Tikaram of IMA and the trimmer

IN the early days of the Covid-induced lockdown when a visit to the salon for a regular haircut was ruled out indefinitely, I became atmanirbhar and had one at home. I shared a selfie of my efforts with friends. AK, my platoon-mate from our Gentlemen Cadet (GC) days in the Indian Military Academy (IMA), was the first to react, “Oh, no! Not again!” He was alluding to an incident which happened at IMA.

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Our Company barber in IMA, the tall, wiry, beedi-smoking and temperamental Tikaram, was a sought-after person by all non-Sikh GCs. We would wait for him to arrive at our platoon quadrangle on Sundays, on his rickety bicycle. He would then place a chair in the quadrangle and one by one we would subject ourselves to his skills.

On my first day in IMA, when I reached the platoon allotted to me, even before I was given a cabin where I could keep my luggage, a senior said, “Go and have a haircut first. Tikaramji over there will do it for you.”

Tikaram was standing there, chair unoccupied, waiting for some other GCs. I requested him for a haircut. He gruffly asked me to be seated and took out a beedi from his pocket and lit it up. I protested, “Please do not smoke while you are cutting my hair.” He took a deep puff and coughed. Then respectfully, he said, “In that case, please go and stand there. I will call you when I am ready.” By this time, someone else had come to avail of his services. And then another. And another. He kept calling the waiting GCs and kept lighting up beedi after beedi. After a while, I drew his attention to remind him that I was waiting. He grinned a toothless grin and drawing deep puffs of his beedi, said, “I am not done smoking.” Anyway, this was not the incident which AK had in mind. It was to come much later, when we were in our final term in IMA.

As per our training programme, a drill was scheduled in the first hour one Monday. We were expected to have a haircut on Sunday for the turnout inspection during drill. Sunday morning was spent waiting for Tikaram. No sign of him. Late in the evening, we gave up on him.

We were aware of the severe repercussions of going for the drill without a haircut. The drill instructors would not be sympathetic to any excuse. Someone uttered the word “trimmer”. None but two of us was impressed. An experienced course-mate vehemently turned down this proposal, “Haircut with a trimmer does more harm than good.” Nevertheless, JR and I decided to go for it.

The trimmer was a crude contraption consisting of a razor blade held between two pieces of plastic which prompted someone to remark, “Bandar ke haath mein ustara (Never trust an inexperienced person with a dangerous thing).” JR and I became each other’s barbers that evening. Probably my efforts on JR were quite good because only I was laughed at by our friends. But I was imbued with the ‘josh’ of going for the drill without missing a haircut. The drill instructor commenced the turnout inspection.

Surprisingly, there were no comments expressed when he saw the first few GCs. Next was my turn. One look at me and he asked me to fall out from the squad. Proudly, I stepped out. “Tikaramji was unwell yesterday,” he said loudly, addressing the entire squad, “None of you bothered to have a hair cut. Except him.” I was grinning to myself. “Something would have been better than nothing,” he continued, addressing everyone. Then, looking at me, he suddenly shouted, “But nothing is much better than this nonsense. The sky will not fall if you do not have a haircut when your barber is ill. Now lift your rifle over your head and come back after you have run three rounds of the Drill Square.”

That’s the feeling you possibly get when you have batted well for 50 overs and then bowled well for 49; but when the match is in your bag, the last man hits a massive six off the last delivery to knock you out.