<b>Geetanjali Krishna:</b> Of beauty and a contented beast

There is a beauty salon not far from where I live and, every day, I see men and women of all ages thronging its doorstep for all manners of cosmetic treatments. Some come out wearing oversized dark glasses, others emerge wrapped in white turbans. As they rush to get into their cars and out of the sun, I watch the locals watch them, these exotic creatures who could be from another planet. "Every day I see people walk into the salon and wonder why they would want to alter what the good god has given them," says a voice behind me. "Why aren't they happy with what they see in the mirror everyday?" I turn to find an old man, pushing 70. He's wearing a kurta that must have been white once, and has the most festive, bushy moustache I've seen in a while. He introduces himself as Mewalal, a gardener who has worked in the neighbourhood for over a decade. "In my world, beauty and physical perfection have little significance," he says, showing me his crooked right hand with fingers permanently frozen into a rictus of pain.
 

"It must have been more than 50 years ago, but I still remember the day when I was working in the fields. Suddenly, an enraged bull appeared out of nowhere. Before I could do anything, it had gored my forearm with such force that I glimpsed the whites of my bones before fainting," he narrates. When the adolescent Mewalal came to his senses, he was in hospital, and doctors were uncertain if they could save his right arm. "I was in too much pain to care," he recounts. "Eventually, they somehow sewed me up and sent me home after 15 days. When I opened the bandage, I could actually move my arm and fingers, but they were totally bent out of shape."

Though he tried over the next few months, Mewalal was unable to straighten his fingers, even though he regained partial use of his hand. "In today's image-conscious world, this would have been a catastrophe," he grins. "Can you imagine what any of these fancy ladies would do if they were similarly disfigured?" How did the teenage Mewalal cope with the injury and disfigurement, I asked? He smiled: "I had some land to farm, a roof over my head and a strong body. Why would I care about some bent fingers?" Once he discovered he could still wield the plow and axe, he says he forgot that there was anything wrong with his right arm. "The concept of beauty, or desiring physical perfection didn't exist in those days. When my parents found me a wife, it didn't matter to me how thick her nose was; neither did it matter to her that my hand and fingers were crooked," he says. After their sons moved to Delhi, Mewalal and his wife migrated, too. "I stay healthy by staying active," he says, "Having been a farmer all my life, I now work as a part-time gardener in about eight houses here. In fact, I find that my hooked fingers aren't a handicap in my line of work, instead they're perfect for carrying buckets of water and mud!"

We stare in silence at another beautiful lady emerging from the salon and I notice that it offers hair and nail extensions as well. This pursuit of physical perfection seems so much at odds with Mewalal's placid contentment with his disfigured arm. He wonders about the same thing. "I have no problem living with my crooked fingers and scarred forearm. I wonder why young people of today feel such a compulsion to change what nature has given them."