In Lake Market, a man’s reputation could be weighed in mustard seeds, measured in fish scales, or, in exceptional circumstances, judged by the length of hair growing from the back of his head. The bazaar woke each morning to a symphony that no orchestra could reproduce. Fishmongers bellowed the virtues of their rohu, vegetable sellers defended their cauliflowers with the ferocity of barristers, and handcart pullers cursed the world whenever a wheel became wedged between two uneven paving stones. The air was a plethoric mixture of smells, from the saline odour of fish and the earthy fragrance of coriander to the sharp pungency of green chillies, the sweetness of ripe bananas and the melliferous perfume of jasmine garlands. Amid the clatter of shutters and the hiss of kettles, the market’s South Indian community went about its business, selling rice, tamarind, spices, flowers and steaming idlis to a clientele that included Bengali housewives, Tamil clerks, Telugu traders and anyone else who had discovered that hunger respected neither language nor ancestry.

Among the market’s most familiar establishments was the spice shop of Nagamani Raju, a fifty-year-old Telugu merchant whose life had begun in obscurity and flourished through assiduous labour. He had arrived in Kolkata from Andhra Pradesh as an orphan of twelve, possessing neither money nor connections, and had survived by carrying parcels, sweeping shops and performing whatever odd jobs came his way. Through an extraordinary combination of resilience, commercial intelligence and an almost supernatural ability to recognise a dishonest customer, he had eventually built a thriving business. His shelves held turmeric, cumin, pepper, cinnamon and cardamom, while sacks of dried chillies stood like miniature volcanoes along the walls. Nobody knew where Nagamani had been born, who his parents were, or whether his surname Raju indicated noble ancestry or merely an identity acquired somewhere along his journey. Everyone knew of the mystery, and Nagamani, who understood the commercial value of an unanswered question, had never attempted to resolve it.

His neighbour in the market’s intricate social universe was Mahalingam Mani, a Tamil Brahmin whose grandfather had migrated to Kolkata from Tamil Nadu. Mahalingam had inherited his father’s profession as a Hindu priest, along with a formidable collection of brass vessels and an inordinate opinion of his own importance. He performed pujas for shopkeepers, conducted housewarmings and blessed new businesses, charging according to the occasion and, some suspected, the prosperity of the person paying him. His greatest pride was his kudumi, the tuft of hair retained at the back of a shaved head, known in Bengal as a tiki. To Mahalingam, this tuft represented generations of religious observance, the sanctity of tradition and the inviolable distinction between those born to a particular calling and those who merely earned their living.

Nagamani, unfortunately for the priest’s equanimity, possessed an irreverent sense of humour. Whenever Mahalingam delivered an elaborate lecture on inherited superiority, the spice merchant would ask a question so innocently absurd that the listeners would struggle to suppress their laughter. Once, when the priest boasted of his ancestors, Nagamani enquired whether they had travelled to Kolkata by train or bullock cart. On another occasion, after a lengthy discourse on ritual purity, he asked whether a man became holier by touching a sack of turmeric or merely more yellow. Mahalingam considered these remarks egregious insults to his dignity, while Nagamani regarded them as free entertainment that occasionally increased his sales.

The crisis began when Nagamani decided to shave his head. He had possessed long, thick, naturally curly hair, which he usually tied behind his neck while working. When he emerged from the barber’s establishment one humid morning, his scalp gleamed in the sunlight, but the magnificent tuft at the back of his head seemed to have acquired a personality of its own. It was dense, lustrous and extravagantly curled, resembling the plume of a royal bird that had settled upon a particularly prosperous merchant.

The first customers to see him burst into laughter. A flower seller declared that his tiki was more beautiful than Mahalingam’s. A vegetable vendor suggested that it ought to be entered in a competition. By the time the priest heard the news, half the market had inspected Nagamani’s head, and the other half was hurrying to do so.

Mahalingam stormed into the spice shop, his own tuft glistening with coconut oil. “What have you done to yourself? You have no right to wear a sacred tiki!” Nagamani looked up from weighing cumin. “Good morning, Mahalingam avargale. Would you like some cardamom?” 

“Do not obfuscate the issue. Your ancestry is unknown. You cannot imitate the outward appearance of a Brahmin!”

“I have no intention of becoming one,” Nagamani replied. “Running a spice shop is already enough work.”

Customers began to snigger. Mahalingam’s face turned crimson. He declared that the honour of the priestly community had been insulted and vowed to persuade every merchant in Lake Market to boycott Nagamani’s business. 

“Please do,” said Nagamani pleasantly. “But remind them to purchase their chillies first. I have just received a particularly good consignment.”

By evening, the dispute had become the market’s principal entertainment. The tea stalls hosted impromptu debates, the flower sellers offered competing theories of sacred hair, and even the fishmongers had abandoned their arguments over prices to discuss the matter. Mahalingam visited shop after shop, explaining that the question concerned not merely hair but the preservation of social order. Nagamani, meanwhile, continued selling spices, extending credit to struggling traders and greeting his customers with such equanimity that his rival’s indignation appeared increasingly ridiculous.

Eventually, the merchants decided that the quarrel required formal adjudication. A public hearing was arranged in the courtyard behind a wholesale provisions shop. Gopal Das, an elderly fish merchant renowned for distinguishing genuine fish from fraudulent fish, was appointed chief judge. A flower seller, a retired schoolteacher and a grocer whose impartiality was demonstrated by his habit of cheating everyone equally completed the panel. A Bengali lawyer volunteered to explain the proceedings, although nobody was entirely certain whether he had come to administer justice or enjoy the spectacle.

On the appointed Sunday, the courtyard filled with shopkeepers, customers and curious children. Marigolds decorated the judges’ table, tea steamed in clay cups, and the fragrance of fried snacks mingled with damp jute and fish. Mahalingam arrived in an immaculate dhoti, carrying sacred texts beneath his arm. His tuft had been carefully combed into a shape that suggested it was about to deliver a sermon. Nagamani arrived with a tin of sweets.

“Are those for the judges?” the lawyer asked. “For everyone,” Nagamani replied. “Justice becomes difficult when the stomach is empty.”

The hearing began with Mahalingam’s testimony. He spoke eloquently of his family’s ancestry, the duties of a priest and the religious significance of the tuft. He explained that his kudumi was not an ornament but a symbol of inherited obligation. A similar arrangement of hair on the head of an ordinary tradesman, he insisted, could never possess the same significance. The distinction was hierarchical, ancient and beyond question.

When he finished, he sat down with the satisfaction of a man who had just deposited the entire weight of tradition upon the judges’ table.

Nagamani rose without documents or sacred texts. “I arrived in Kolkata as a boy and have spent my life earning my living. I do not know whether my ancestors were kings, farmers, priests or fishmongers. If they were kings, they have been remarkably quiet about it. If they were priests, they have never sent me a bill for their services.”

Laughter rippled through the courtyard.

“I have never claimed to be a Brahmin,” he continued. “I sell spices. I do not ask a customer to prove his ancestry before selling him turmeric. I distinguish between good cumin and bad cumin, not between high-born and low-born customers. As for my tuft, I grew it because I liked it. If Mahalingam avargale finds it offensive, perhaps he should explain the precise measurement at which hair becomes sacred. Three inches? Four? Must we import a measuring instrument from Tamil Nadu?”

The laughter became uncontrollable. Even the retired schoolteacher removed his spectacles to wipe his eyes. Mahalingam sprang to his feet. “This is an insult to religion! I demand that he identify the scriptural authority permitting him to assume this appearance!”

Nagamani bowed. “I am only a humble spice merchant. Mahalingam avargale is the erudite scholar. I was hoping he would enlighten us.” The chief judge turned towards the priest. “Can you show us the precise rule establishing that your tuft is superior to his?”

Mahalingam spoke of tradition, ritual observance and the duties associated with birth. He could explain why a priest might retain a tuft as part of his religious practice, but he could not establish why another man, who made no claim to priesthood, was obliged to keep his hair shorter or less impressive. Desperate to recover his authority, he declared, “The issue is that every man must know his proper place in society!”

The flower seller raised her hand. “And who decides that place?”

“Tradition,” Mahalingam replied.

“And who decides whether tradition is being followed correctly?”

“The learned.”

“And if the learned cannot answer a simple question?”

A fishmonger burst into laughter. The chief judge banged his fish clobbering mallet upon the table, ostensibly to restore order, although he was laughing himself. The judges withdrew for deliberation. Their conference lasted twenty minutes, during which the tea seller disposed of forty cups of tea and the children consumed the remainder of Nagamani’s sweets. At last, Gopal Das returned and announced the verdict.

“The court recognises that Mahalingam Mani follows a respectable religious tradition. It also recognises that Nagamani Raju has made no claim to priesthood and has interfered with nobody’s religious duties. Neither man can claim superiority merely because of the hair upon his head. If the length of a tuft determined a man’s worth, the barber would be the most powerful person in the country.” The courtyard erupted.

“The court further observes that ancestry may explain where a family began, but respect must be earned through conduct. We have heard that Nagamani has helped struggling traders and conducted his business honestly. We have heard much about Mahalingam’s inherited superiority, but rather less about what this superiority has done for anyone else.” The verdict was unambiguous. Both men were entitled to their tufts, but neither was entitled to use his tuft as a measure of another man’s worth.

Mahalingam gathered his texts and departed without looking at anyone. He could still perform his rituals, and nobody had deprived him of his profession. Yet something had changed. Several merchants began questioning his fees, and one who had intended to employ him for a wedding ceremony quietly approached another priest from a neighbouring locality. No boycott had been declared. No punishment had been imposed. The damage was subtler: people had begun treating Mahalingam as an ordinary man whose claims required examination.

Nagamani returned to his shop and resumed weighing spices. He did not boast about his victory. When a young boy asked whether the magnificent tuft made him more important than other people, Nagamani bent down and explained that hair grew according to its own inclinations, provided it received enough oil and was left in peace. The boy thought about this. “If I pray to my hair, will it grow faster?” Nagamani laughed so loudly that a customer dropped a packet of peppercorns.

For weeks, the story travelled beyond Lake Market, acquiring embellishments at every tea stall. Some claimed that the judges had measured the two tufts with a tailor’s tape. Others insisted that Mahalingam had demanded a government licence for sacred hair. Nagamani neither confirmed nor denied these accounts. He knew that a good rumour was like a good spice: a little truth could give it extraordinary potency.

Mahalingam continued his priestly duties, although he became less inclined to lecture shopkeepers about their ancestry. He never admitted that the trial had changed him, but he no longer looked at Nagamani’s tuft with quite the same fury. Perhaps he had begun to understand that the merchant’s hair had never threatened his priesthood. What had threatened him was the possibility that a man without a known pedigree could earn respect without asking permission.

Lake Market returned to its everyday business. Fishmongers resumed their arguments, flower sellers strung their garlands, and the spice merchants continued weighing the fragrant contents of their sacks. The trial became another story in the market’s inexhaustible treasury, recalled whenever somebody boasted too loudly about his family or position.

Nagamani’s tuft remained magnificent, admired by customers and envied by the occasional barber. But its greatest achievement was not that it had defeated Mahalingam’s tuft in a contest of beauty. It had revealed the absurdity of the contest itself. One man had believed that his ancestry entitled him to stand above others; the other understood that a person could rise without requiring anyone else to kneel.

And so, while Mahalingam continued polishing the mirror in which he sought his own importance, Nagamani returned to his spices, content with a truth as pungent as freshly ground black pepper: a man’s birth might explain his beginnings, but only his deeds could establish his worth.

Author’s Note

Some stories are born from the world we observe, while others emerge from the stories we read and carry within us for years. Trial of the Two Tufts belongs, in part, to the latter category. It draws its inspiration from “A Pair of Moustache” by Mulk Raj Anand, one of the short story writers who influenced me greatly during my school days. His remarkable ability to uncover the absurdities of social hierarchies, human vanity and inherited notions of superiority left a lasting impression on my imagination.

This story is my own playful tribute to that literary influence, reimagined in the bustling lanes of Kolkata’s Lake Market, where spices perfume the air, gossip travels faster than the morning newspaper, and even the smallest provocation can become a matter of public importance. Through Nagamani Raju and Mahalingam Mani, I have attempted to explore the ridiculous lengths to which pride can carry us, especially when we mistake ancestry or outward appearances for measures of human worth.

Beneath the humour lies a simple thought: our beginnings may be inherited, but our worth is shaped by how we live, how we treat others, and what we contribute to the world around us. If this tale brings a smile to your face while prompting you to question the little vanities we so fiercely defend, it will have served its purpose.

And perhaps, after reading it, you may never look at a man’s tuft in quite the same way again!

Copyright © 2026 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Trishikh Dasgupta

Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE

This story is Free, and if you have found something here that stayed with you, some of my other books (collection of short stories, novels, and more) are available in print and digital editions. They gather many unique journeys, quieter questions, grand adventures, hair-raising anticipation, and stories that continue beyond this page.