Hippie Santa and Rajinikanth

My barber is the kind of man who’d stand out anywhere. He occupies most of his cramped saloon himself, has a mop of hair from the Rajinikanth seventies and laughs like Santa Clause. He has never missed the first day, first show of any Rajini movie till date.

“I am painting thalaivar on my door” he said one day.

I had just entered and was sitting on a plastic chair awaiting my turn, reading a Tamil magazine.

“Where?” I looked at him.

He was sliding a razor across the shaving foam on someone’s face. The guy didn’t seem to care what we were talking about.

“On the door thambi, the shop’s door”

He was going to paint Rajinikanth on his saloon’s door.

“Your thalivar might not like that” I said.

He looked at me like I’d said something stupid. Rajinikanth, had issued a notice long back asking people to stop using his pictures without his consent. He did not like people misusing his image.

I explained all that to hippie Santa.

He paused for a moment inspecting the foam on the other guy’s face.

“It doesn’t matter” he said as he restarted scrapping away the foam. “Who’s going to see anyway?”

The next time I went for a haircut, I saw Rajini on the saloon door. Head held high, the setting sun forming a halo behind his profile, smiling in that innocently narcissistic way that only he can. It was a perfect replica of a famous picture, the one from Thalapathy.

I stood there for a second, admiring the even spread of paint on the glass door and the way it played with the light. Then I opened the door, went in and sat on a plastic chair to wait for my turn.

“How is it thambi?” my barber asked turning away from someone’s hair.

“Really good” I said, smiling. The guy getting his hair cut didn’t seem to mind our talking.

“How much did it cost you?” I asked.

“Nothing”

“Nothing! Who does paintings for free?”

He looked at me like I’d said something stupid, again.

“Rajesh. He is from the fan club”

“Rajini’s fan club?”

Santa nodded.

So much talent was roaming our streets painting free pictures of Rajinikanth. Incredible, India!

“Does he paint other things?”

“He used to paint for movies, on walls, but who needs painters nowadays thambi. Every poster is combuter printed”

I looked at my barber. I looked at the image of Rajini on the glass door, the light coming through. I thought about Rajesh, shrugged, took a Tamil magazine from a plastic chair, and started reading.

Rajini and my barber

My barber is the kind of man who’d stand out anywhere. He occupies most of his cramped saloon himself, has a mop of hair from the Rajinikanth seventies and laughs like Santa Clause. He has never missed the first day, first show of any Rajini movie till date.

“I am painting thalaivar on my door” he said one day.

I had just entered and was sitting on a plastic chair awaiting my turn, reading a Tamil magazine.

“Where?” I looked at him.

He was sliding a razor across the shaving foam on someone’s face. The guy didn’t seem to care what we were talking about.

“On the door thambi, the shop’s door”

He was going to paint Rajinikanth on his saloon’s door.

“Your thalivar might not like that” I said.

He looked at me like I’d said something stupid. Rajinikanth, had issued a notice long back asking people to stop using his pictures without his consent. He did not like people misusing his image.

I explained all that to hippie Santa.

He paused for a moment inspecting the foam on the other guy’s face.

“It doesn’t matter” he said as he restarted scrapping away the foam. “Who’s going to see anyway?”

The next time I went for a haircut, I saw Rajini on the saloon door. Head held high, the setting sun forming a halo behind his profile, smiling in that innocently narcissistic way that only he can. It was a perfect replica of a famous picture, the one from Thalapathy.

I stood there for a second, admiring the even spread of paint on the glass door and the way it played with the light. Then I opened the door, went in and sat on a plastic chair to wait for my turn.

“How is it thambi?” my barber asked turning away from someone’s hair.

“Really good” I said, smiling. The guy getting his hair cut didn’t seem to mind our talking.

“How much did it cost you?” I asked.

“Nothing”

“Nothing! Who does paintings for free?”

He looked at me like I’d said something stupid, again.

“Rajesh. He is from the fan club”

“Rajini’s fan club?”

Santa nodded.

So much talent was roaming our streets painting free pictures of Rajinikanth. Incredible, India!

“Does he paint other things?”

“He used to paint for movies, on walls, but who needs painters nowadays thambi. Every poster is combuter printed”

I looked at my barber. I looked at the image of Rajini on the glass door, the light coming through. I thought about Rajesh, shrugged, took a Tamil magazine from a plastic chair, and started reading.