The clever bania

 The following happens to be tau Hoshiyar Singh’s favorite quip, or fable or moralizing story that sums up his life’s totem, exquisitely outlined in his rheumy old eyes full of wisdom—don’t mess with fools, they will have someone of their own ilk to handle them. A subdued veracity and virtuous fragrance honed in the cauldron of a tough peasant life. It turns almost into a kind stimulating spirituality even though these old farmers hardly care about religion, rituals or spirituality. A rough summary of his story goes like this:

The knuckle of a crooked index finger itches to have a tasty strike at a just-shaved head. The naughty barber felt water-mouthed at the sight of a shining just-shaved head, his own handiwork with a glee in the eyes and a gloating heart. As if dying to put warmth of life into his frosty fingers, he gave into the impulse and got a sadistic tonk at the customer’s head, who happened to be a cool-headed baniya. The man of trade and shop-keeping well versed with the boons of patience and non-reaction in the face of provocation. A reaction spoils the game; a calculated response makes opportunities for you. The strike was naughty, playful and a bit more than a casual friendly banter. He could feel the pinch of its impact. After all, it was done with a sadistic glee.

The baniya kept his composure and almost self-denyingly paid an extra anna for the knuckle-tonk on his shaved head. The barber, proudly pleased with this addition of skills, thought it pays extra to give a naughty tonk with the knuckle of an itching index finger. ‘Maybe it tickles a satisfying nerve on the scalp, making the customer happy,’ he thought.

Then a Jat wrestler came to get his head shaved. It was a shinier and bigger head, almost a new, shining clay pot, a gracefully symmetrical shape pleading at him for initiation into a fresh, auspicious start; very attractive and pleading for a knuckle strike to get inaugurated like a bell strike in a temple. So expecting some extra bonus, and egged on by the inspiring anecdote dating a couple of days back, the barber performed the ritual again. As can be expected the rough and rowdy Jat wrestler, carrying a dangerous shiftiness in mood, plonked him all over the body with crude slaps and fist-work and threw him around like a sack of potatoes a few times practicing dhobipat since the opportunity presented itself. ‘Hai mar gya!’ the barber cried.

Having received the news the baniya visited the barber. ‘You got it the very same day when I paid you the extra anna for it. I had paid you for your folly, not skills,’ he consoled the sullen, blackened and bruised barber.