The Hindu Business Line : Bath and beyond

If I may be forgiven for bringing up an intimate topic, our bathroom is in many ways a snapshot of our lifestyle here in Akathethara Panchayat. It has plain white tiles and fittings and a concrete floor, so that we can bathe with oil and turmeric and then tidy up with a quick whisk of the coconut broom. The mixer tap doesn’t work, just as our plumber Majid had predicted, so we fill hot and cold serially in a bucket.

But the simplicity ends there. The bathroom cabinets bristle with the contradictions of our lives in the hinterland. Saar and I grow and process the turmeric ourselves, and the coconut oil comes from my neighbour Ambika across the road, in exchange for a sackful of copra. Gokul talc nudges Margo soap and K.C. Namboodiri’s ayurvedic tooth powder. One day I aim to wash my hair using hibiscus leaves crushed with a mortar and pestle. What stands in my way are jars and bottles stamped with Dove, Nivea, St Ives, Victoria’s Secret, Yves Saint Laurent and even Bvlgari, methodically supplied from foreign malls and duty-free shops by an army of female relatives.

Ideals notwithstanding, a thrifty woman cannot throw out gift soaps and lotions or even hand-me-down cologne. An American shampoo that is too harsh for my hair still comes in handy when I wash a silk sari. Christian Dior’s Poison keeps the mosquitoes away all evening. And I get clean enough using those potions that promise to leave me scrubbed, exfoliated, hydrated, polished and revealing the “flawless skin of a geisha”.

If any of these products actually fulfilled their promises, I would look like Nicole Kidman. The real secret to radiant skin, I long ago discovered, is a strip of 100-watt bulbs on either side of the mirror. Happily, here in Akathethara, the high humidity and clean air keep skin, eyes and hair fresh without benefit of brand names or high wattage.

The only trouble with the hair, in fact, is that it grows so quickly that I must venture out for a haircut several times a year.

The choices are grim. Some women run salons out of their homes, but they’re never there when you want them. A search for “a proper beauty parlour in town” once took me to a famous-name franchise where young women wore uniforms and an offhand arrogance. All they could manage was a U cut, but they told me my hair had gone thin (compared to what, I wondered, since they had never seen me before) and that I should get a bleach and a facial. My credo is that a woman comes out of a facial looking exactly the same as when she went in, so I snarled back that a haircut would do, a quick one. If only a woman could go to a barber.

Saar never gets grief with his haircuts. After the first deferential question about whether he wants his beard dyed (the answer being no), the talk turns to business, with some inputs from visiting lottery-ticket sellers. A few months ago, Ravi, who owns a barber shop on the Malampuzha road, confided his intention to put in AC and floor tiles. He thought of spending about two lakhs. Saar asked if he would get his money back in terms of roaring business. Since many of Ravi’s clients get the haircut first and promise to pay later, Saar suggested a more cautious investment to start with, perhaps sweeping the floor and sterilising the combs. In the event, Ravi has done nothing. Rajan, the other barber on that stretch, works in a sublet operation, paying half his takings to the actual tenant, so he talks less about expansion. He usually chats with Saar about alcoholism, haggling clients, the feeble work ethic of locals, the recession, Gulf-returnees and other current affairs.

Meanwhile, I have rediscovered Sneha, in Kalpathy village, halfway between my house and the town. Its little signboard moves from one end of the street to the other, depending on where Jayashree, the owner, is able to rent a room.

Jayashree has run her salon for twelve years. Some fifteen regulars show up once a month. There are many irregulars, like me. And there is always a steady stream of “outside customers”, swelling to a wave during the chariot festival season. The shop has a swivel chair, a washbasin, an electric pot for melting wax, and the requisite two mirrors. Jayashree does home visits. She readily obliges a three-year-old with a basketball-theme henna design. Her shop lights are sometimes dim, but her welcome is always bright, with or without an appointment. Not a word about darkening my hair or lightening my skin. Just an efficient snipsnip and sisterly chitchat about the weather, my garden, her children, cousins, weddings. And I always walk out with bouncier hair and a lighter heart.

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