At The Barber's

By Shashwat Shukla

There is a Southern superstar on the tele screaming into his son(read filmy son)'s face about the motherland. A fan is switched on at full speed at the fag end of December..... that's how severe the winter is in this part of the country. Three leather chairs with holsters containing an extension for shaving - make that two actually. One's broken but that's never been a problem. The community adjusts accordingly - those who shave, sit at the mint condition ones and the third lies for the stingy customer who'll just pay for the haircut and leave. I'm that customer usually.

My preference for this particular barber isn't based on quantity or quality. He isn't the cheapest around. I could have it done under a Banyan tree. After all, it's always been the same hairstyle with me - "just do whatever you can to hide the ozone hole on my scalp". He isn't the best barber around either. There are 'salon's around...could never nail the pronunciation with that word. One fancy salon is called - and I kid you not - 'Headonism' - they charge an amount that requires instalments to pay. Nah, my barber is my barber because he's been there, done that, all my life. He has been my barber for 15 years now. He maintains basic hygiene with blades and sharpens his scissors so he'd never put a single snip out of place. That's enough for me.

Today, though, the vibe's a bit eerie. There's a Southern movie dubbed in Hindi that's on in place of a crucial cricket match that would've occupied the TV screen all day and made my haircut an dangerous exercise in multitasking for him. But no one's changing the channel. Not even inquiring about the score. The neighbouring chemist's cat is taking a big shit right in front of his door. Usually this is followed by a bloodbath of expletives between the two shop owners. It isn't. The fan, at full speed, is blowing hair up a barber's face, making him uncomfortable enough that a sneeze cut may appear on a scalp shortly. No one's bothered. There is a sullen silence dripping all over the place broken only by a whirring wax machine (someone's waxing their ear hair), and a razor.

He is sitting alone on a chair far away from the customers, looking down, jaw clenched, not even bothering to shout at the two juniors who are now both on the verge of a sneeze cut. The customers look pensive too, they seem to be in on the reason for this sullen silence. He barely notices me and calls me over to the last chair. I gulp at the semi cold semi humid 'winter air' of Bombay and make my way to the last chair - yep, that 'broken holster' one. The walk feels longer. The chair seems even more broken somehow. I settle into the vibe with a slight curiosity to know it's origin and context. This is going to be a ride...

He ushers me to remove my mask (covid days have made me habituated to this even though my area has as many people wearing masks as the number of people who's favourite Beatle is Ringo). I remove my mask, my spectacles fall off as usual, I pick them up and place them one above the other to avoid the mask from flying in the fan's gale. He isn't even in the mood to offer me a choice. He starts draping me and picking out the scissors.

I speak to break the ice - "Could you use the razor on the sides today? And don't trim the area near the patch - "

"I KNOW".

"And I'll take a shave today" - I never back down from a passive aggressive barb, as a rule. So what if it costs me one and a half times my usual price. Not today. Not ever. He looks at me with a sad, surprised, half smile. He ushers over a junior. "Sir will sit here today. Your done shaving him right? Ask him to switch to the smaller chair" (smaller is a euphimism for the broken one here - we avoid hurting the chair's feelings in this shop)

I change seats. Shift my mask and spectacles. The conversation that was going on before I arrived, resumes. I fasten my metaphorical seatbelt.

"Listen to me man!", Says the gent who exchanged seats with me. "Families aren't an object you play around with. They take hard work and years of parenting to create. So what that your kid isn't in agreement with you? Drop it, mate"

"I'll tell you a story", says the other gent in the corner of the shop. "There were kids in our station the other day. The boy literally fell at my feet saying 'save me sir, my father will kill us'. You remember the police station in Koparkhairne? The one where they took you for stealing a sim card last year?" The barber now has a childlike smile on his face. "Yes sir I remember. You'll never let me forget now". He laughs and drops his head, continues trimming my hair.

"Yep, I transferred there this year. The two kids came in on the third day I joined. Both looked pretty young. The boy was a Muslim and the girl a Hindu from a business family. You remember last year that large gutter near the school overflew during the monsoons?" A confused 'yes' from everyone, including me; I surprised myself there for a moment. "Yeah, that one. Her father was the contractor on that. So anyway, I asked if both were legal adults. They showed their IDs. Then I asked what was the issue about. They said they wanted to marry. Both were barely in their 20s. The boy said his father was threatening to kill him. The girl said her parents were cool with anything. I simply asked the boy 'how many people in your family and who earns?' He said he was the sole breadwinner among 5. I said - just run away for a month or so. Gave them a phone to call me just in case. Sure enough, when they returned, the boy's family was suddenly happy to receive them. I mean, the girl earns as well. What a fit!"

"But sir they come here and steal our daughters and sons" "So? Yall come in from north - this UP, Bihar, and your own Jharkhand! Steal our Marathi sons and daughters! Do we say anything? The other day I was patrolling the lakeside street. Full of immigrants without masks. Did I say anything? No!" I clutch my mask tightly. I want to show him, not all North Indian immigrants are without masks. But he was making a broad minded argument wrapped around this parochial rant. So I let him continue.

"Mate we have to sit at home now, we're oldies about to lose our utility." The other guy interjected with the voice of reason, "What inspector saheb means is that nowadays everyone is marrying everyone. And a home is made a home by people living harmoniously. Your kid still repects you right? So let him make his choice. They are the future mate"

The inspector continues "Listen, you've cut my hair since 1993. We were both in our 20s then. You trust me to only want what's best for you right?". "Yes sir of course. You've been my customer since before I had a family". "Then trust me, let it go. Look, if it doesn't work out, you can hold this against him for his whole life" and the inspector and the guy next to me laugh. The juniors laugh.

It's in moments like these. When logic, emotions and intellect are all connected, that we produce our worst arguments to defend our social reality. So, keeping up the ritual, the barber fires one final cheap shot "But sir, you know 'those people' and their type. I mean, they're so superstitious and dirty and stuff!"

"Oye mate. Don't talk about superstition in our society! The other day I was investigating this case. They had poisoned a poor girl suspecting she was a witch! In our city! In this era! You buy that nimbu mirchi(lemon and chilli totem) every Saturday right? What's the problem in learning some new ones?"

"What saheb is trying to say is, look, we all have our own flaws. I am mad. You are mad. Saheb is mad (looks in saheb's direction; saheb doesn't mind the comment). Your son is mad. That girl is mad. But we have live in families together. Family has to be preserved at all cost, right? If your boy is still willing to live with you, then leave it be".

At long last, the negative silence seemed to slowly leak out of the room, being replaced instead by positive contemplation. My hair suddenly began gaining some meaningful shape. The inspector received hot wax on his ears and squeaked a little. The guy next to me tried to rest his head against the broken holster, only to tip backwards before frantically gripping the junior barber to correct himself.

The vibe changed. Everyone looked chirpy and someone asked if there was a match going on. I was a bit sad though – it was going to cost me one and a half times my regular visit. On the TV, the superstar was imploring his son get his medical degree in India and serve his village. The son was speaking of the absence of opportunities and broad mindedness in his poor village....

By Shashwat Shukla