Illustration/ Uday Mohite

The last time I went to get a haircut and a pedicure at my regular Bandra salon, I was jolted into an awakening. The man who did my pedicure was someone new and middle-aged; he looked very dignified and refined. Not the usual cool young guys with tattoos and cocky grins. I was convinced he was a poet, down on his luck. Earlier, I'd seen him smoke outside, in between toes, so to speak, with a pensive air. If he had done just a good or even basic job of it, I would have been relieved. They're just toes, after all. But his revenge on his destiny for making him polish women's toes was to become the best pedicurist in town. He treated my toe polish like a work of art. After he applied a second coat of red toe polish, he held my foot respectfully in his hands, and considered the results. "Kya lagta hai, Madam?" he asked. "Do you like it?"