Hair Krishna!
A balding head I have, yes, but it is not fully bald yet. And the little bit of hair that is left doesn’t grow uniformly either. It was time to even them all out.
I decided to go to a barbershop that I had not been to before. It is not like I have ever had my hair styled by the same person. Never in my life. Not even during the youthful years when I had dark and curly hair.
Even a bad haircut becomes okay after a couple of days, primarily because I get used to it. It is like the old joke about a man going through a bad phase consulting with an astrologer, who tells him that he was looking at problem-filled couple of years.
“What happens after that?” asks the man, to which the astrologer replies, “you will get used to them.”
So, I went to a new barbershop.
“You are Sriram, and I am Ram” he said.
He was not kidding as I soon came to understand. He was born Ramalakshmana in an ISKCON community. In Japan. Hare Krishna!
This is the second time that in Eugene I have run into a barber who once belonged to the Hare Krishna faith. What are the odds, eh!
His two sisters too are ISKCON babies: Pooja and Lila.
A man from Minnesota goes to Japan after his navy service, resonated with Prabhupada’s words and thoughts, and Ramalakshmana happens.
Would I have ever guessed that there is an ISKCON center in Japan? I think not.
I paid for the haircut and added a significant tip.
“Jai Sriram” he said with folded hands.
During my travels in Ecuador, I decided to go to “Govindas,” which was run by the Hare Krishna folks in Quito. It is a good thing that the Hare Krishna folks are all over the world; it is a haven for a person like me who prefers vegetarian food. As tasty as rice and beans and potatoes were in Ecuador, I wanted a change.
The small place quickly filled up with foreign tourists sporting backpacks large and small, along with a couple of locals as well.
It was surreal to look at the native Spanish-speaking women wearing saris and the men wearing dhotis. In Ecuador! Of course, if I who grew up in a culture of saris and dhotis can walk around in trousers and shirts, they too can wear saris and dhotis.
The spectacle of saris and dhotis rushing around chanting “Krishna Krishna Hare Hare” was tempting enough to think that I was back in India somewhere. Some of the naturally tanned women looked like they could easily be from India. The men somehow stood out as people wearing outfits that were not really theirs. It is like the instances when I was required to wear a tuxedo. I felt alien to myself!
I was the only Indian there. Well, an Indian-American, to be precise. But they would not have guessed the American in me.
One of the sari-clad women appeared to be delighted at the sight of me, because of my Indian roots. It surely is not often that they run into Indians from the land of Krishna. She knew enough English, immensely more than the couple of words I know in Spanish, to ask me whether I wanted to pray at the temple.
I felt bad to tell that I didn’t want to pray and that I was there only to eat. But, that’s what I did. I felt worse when I saw the disappointed look on her face.
She showed me the way to the dining area. The food was heavenly. Hare Krishna!