Let the Games begin, with a coup

At a concert in Shanghai on March 4 this year, Icelandic singer Bjork ended her performance by shouting “Tibet! Tibet!” People attending the concert felt very uneasy when the shouts came after the singer’s passionate performance of her song “Declare independence”. They did not boo, but left the Shanghai International Gymnastic Center hurriedly.
Bjork had effectively set the tone for the protests that were to follow during the Olympic torch relay.
Spirited efforts were made by Tibetan protesters and their supporters all over the world to attract attention to the China’s 58-year rule over the formerly independent region.
But nothing proved more devastating for China as an incident a few days back.
A factory in China’s Guangdong province, which neighbours Hong Kong, was found to be producing flags for the Tibetan government-in-exile. The order has been placed abroad, possibly by Tibetan protesters. Thousands of flags had been made and packed off to Hong Kong, where the red, blue and yellow mast with two lions is not banned.
The factory was raided on April 20 after some workers found the flag familiar. They looked up television footage of the protests and checked on the Internet and their worst fears came true – they had been helping their arch-enemies in their protests around the world and in Hong Kong where the torch arrived on Wednesday.
For the Tibetan who considers the Dalai Lama to be his true leader, this meant a coup d’ etat of sorts.
For the staunch Chinese, it was a slap on the face with only one saving grace – that the Chinese government’s propaganda and crackdown had ensured that the average Joe does not even know what the Tibetan flag looks like.
For the intelligent journalist, it was a Page One story.
Francis Ford Copolla’s Kundun, Heinrich Harrer’s Seven Years in Tibet, and Bjork’s support for Tibet at the Shanghai concert pushed support for the region several notches higher. But the average Delhiite is already sold on the cause – most decision-makers in the corridors of power today were fed on a staple diet of chhang (rice beer), momos and dirt-cheap apparel in Majnu Ka Tila, the Tibetan homeland in Delhi.
So it was no surprise that the Tibetans had their hopes pinned high on Delhi, which has the highest number of Tibetans – and supporters of their cause – outside of Tibet. The Indian government allowed them to take out a parallel torch relay, something no other government did or could do. But the protesters were hopeful of a stronger, more symbolic protest.
Word on the street was that they had roped in at least one of the participants of the torch relay to run with the flame in hand and a “Free Tibet” banner on his chest. But the elaborate security arrangements and the truncated run ensured that no such thing happened.

A hair-raising experience

Going for a haircut is one of my favourite pastimes in Chennai. The salon owner promptly switches on the AC and the TV playing a Tamil movie – or better still -- Sun TV-type sexy siren songs – as I slouch into the chair and let him have a go at my mane.
Despite the general calm I experience sitting on that chair, I have, at least thrice, noticed that my instructions to the hair-dresser go unnoticed, unheeded. I like to wear my hair really short – especially the sides and the back -- and I tell him that before I slouch into the chair and he switches on the AC and the TV playing the sexy siren songs. But everytime I come out of the salon looking like a baboon.
He keeps the hair long from the sides and back, crops it short from the top and leaves a tuft of hair that curls up like Dev Anand’s.
So this time I wanted to make sure that I got a haircut the way I wanted it – so I mustered up enough courage to tell him how to do it. (As an aside, you have to be really careful not to anger your barber… you know the kind of ‘mistakes’ they can make)
So I started off in English.
“Short from the sides and back, short from top so that I don’t need to use a comb.”
“Wokay”. Just like he says everytime I tell him that.
“No. Listen. Do you know Hindi?”
I knew I had pissed him off. H stared at me for exactly three seconds.
“Maloom. Maloom. Bolo.” (I know, I know. Speak up) and then he exhaled, just like someone does when too much adrenaline wells up in your body. And that happens just before you hit out.
So I repeated the instructions in Hindi.
“Wokay.”
And he started off.
Within five minutes he was done.
And I was again looking like a baboon. My hair long from the sides and back, short from top and a tuft curling up like Dev Anand’s.
“Wokay?” he asked as he showed me a mirror.
“No short from the sides and back. Short from the top like I told you so.” I said all that in Hindi.
He started off again. Finished in five minutes. I was still looking a baboon. And you know the rest about how my hair looked.
“Short from the back and sides,” I said.
No wokay this time. He sighed and called his partner. They mumbled something to each other and my barber then nodded his head.
I can bet my life it was something nasty that they discussed because my barber took out his razor.
“Not with a razor, I don’t want it that short.”
So the two partners conferred some more and my barber took out what we call a “zero machine”. It’s used to give you a haircut like Aamir Khan’s these days.
“No. With a scissor.”
If this scene were playing out in the The Godfather, this was the time my barber would have pulled out a string and garroted me – just like Peter Clemenza did to Carlo Rizzi in the movie.
Thankfully, I was in a salon in Chennai with no Sicilian connections whatsoever. I doubt very much if my barber has seen The Godfather, however film-crazy this state is.
So I walked out content that I had stood my ground despite the threats and got the haircut just like the way I had wanted it.
Back home I found that my barber had had the last laugh. He cut one of my sideburns short despite express instructions not to touch them.
Well, every barber has his day.