Yesterday, for some reason, I was suddenly reminded of my grandfather's barber. He would come every alternate Sunday to give my grandad a haircut and a shave. There was this ledge in the front yard - just enough to seat 2 people crosslegged and high (for quite a number of years I would have to clamber up that ledge).
He would arrive sharp at 7am and without even announcing his arrival at the house go straight to the ledge. He would first seat himself and put his bag in front of him. He would then spread a small black cloth in front of him and carefully take his instruments out of the bag and put them on the cloth. These generally included a knife, scissors, a small mirror and some other stuff which I dont remember.
Then my grandfather would come and sit opposite the barber. And the process would begin - a haircut and a shave. Most of the time, it was done in total silence - once in a while, my grandad would say a word or two, as if to break the silence. The barber would reply when required of him and then get back to his work. Though the same barber came every other Sunday for many years, I never knew his name. Unlike in a lot of short stories, he never made friends with the wide eyed child in the house who would come running as soon as he entered the yard and sit staring at him till he left.
Yet I was fascinated by this ritual. Indeed, it was my long cherished dream to have a haircut by the barber. I would imagine how it would be to have a haircut the way my grandfather did. It was something I looked upon with awe and even a little fear because, for some reason, I imagined that if I wasnt careful the barber would cut my ear!!It was a cause of great grief to me that my mother never let my hair under the barber's scissors.
Well, the end of the story is that after my grandparents shifted to Duvvada, I never saw the barber again and completely forgot about him. And suddenly, yesterday, I was reminded of him.
