The Bald and the Beautiful

“You know, my mom and I got talking about impotency.” said Rajkumar, the trademark mischievous look on his face. “How did that come up?” Shachi asked ever so innocently. “That’s the point – it didn’t.” I said, before Rajkumar and I burst out laughing, while realization dawned on Shachi. “My mom and I were talking about my receding hairline.” I immediately offered my sympathies, having had to undergo a similar torture not too long ago.

It’s no secret that I am, as Colin Mocherie put it, “follically impaired”. Let’s face it, I am going bald. And honestly, I have no problem with that. Well, maybe just a little bit, but then one can’t be blamed for feeling a little sad about going bald. What really gets me is how all and sundry feel obliged to help you get through what should most definitely be a difficult juncture in your life. The constant tut-tutting, the sympathetic looks, and the inevitable suggestions ranging from home remedies of applying virtually every food product on your scalp to the more ‘scientific’ methods like hair weaving, transplants, and of course,  “Hair-o-max” and other similar medication.

As a kid, most people admired my head of strong and lustrous hair. My father, who was apparently “the Rajesh Khanna of his college” in his hay days, would beam proudly at me and say, “Of course, he gets it from my family. I was the only one in my college whom my principal didn’t ask to get a haircut. Even he was in awe of my hair.”

Obviously, it irritated him to no end that I insulted the God given gift of amazing locks by cutting them very short. The very mention of a haircut was enough to get his blood boiling. Even if it was 45 degrees of scorching heat in the typical Dubai summer. “But dad, it’s so hot outside! My hair itches from sweating like crazy. And besides, my hair is curly and it never stays in place.” “You should learn how to comb your hair. Let me work on those beauties.” After what seems like eternity, and using an array of weapons ranging from the hair dryer, hair sprays, an assortment of combs and God knows what else, he gets my hair glued to my scalp and takes a step back to look at his handiwork. “Ah, there you go. A true work of art, even if I do say so myself. If only I…”

“AAAAAAAAAAA!!!! What on earth is that???? Oh please, do not subject our son to such cruelty!!” My mom came running into the room, with a look on her face that can only be described as one of pure horror. I looked at the mirror and realized why. My hair would single-handedly put me in contention for the most ridiculed boy in school. Actually, there would be no contest. I would win hands down. Thankfully, before this potential nightmare would be realized, my mom ensured I got a haircut at the earliest.

The recession came once I moved to Chennai. I’m not sure what it was – the intense heat, the really bad water, dandruff, or just plain heredity. Whatever it was, once the first hair hit the ground, what followed was just pure freefall. Day after day, I watched helpless as the hairs migrated from my head to my t-shirt, and more of my scalp was exposed to the world. But even then, I wasn’t overly concerned.

It wasn’t until one of my visits to Dubai that this ‘problem’ was addressed. My dad took it quite badly that his son was losing hair – and even worse – didn’t even bother to find out ways to overcome it. I would hear him muttering “Not even remotely worried that he will soon be bald. How will his future shape up?” I thought it best not to bring up the various concerns I had with his cribbing statement, lest I open Pandora’s Box. My mom was also wrought with grief, though she tried her best to hide it. “It’s hereditary. You’ve got it from my family”, she said, her face guilt ridden. I tried my best to pacify her and my dad, but between disappointment and guilt, my parents were quite inconsolable. It wasn’t until I agreed to see a dermatologist that some sanity ensued.

After avoiding the matter for as long as I could, I finally paid a visit to the doctor. The doctor, who had a fine head of hair, looked intently at the edges of my hairline. “You have type-A male baldness”, he said, “Most common kind of baldness”. Like being part of the most happening baldness club was supposed to make me feel better. “As for the treatment, I can prescribe some hair ointments and tablets. However, you have to be extremely regular. And you must take quite a few precautions for your hair.” I did not like this, but gave a sigh and nodded. The sacrifices one has to make. “I’ll do my best. Whatever it takes, I guess.” The doctor hesitated slightly. “Er, there is one more thing. Of course, it is a very rare thing – in fact, the rarest of rare, if you will.” He laughed nervously. “But ….”

I got out of the doctor’s office in something of a state of shock. My train of thought was interrupted by a call from my mom. “I just met the doctor about my hair; rather the lack of it.” “Oh finally! What did he say?” “He suggested some medication, but there is just one thing.” “Oh, what is it? Please don’t come up with some silly excuse to avoid this.” “The baldness is caused by excessive testosterone production in the body. There is a very rare possibility that the medication, which reduces this, can cause impotency.”

The silence that ensued spoke louder than words. After what seemed like an eternity, my mom finally spoke. “Let’s just wait a bit on the medication. Probably not the best time to start.” I hastily agreed, sure that this would be the last discussion on the topic. Some things are just way more important.

I have gotten a tonsure multiple times. While it wasn’t a dress rehearsal for my future as a bald man, I realized that I don’t look too bad with a clean head. And it does feel free. But then, not too many people share my opinion. They instead take it upon themselves to try and steer me away from my impending doom, from a fate worse than hell itself. Little do they realize that they are actually pushing me further towards it, ‘cause I’m about to tear out my hair in frustration.

What's in a Name?

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I don’t like the sound of it or anything. It’s just that it has too many inconveniences attached to it.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Or atleast overreacting to the whole thing.” I could see that even though he was trying to maintain a neutral, even somber tone, he was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress his smile.

I sighed. “I know most people find it funny. But it is true – despite my parents’ best intentions, my name has presented a few difficult situations.”

He laughed out loud. “Oh please, what sort of difficulties could the name ‘Rahul’ present? If anything, it should have made you a lot more popular and actually helped than hindered.”

This is a common misconception that most people have. I am not sure if anyone besides Shah Rukh Khan has found the name ‘Rahul’ to be a lucky charm. But then again, I am not sure if any of my countless namesakes find being christened ‘Rahul’ a cross to bear for life. Maybe I am overreacting.
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I was sitting, as usual, in the last bench of the class, slowly dozing off to sleep. Just when I was about to lose track of reality, I was brought back to earth with a shrill “Rahoool. Don’t be napping in my class.” I woke with a start. In a class with two other students sharing my name, I was the only one who was addressed as ‘Rahool’ by my English teacher. I guess it was an elegant solution to the problem of having too many students with the name ‘Rahul’. Never mind the fact that it spawned countless imitations and the fact that many of my friends still make fun of me.

But even then, the fact that my individuality was preserved made all the jokes tolerable. However, not every teacher was as considerate to my plight. In most other classes, every time the name “Rahul” was called out, my eyes darted from one Rahul to the other like a pinball trying to figure out who would respond. Needless to say, we were constantly nagged by friends. A case in point – once the Chemistry teacher called out to one of us, which was followed by “Rahul”, “Rahul”, “Rahul” from all corners of the class – ‘helpful’ students ‘inadvertently’ adding to the chaos.
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The train arrived ten minutes late, and we didn’t have much time before the train to Chennai would leave the station. We frantically ran towards the coach A2, and looked for my name. As I was unable to see it, my heart started racing. Had the travel agent screwed up? Would my college admission be in jeopardy? Would it be another yelling session from my dad for no fault of mine? “There it is!!” Relieved, I moved my eyes towards the name my mother was pointing at. Wait a second, why did the name read ‘Ragul’??

It was not until later that I realized that the Tamil alphabet doesn’t use ‘hu’, but rather uses ‘ku’ or ‘gu’ instead. During the three years of my college life in Chennai, there were countless instances where my name was written as ‘Raghul’ or ‘Rakul’. I won’t even get into the various ways my name was mispronounced at that time!
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My fever was getting worse. I made the long overdue decision to visit the doctor. The receptionist, after giving me a concerned look, took out a card and asked for my name. On hearing my name, with a sly smile on her face, she said “Rahul – naam toh suna hoga”; which was followed by giggles from all and sundry. How naive of me to think that my 103^o F fever would suffice to stop random people joking about my name. As though I had not heard enough of “Rahul is a cheater!!” to last me several lifetimes.
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I guess these are trivial occurrences in the grand scheme of things we call life. But then again, isn’t this enough suffering on account of one cause, that too one not of my doing?

He probably figured out that I was taking the topic a lot more seriously than he had guessed. “Dude, don’t take it to heart. You are a person, not just a name. As Shakespeare wrote; ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.' ”

It was then that I realized that he was right. People liked me for who I am. Who cares if they had a little fun at the expense of my name? Why did I let it get to me? I had found inner peace. I was Po.. er, no, Rahul. But that’s the point. I would no longer be bothered by people……..

“Hey Rahul Gandhi. When did you get out of prison?”

AAAARRRRRGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!
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ADDICTION

Joseph was a nervous wreck. He was having a tough time staying away from it. “No, I should not. Everyone is right. My addiction will destroy my life.”

Joseph was trying to think things through. “How had all of this happened?” he wondered. He remembered the days of his childhood back in his village – the shy, quiet boy who was the consistent topper in all his exams in his school.

He was trying to distract himself, he realized. He was trying not to think about the craving he had, the desperate urge he felt to fulfill his desire – no, his need – for it. He kept pacing up and down, trying to think of something else, anything else. But he knew that this would be a futile effort. He knew that no matter how hard he tried, he would not be able to distract himself forever.

“My son has got admission in a very prestigious college in the city!!” He remembered the fateful day, the joy on his mother’s face as she distributed sweets to everyone. Joseph had got a scholarship in the city, and now his dream of joining college would be realized. And why not? He had worked hard for it. As he remembered the events that had led to his current situation, Joseph could not help but be overcome by emotion. As he closed his eyes shut, a tear rolled down his cheek.

“Why did I get into all of this? Why did I let it take over my life?” Joseph cursed himself. He knew there was no one else to blame but himself, no excuse he could hide behind. But deep down inside, he knew the reason for all of this. He remembered the first two semesters in college – how he had tried so hard to fit in, how he could not work in group projects or presentations because of his awkwardness, how he could not make any friends, how he felt like an outcast. He remembered how he had felt so alone; so left out in a crowd.

And then he had found it. At first, he had been skeptical. He had not wanted to try it. Someone had mentioned it in college, and soon curiosity got the better of him. He remembered going into the dingy room, sitting in the tiny space nervously, as he tried it out for the first time. He had not even liked it that much the first time. But then he had got hooked. It transported him to a new world – a world where he had no worries of his awkwardness and his different mannerisms, where he was liberated. He now felt popular, he felt cool – this was an elixir for all his social handicaps. For once, he was happy and felt part of something – he felt he belonged.

But his newfound happiness came at a price – he could not concentrate on anything else. He constantly wanted to get his fix – he bunked his classes, barely ate, lost out on sleep, and spent most of his limited money on going back to get his fix. His marks took a nosedive, and he failed many of his exams. The subjects he had in arrears kept piling up. His life was spiraling downward, but Joseph was oblivious to any of this. Nothing else mattered anymore.

Joseph tried not to look at the cupboard in his room. He had been trying not to all day, but his gaze kept going back to it. Each time, it got harder to look away. Joseph realized he was shaking now. The effort it took to hold himself back was more than he could bear. His willpower was waning, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he succumbed to temptation.

And then, in a moment he knew he would regret; Joseph did it. His body moved as though controlled by an external force. In a determined stride, he walked to the cupboard. As his hand reached out and opened the door, Joseph felt euphoria amidst all the nervousness. Joseph took the pouch out of the cupboard.

He placed the pouch on the table and opened the zipper. The very sound of this made him cringe. As he took out the contents from the bag, he remembered how he had begged his classmate for it – he had made tall promises to use it for a week. “I’ll give you anything, please. I need it only for a week.” Joseph felt ashamed at how he had stooped so low, how he had made a spectacle of himself. Tears welled up in his eyes.

As he assembled the components together, he remembered his mother’s tearful breakdown, the worried look on his uncle’s face, and the words of advice from his professors. All of them had come to meet him, because they cared for him. And he was letting them all down by his actions. He was letting himself down. Joseph felt the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach gain intensity. He tried to push aside his thoughts and got to work.

Joseph switched on the laptop with a shaking hand. He felt the soft whirring sound of it booting fill the room. The startup music on the Windows operating system felt so loud, his ears hurt. With a sense of urgency he had never known, Joseph connected to the unsecured wireless network of his neighbor.

He opened the Opera browser and looked at the favorites he had saved earlier. He felt relief flooding his senses now. He was ashamed of it, but he could not deny the unbridled joy he felt. He opened his Gmail account in one tab, his Facebook account in another, and his Twitter account in the third. As he succumbed to his addiction for the virtual networking world, Joseph broke into tears.

REVENGE

Asif Khan and Karim sat at the entrance of the abandoned shed, looking out for any movement. The monsoons were lashing out with all its fury on the streets of Mumbai. As Asif Khan clutched his Beretta 93R, Karim noticed that his hands were shivering. Was it due to the fact that he was wet and cold, or was it due to the fear that had been gnawing at him, Karim wondered. Karim had been with Asif bhai for over seven years now, and had seen the deterioration of the dreaded underworld don to a paranoid, almost crazy maniac.

“Bhai, come in. You are cold. I’ll keep watch here.” Asif Khan looked at Karim with affection. Karim had been his trusted aide, his right hand man for almost five years now. Karim had proved himself time and again, both with his cunning and his sheer ruthlessness. And his devotion to Asif Khan. Asif Khan knew that he owed his life to Karim. Even now, the only reason he was alive was that Karim had warned him about the police, who were now hunting him all over the city. Asif Khan thanked Allah for a younger brother like Karim.

As Karim watched outside for any sign of the police, he thought of the events that had led to all of this. It had been three years since Salim had arrived and almost entirely ruined the Asif Khan gang. It was amazing how one man consumed by hate and driven by revenge could do such damage. Karim had heard the story a million times by now, mostly from Asif bhai himself, as he rued his mistakes and mourned his crumbling empire.

Asif Khan’s thoughts once again diverted to Salim, and how that bastard had ruined him. But he knew that he had wronged Salim’s family, and the guilt that haunted him had made him weak. If only he had discouraged Hussain’s taste for women’s flesh.

The story had been forgotten by everyone. But Salim’s entry into the underworld had brought it all back. Gang members spoke about it in whispers. Some even thought it Allah’s will. Altaf had told Karim the story of how Hussain, a previous gang member, had raped and murdered Salim’s sister. Asif bhai had ordered the entire family be killed. An explosion in the family’s home was orchestrated during the mourning, but Salim had escaped. Two days later, Hussain’s body was found. An entire magazine had been unloaded into him, one bullet to each kneecap, one to the torso and the remaining to his chest. It was clear to see that he had been tortured with a knife as well.

A city wide search for Salim ensued. Asif bhai even used his connections in the police, his informants in other gangs and his boys on the streets to try and find Salim. But there was no luck. There were a few unfortunate deaths of young men resembling Salim, but the real Salim was never found. Everyone felt that he had fleed town, but Asif bhai was never really convinced. Asif bhai felt that Salim had received shelter from one of the rival gangs, but his gang members pleaded with him to avoid a bloody gang war. Asif bhai had relented, but felt that he had not heard the last of Salim. Six years later, he was proven right.

Salim returned to Asif Khan’s life with a bang. A boat carrying heroin came in with nothing but torn up sacks, the bodies of the crew members, and a note by Salim swearing vengeance. What followed was a relentless attack on Asif Khan’s gang by Salim. Asif Khan’s informants in other gangs were exposed and murdered, his rackets constantly raided by the police on account of tips from anonymous informants and his turf was attacked when a car bomb exploded, killing five of his gang members and injuring Asif Khan.
What followed was probably the bloodiest chapter in the saga of the Mumbai underworld. Asif Khan asked for whoever was hiding Salim to surrender him to avoid an all out gang war. When no one came forward, Asif Khan declared war. The days of peace were over, and reign of the gun had started. Karim masterminded the sure and savage wipeout of the opposition, both outside and within the gang. Many gangmembers who had reservations about Asif Khan’s latest move either kept quiet out of fear of Karim, or were silenced forever by him. The Mumbai police, who were helpless spectators for most part and tried their best to curb violence in the city, could not help but admit that Asif Khan was doing his job by getting rid of the gangs. The underworld suffered, in terms of lives, business and money lost in this mindless carnage. The streets of Mumbai were awash with the blood of the underworld.

In all of this, there was still no sign of Salim. Asif Khan grew more and more frustrated as each passing day brought no news of Salim’s death. He drank too much. He started having nightmares of the devil, the shaitan, coming and dragging him into the depths of darkness. He had trouble staying composed, and despite consulting a lot of doctors, there was nothing that could be done if his mind could not be calmed down. He suspected his men were plotting against him, and kept telling Karim that the blast in his turf could not be orchestrated without the help of an insider. His health took a downturn as he started eating less. He was consumed by fear, and he was helpless to do anything. His nemesis, his hunter, was lurking, waiting to strike, and he could do nothing but wait.

Karim, in the meantime, did everything he could. Salim’s photo was sent everywhere; but to no avail. He managed to get rid of most of the rival gangs using all the means he could. But things got worse. The police were given strict orders to clean up the city and put an end to the bloodbath. Asif Khan was to be captured, dead or alive. Karim had no illusions about which option the police would choose. It wasn’t long before his informant in the police told him that an arrest warrant had been issued for Asif Khan. Karim knew he had to act quickly. He arranged the fake passports, the money and the tickets to Singapore. Soon Asif bhai and he had left the house in an old Maruti 800, but had to hide out in an abandoned shed after Asif bhai noticed a couple of policemen who may have spotted them from a checkpost. Now he sat near the entrance of the shed, his Colt Double Eagle clasped firmly in his hand.

Asif Khan was slowly drifting into sleep. He saw, out of the pitch black, a figure emerging. Covered in flames, the figure was coming to him slowly. Asif Khan tried to move back, but he could not move an inch. He was crying and yelling in fear, but the shaitan came to him, burning bright. The shaitan stretched its hand, reaching for his feet, ready to drag him to hell.

Asif Khan was woken by a loud bang and an excruciating pain in his knee. Blood was oozing from his kneecap. Wailing in pain, he clutched his knee and looked up. His eyes widened at what he saw. Towering over him was Karim, pointing his Double Eagle straight at him. The smoke from the barrel rose slowly.

“Karim?” he asked, almost in a daze. “Why? Why are you doing this? Did Salim hire you? Or was it the police? I treated you like a brother. I trusted you. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS??”

“Salim is dead. He died all those years ago. He had succumbed to his injuries during the blast you triggered. You killed Salim. You killed his parents, my uncle and aunt. And Abida. That bastard raped her and murdered her. Your henchman dog killed her. And you let him. You let him loose on the streets, and instead, killed my innocent family. You took away all the family I had. You murdered my love. I was going to have my nikkah with Abida. And you took her away.”

“Karim, please.. please.. listen to me. There was nothing I could do. I tried to stop Hussain. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Please. I’ll give you anything. I have money. You know that. Please let me live. For Allah’s sake, we were like brothers.”

Karim fired a shot onto his left kneecap. Asif Khan yelled in pain. “Hurts, doesn’t it? You were no brother to me. Getting into your gang and gaining your trust was necessary for me. And you have given me everything I needed. Your slow death from fear – THE ONCE INVINCIBLE ASIF KHAN, NOW SCARED OF HIS OWN SHADOW – that has been my greatest reward. You made me kill people. You made me go against Allah’s will – and now you beg for mercy using Allah’s name? You are a pathetic man; and the world would be a much better place without you. YOU WILL DIE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!”

Asif Khan’s face turned ashen white. He had realized that Karim had taken away his Beretta, and now there was nothing he could do. He could hardly move because of his damaged knees. He started crying and begging for mercy. As he looked up, he saw the contemptuous smile on Karim’s face. This was the last thing he would see, as the bullet from Karim’s gun hit him in the chest.

Karim emptied the magazine into Asim Khan’s chest. He was shaking with fury. He let out a roar; filled with anger, rage. All the emotions he had hidden deep within for so many years. He had finally had his revenge. He wiped Asim Khan’s blood from his face and hands. Throwing the gun aside, Karim walked out of the shed. As he stepped out, he felt the rain, coming down hard, cleansing him. He had journeyed through sin for seven years and had finally achieved redemption. He got into the car and drove away.

P.S: A note of thanks is in order here. Many thanks to Rajkumar, who through his facebook post (also titled "Revenge") unwittingly inspired me to write this piece. Thanks dude, for bringing me out of a creative slump. I owe you one.

P.S. 2: Of course, like Rajkumar, I am also a man of peace.