Anyway, our office typist said:

‘Silly girl, it's only hair ... like the grass in your backyard ... cut it and it will grow again ... cut it when you please and grow it as you please’ ...

Then she threw her head up with the condescension of Christian girls and said,(here she mimicked the Christian girl in her office):

‘I've never understood how you girls manage with your hair baba! I have no patience with it. we all have cropped hair ... what's wrong with that?"... She waved her index finger and walked off ...

During lunch hour she spoke more kindly, in a patronising sort of way: ‘Don't worry, go to a hairdresser and get it cut properly and it'll look fine ...' She even recommended a place. I was anxious about the expense. Besides, it requires guts to step into a room full of high society, fashionable women ...

That evening I did step into a beauty parlour, diffidently though. It was like a harijan entering the sanctum sanctorum of a Hanuman temple. All around me were well-to-do women ... all English speaking types. They sat with white packs on their faces looking like Kathakali dancers getting ready for a performance. Others had their heads under huge cylindrical domes ... A Chinese woman stood behind a customer. Her scissors darted all over the head, snipping away at the hair. She seized me up and down ... as though she was saying ‘here is another country bumpkin wanting to look like a film star.’

I told her my story and the purpose of my visit ...

‘Your hair stolen ... oh! what a pity ...,' she said. ‘How long was your hair?’ she asked.

I stretched my hand and indicated the length.

‘Jesus, whoever stole it will make a tidy packet’ she said. Then, turning around to other women in the parlour, she recounted tales of stolen hair.

‘Sit here,’ she ordered.

A tidy sum? I asked.

`Of course, ... they don't steal people's hair for fun ...'

But who would want my hair? I blurted out. I did not care if the women around me thought I was an ignorant idiot ...

‘Why to make wigs and switches of course! How else do you think rich women and film stars have long straight hair one day and short cropped hair the next day? Where did you think the toy industry got the hair for all those beautiful dolls?’

She turned around to the other women and said knowledgeably:

‘It is a big export earner you know ... everywhere in Europe, America, Indian hair is so much in demand ... they just love Indian hair ... these foreigners ...'

My head was whirling. Her scissors went snip snip all over my head. I asked her hesitatingly ... ‘How much do you think they will get for my hair?’

‘About five hundred rupees maybe,’ she said carelessly.

Five Hundred rupees! That was more than one month's wages!

Soon my hair grew. Within ten months or so it fell below my waist ...

The next year during Diwali, everyone was buying something. My friends advised me to put away something for myself and send my brothers to work somewhere. I could not bring myself to cut short their education. Yet I wanted badly to buy a pair of gold earrings. That is the least a girl my age should have ...

Suddenly I thought of the Chinese hair dresser. I sprinted to the beauty parlour. I opened out my hair and said:

‘Listen how much will you give for this?’ ...

She surveyed it, felt its texture and said:

‘Five hundred’.

‘Right, go ahead and take it’ I said. That year I bought this gold earring ..."

Proudly she held out her earrings ...

The next year I bought these silver anklets and this nose stud ..."

She lifted her saree lightly and showed off her anklet ...

This year I am going to my native place ... I haven’t been there since my parents died you know ... and next year I will ..."

Her voice drifted and her eyes had a far away look as they absorbed her small dreams.

She smiled a deep warm smile.

Then she burst out laughing ...

Isn’t this funny ..!" she giggled, running her hand through her cropped hair.

Riding high eh? I said.

I was laughing too.

[This short story was published in SPAN, the South Pacific Association for Commonwealth Literature and Language Studies, No 45, October 1997]

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