Since the last twenty five years, I have been confronted by the ‘white matter problem’. No, this has nothing to do with the visible white matter in the universe through the astronomer’s telescope. Nor has it anything to do with the other problem that has puzzled cosmologists – the ‘dark matter’ problem – the mysterious invisible matter which might eventually decide if the universe will go on expanding forever, or contract back into a singularity after what might seem to be an eternity. Now, a singularity is a kind of entity that is difficult to understand – imagine all the matter in the universe squeezed into a point that has no dimensions! Further, imagine that the universe began from a singularity, at which point time actually = zero! I must return to this strange and perplexing discussion another day! I must understand it before I pass on into that singularity!
I’m not even talking about the grey matter inside our heads. The white matter above my head, but rooted in it is the issue that has caused consternation to certain people over the years. So, let me tell you that story.
In the midst of thick, jet black hair, the first white strands grew. I noticed it when I was thirteen I guess. I remember commenting about it to my mother, standing in front of a big mirror in the small living room of our Koramangala house. I’m not sure if she worried about it then. I didn’t, too – it was easy to hide the few white strands by pushing and patting them carefully below the black majority after oiling my hair with coconut oil every morning.
The years passed. There was no appreciable change in the quantity of white matter with its roots in my head. In 1987, the year I got into engineering, it hadn’t attracted much attention. Even if it did, I don’t remember it. Ditto in 1991, the year I graduated, least interested in the enterprise of designing, making and fixing machines In a couple of years, I got disgusted with the experiences of shouting every day at men on the shop floor, egging them on to produce more and more in less and less time. From that point on, more strands of white started sprouting, and people I knew began noticing. Still, the thick and jet black majority managed to obscure this fresh growth. However, it required some effort at combing time every morning. After a while, I began to wonder if this hiding business was worth it. As the days passed, I managed to ignore it altogether.
In 1993, the year I became a schoolteacher, the kids I taught, noticed. So did my fellow teachers. There were not too many direct comments, though. May be no one wanted to offend me. I even suspected that some of my colleagues liked what they saw, especially some female colleagues. This hunch was only based on their appreciative but cryptic comments such as ‘It looks good’, for instance. On second thoughts, I wondered if it was a case of dripping sarcasm. In the hope that I could attract more female attention, I began conjuring theories of male-female attraction based on white matter – ‘older women get attracted to younger men with white hair because it makes them look matured; younger women also get attracted to young men with white hair because they are looking for someone wise to spend their time with’. Of course, these theories were hopelessly out of sync with the times and I didn’t land up any girlfriends young or old based on my white matter alone. To this day, I fervently believe in these theories, waiting for a miracle to happen!
In the mid-nineties, when I left the school to move to Raichur in North Karnataka to do some work in the village schools, I did business with the barbers with their open roadside parlors in the small and remote town of Deodurg. They started noticing, first thing.
Getting a haircut done in Deodurg was a different experience – unlike Bangalore, where you could sit for the haircut inside a reasonably well kept room with its large mirrors in the front and back, the Deodurg open barber usually had his shop under the sky – some had the mirrors usually fixed to a tree on one side of the road, and those seeking a haircut usually had to sit on an old wooden chair facing the mirror, propped up on carefully arranged stones that were flat. It was a bit of a circus in every sense of the word. What made it different was it felt very public. When I sat on one of those chairs for the very first time, I felt that everyone on the road – humans, dogs and pigs were watching me. Of course, they were only minding their business. The roadside tree barber would engage you in small talk, and if you were curious enough, you could get a colorful account of life in Deodurg town. They say that a barber is one of the best informants if you are doing some social research anywhere.
Anyway, the barbers got interested in my white strands because it had a direct business implication for them – the profits to be made from dyeing! Barber after barber wanted me to dye my hair and wanted me to look young and dashing again, with jet black hair. With fervent hope, they would always ask ‘Sir, shall I dye your hair this time? Sir it has spread Sir, all over the sides…that too at such a young age, Sir!’ Some of them indeed looked concerned. But I would generally remain unmoved, determined not to yield to their devious business suggestions. By then, I had developed a couple of stock replies: ‘Why should we hide anything?’ I would retort as if I was an open book for everyone to see and write on. And then assert, ‘Let me age naturally! Life will go on!’ This philosophical invective would result in an amused smile from the barber: ‘Ok sir, your wish.’ The next month he would repeat the same questions as if nothing had happened. Great triers, these barbers were!
In the late nineties when I moved to Delhi the white strands were no longer the minority. They were noticed often, comments were passed and I carried on, unfazed. To tempt me further, the East Delhi barber whose shop I frequented tempted me with a ‘package’ consisting of a haircut, head massage and dyeing. ‘But if I dye it will it not turn brown?’ I protested, based on my observations of those who wanted their hair to appear eternally black. I thought that would keep him quiet. But he replied easily. ‘Nowadays there are dyes which will not allow your hair to turn red or brown.’ Of course, I didn’t believe him. Such exchanges would generally end with my stock replies. The barber would then quietly go about his job. A haircut usually resulted in exposing more white matter. Given that I went in for short ‘crew’ cuts, the short, white hair would stand up straight for a few weeks – combing didn’t make any difference a few weeks after every cut.
In North India, they liken marriage to a laddoo. You are told that it is that kind of laddoo which you will regret not eating. And if you do bite into it, you would regret as well! It’s a bit like saying ‘Heads I win, tails you lose.’ Strange laddoo! Anyway, I swallowed this laddoo in 2000 after Herculean efforts by my father to find me a bride. The passport sized photo of mine which was shared as part of the correspondence still hid the white strands that were threatening to come out. I passed the bridegroom test just as she passed hers and we decided to eat the laddoo. I don’t think she noticed that much white matter – in any case, she didn’t look scared or put off. We didn’t get too close for her to notice the defiant white. She later said that she might have reconsidered her decision to bite the laddoo with me. I thought the coconut oil had done the trick!
In a workshop where we were attempting to develop a Country Strategic Plan (CSP) for five years based on what was touted as the ‘Security Framework’ (because we thought everyone was feeling so insecure in the rural communities where we worked!), my colleagues from this new organization I had joined in Delhi noticed the many white strands. It was two weeks before the D-day. During the tea break, I heard ‘Are you not going to dye it before you go to Bangalore?’ for the nth time. The others nodded in agreement. ‘No’. I said as a matter of fact. No explanations were given or asked for. ‘…salt and peppery hair…!’ One of them said as we went back to develop that CSP. I’m not sure if that CSP made much difference anyway in the lives of people. We are often very good at producing lofty sounding documents and think we are doing a great job of bringing ‘development’ to poor communities. And most of the time we spend writing these documents.
Post marriage, when we returned to Delhi, the white secret was out. She felt distinctly uncomfortable about it. I suppose there is this tendency among girls to compare their husbands with their fathers especially where they have enjoyed good relationships with each other. Her advocate father, I was made to believe, had few white strands at sixty. ‘No dyeing-wyeing for him!’ I felt myself shrink and felt like hiding somewhere when I heard things like ‘You look fifty!’ as a matter of fact. ‘You look like my uncle’. Even he looks younger.
Theirs must have been a family of jet black hair owners! Or so I thought, amused and angry. For some years after marriage, she tried hard to get me to dye, but I didn’t budge. Ego problem, some people said. Can’t you just please her? I let it be. Colleagues, friends and anxious sounding relatives kept reminding me now and then. By then, I had developed another stock reply: ‘Accept me as I am. Haven’t I accepted you as you are? The essence of any marital relationship, as I would realize later, is this acceptance. It reduces stress and unnecessary expectations. This argument, however, cannot be stretched too much – there will be cases where one is required to change if the relationship is falling apart or if there are serious problems of relating itself. But that is a discussion I do not want to enter into right now.
In 2001, we had a baby boy. My wife resolved to win him over to her side in her battle against the pure whites. ‘A good four to five years, before he starts pestering me’, I pointed out one day. ‘So what?’ She retorted. ‘At least then you will have no choice. You can’t afford to see him embarrassed in front of his friends by your white hair. He will not even call you his father.’
Till date, my son who’s just crossed eight has not bothered me with the question, except when he’s been pushed to do so. He loves his father as he is, white matter and all. Meanwhile, the proportion of whites has gone up significantly. It shows up in photographs. My wife still talks about it, though I guess she’s realized it’s a losing battle. We now have a darling daughter, all of two years. Perhaps she’s pinning her hopes on the little girl to win me over? After all, daddy’s girls wield tremendous power!
I must admire the barber’s patience, though. All barbers want better business. The dyeing bit brings in more moolah than the cutting bit. So they’ll keep asking the question. They now have a range of techniques and products designed to make you look eternally young. But I suspect it’s a losing battle. The whites, along with the wrinkles, are bound to appear sooner or later. As I write this, the whites have colonized newer areas. Pretty much like a tumor, they have spread to the moustache and the beard. Recently, I noticed a couple of stubborn sprouts on my right eye brow!
My relatives, who I do not meet often, appear surprised every time we get together. I’m sure they talk. Who cares anyway? Many of my cousins are into dyeing – I can easily make it out. Some six months back, at a social gathering, my cousin’s wife called me aside. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, she turned her attention to you know what. As we talked, there was not much eye contact – she was sizing up the white thingies. ‘Dye, dye, dye!’ seemed to be the message. I just had to look better.
There is this modern obsession to lose weight, look young, sexy and fair. ‘Eye candy’ is the term used to describe someone who’s just managed to look right after sweating it for hours in the gym. The industry behind this body manipulation is worth billions of dollars. It sends messages into our subconscious, and once these messages get there, they make damage, since we have been unable to filter them.
The white matter problem is only a small part of this industry, which promises much – smoothening skin wrinkles, whitening teeth, blackening and coloring hair, tucking the tummy in especially if you do not want to exercise, sculpting noses, buttocks and pulling up sagging breasts apart from growing hair on balding pates and god knows what. Approaches vary. In some cases, you are required to apply a cream which will have magical effects on your skin. In other cases, a dye will do the trick. The more complicated cases and desires get under the surgeon’s scalpel. The human body is seen as a commodity. The ads in the newspaper scream: Pay to lose 5 Kgs and lose the next 5 Kgs for free!’ The local barber I visit has a bewildering range of products that include massages and steam baths and so many things I cannot even remember. He is no longer the guy who mainly works with the razor, scissor and comb.
Nowadays my son attends a cricket camp nearby. A classmate of his also comes to this camp to hone his cricketing skills. The other day, we were playing a small game after their practice session. I was wicket keeping while my son’s classmate batted. In between he kept looking at me before taking his guard to face the next ball from my son.
‘You didn’t dye your hair?’ He asked. I reasoned, and if my wife could have heard me thinking, she’d have been delighted -- ‘Which boy would like to have an old looking father?’ But on second, stubborn thoughts, I asked: ‘What if this old looking father has a young heart, loads of questions about life, an insatiable curiosity and desire to live? What if this old looking father wants to stretch the limits and suck very drop from life? Wouldn’t that matter more? What if…?’ The temptation to yield to the dye was banished forever then. We worship the body so much that we forget the heart. The heart doesn’t grow old. And then, we want to live in zones of comfort. Does this not make us old already, even if we may look young?
The surest indicator to find out if you are young or old is to ask if you are child-like. There is a difference between this and being childish. Being child-like allows me to be young, white matter and all. It allows me to be alive to new possibilities every moment. The mind is not grooved in any one particular pattern of thinking and action. There are no self-limiting thoughts, and there is little fear of the unknown. Embracing uncertainty comes naturally in a child-like state. This is the state I aspire to be in, even as the whites conquer and colonize my body. My goal is to find that place inside my self where I am still a carefree child. This can be brought forth. I can therefore bring back my childhood – it is ready to be evoked and integrated into my being. The brilliant writer and therapist A. H Almaas says that this exercise of recapturing childhood is not merely a return to childhood but something more significant:
“When we look at a child,” writes Almaas, “we see that the sense of fullness, of intrinsic aliveness, of joy in being, is not the result of something else. There is value in just being oneself; it is not because of something one does or doesn’t do. It is there in the beginning, when we were children, but it slowly gets lost.”
As adults, it doesn’t quite matter whether one has white or dark matter on one’s head -- we usually lose track of that joy inside us, despite the numerous sources of pleasure and distractions that exist today. Even a very good looking adult with a toned body can still have very low levels of worthiness and satisfaction. The desire to be young again is a symbol of the deeper desire to remain new. Children take to this like a fish takes to water. By putting ourselves back in a childlike mindset, we open the way of learning. As Almaas puts it: “We are the pleasure, we are the joy, we are the most profound significance and the highest value.”
24th August 2009
Bengalooru
