The north-Indian summer is not for the faint-hearted, when not humid, the stark naked Delhi sun ensures you loathe it. But today isn't peak summer. My phone informs me there is forecast for rain, or maybe just empty thunder. I sense moisture-laden clouds, relentless to pressure somehow. I take a shower, in vain though, as sweat beads have begun to appear even before I step out of the bathroom. Strutting around in a towel I sift through my cotton clothes and pick out a yellow maxi dress. Peering into the mirror, I notice the different ways in which the hair on my big head is growing; I need a haircut.

I walk up to the salon in the colony and ask her for a trim along with some layers (because, what else). With the snipping of the scissors, the "parlour aunty" begins her modus operandi: shaming me into guilt-tripping on expensive treatments and services I do not normally care about. Trying to ignore her quip on the tanning of my skin, I ask her to get rid of the tiny hair that have started jutting above my lip, as a truce.

The haircut was smooth, after blow-drying my hair, or rather attempting to pull them off my scalp, she gears up with some talcum powder and a menacing-looking thread reel. She attacks the skin above my lip with measured strokes and the sting brings tears to my eyes. "You have been doing this for over a decade, Ensha", I tell myself, "fight those tears." When she is satisfied with the cleanliness, she applies aloe vera to reduce the redness, lest I look like an angered simian. Emptier by a few hundred rupees, I am forced to admire my reflection and the tresses.

Now back home, I stuff my back pack with overnight clothes and toiletries. Travelling for at least two hours in the metro to reach my aunt's house for a festival is the next course of action. The festivities will bring the extended family together a day after the actual day of the festival. It was also an opportune time for a lone woman in the city to visit her family on the weekend, letting them know she is alive, safe and not getting up to mischief, of course delivered in acceptable vocabulary. 

I take the women's coach from the underground station I live close to. The air in the coach is stale, unmoving. Standing at just over 5 feet makes it worse; access to armpits and unshampooed hair overwhelms the tiny gleam of freshness the air vent was so violently trying to provide. With earbuds and light lyrical music to my rescue, I maintain my emotional equilibrium through the rest of the journey. I feel sick by the time my station arrives, but breathing.

Family matters

Everyone looks sparkly, some even wearing synthetic net-based clothing, but not a sweat bead in sight. "Are they real," I think. Chirpy as ever they ask me what I am up to, where I have been, why I don't visit them every weekend and other such obligatory invasive community-approved "greetings". My replies are largely monotonous, uninteresting and monosyllabic in nature.

It is only after the women have exited the premises following some belching on account of masala-flavoured oil (read curry) and milky desserts, do I have a meaningful conversation. I am asked about my thoughts on World cinema and its audience in India. For the first time this evening, my brain cells feel utilised. Travelling for 30 kilometres may have been worth it. This person is supposed to be a distant uncle, young enough to be a friend but old enough to seek advice from, amidst a tradition-infested cohort.

After the celebration come drawn-out discussions over sleeping arrangements, which had me sharing a room with three other similarly aged girls. We chatted about life, hinted at sharing a cigarette on the balcony as everyone was already snoring in synchronised cacophony. After an hour of giggling we slowly fell asleep. 

The morning after

The next day, sun rays are reflecting off my face, and as I stir in bed. Peacock sounds and some children playing on the street have a soothing effect. I turn around to see my aunt tugging at her face with a tweezer. She turns her face in different angles, as she looks into the mirror, and pulls at some hair she can get her hands and eyes on. She looks frustrated, though. I walk up to her and ask her if she needs help. She sighs and hands the tweezers. "Try to take out the unusually long and dark hair near my neck and jaw," she requests. I am scared at first; every time I pull a hair, I wince. She remains unperturbed, egging me on. 

Soon after a ghee-roasted breakfast, I come back home to a week's laundry. Looking at it gives me a headache. I lie down and call him. "Come help me with laundry," I mutter, without so much as a "hello". "What's in it for me," he asks. "The joy of seeing me, eating with me and perhaps a cuddle" "Good enough". "Get me some flowers" "We will see about that". I cut the call and hug the pillow for a siesta. 

After an hour, I hear the bell and I am greeted by a papaya, accompanied by a tall, lean body wearing a blue shirt and khakis. I move the papaya and give the person holding it a tight hug. We stay like that for about half a minute and I show him the laundry heap. While he picks the clothes up and carries them to the bathroom, I set down to boil some eggs for a curry. In an hour we will have some hot lunch and cold wet clothes ready. 

As we sit down for a meal, after we have set out the clothes to dry, I ask him to sing me song. He prefers to move closer to me and feed me some rice instead. Our Sunday is only disturbed by some rock bhajan playing next door. The Gods help us out by thunder and heavy multi-directional rain, drowning the sound from next door. We sit around in the balcony, me force fitting myself with him on the chair. He is stroking my face and suddenly pulls at hair on my chin. Laughing he says "do you see this it looks like a rhino horn". Apparently, I have a long hair jutting out from my chin. I laugh and continue to stare at it, before I throw it away and kiss him. 

*****

Two weeks ago, we had an argument, him and I. Maybe it was about me just focusing on work, or because I took a cab alone late at night, or I hadn't told him about my delayed period. He has not called and neither have I. At work and thinking about this has given me a headache.

I go to the bathroom and wash my face; I notice that the rhino hair has grown back. I try my best to tug at it with my fingers. For what seems like fifteen minutes I have laboured and I can still see it jutting out from under my chin. Not only is there that hair, I can see two or three other hairs reaching the length of this one. Frustrated, I continue trying to pinch at my skin. And the image of my aunt with tweezers forms in my head. Will I have to make this a monthly ritual, I think-"tweezer-tugging-Thursday, maybe"? Should I make it a hashtag, like the sinfluencers? TweezertuggingThursday- is there an Instagram handle in there? 

"Ensha, focus". I waste another 10 minutes hogging the washroom's full-length mirror. "I cannot do this". I go back to my desk and ask a dear friend to help me out. She comes over to my desk and discreetly tries her hand at my chin. This cannot be done without tweezers we realise. I find a tweezer and hand it to her, but the hairs refuse to get caught between them. 

I ask her to let it go. There is no other solution, I pick up the phone and call him. "I have hair on my chin" "I know" "Can we get drinks? I need you to pull the hair out". He laughs "Of course".