This is The Big Boss Hair Salon where my cousins get a head massage. (This photo has been taken after renovation, and the young man with his hand in an unmentionable place is, thankfully, not a relative.)
During one of my yearly visits to Dahanu, as I sat in one of the chairs at Big Boss and sipped chai, I heard about how a Warli farm labourer had committed suicide by hanging himself from a chickoo tree. That, coupled with an image of my great grandfather digging holes in the ground to hide whiskey bottles in the 1940s, were the two starting points for the novel.
But back to the salon -- I'd recommend the head massage. A young man will pour a mugful of oil down your head, his fingers will turn into claws, and they will work on your scalp with the speed of a whirring fan, ensuring that you sink into your chair with a feeling of lazy magnificence.
More on the novel later. Let me enjoy my massage.
But back to the salon -- I'd recommend the head massage. A young man will pour a mugful of oil down your head, his fingers will turn into claws, and they will work on your scalp with the speed of a whirring fan, ensuring that you sink into your chair with a feeling of lazy magnificence.
More on the novel later. Let me enjoy my massage.
