POOR BARBER

I was born in the house of a poor barber who lived in a village. His life was one unending round of duties that began, with the morning and ended with the night. He went from house to house doing a bit of shaving and a lot of errand-running. I remember the day when my father was beaten by the son of the landlord because he had changed him into a clown by a few deft strokes of his scissors. This left a rankling pain in my heart, and I made up my mind to do something more respectable when I came of age. But in Pakistan professions are hereditary. The son of a barber must be a barber, as the son of a potter is always a potter.

One day I ran away from the village school and came to this town to settle down as a barber. My services were engaged by a barber who gave me odd jobs. After a year I picked up the art and left him to have my own shop. But poor as I was, I could not get a shop. At last, I joined the community of the wayside barbers who are very much different from your well-paid hairdressers.

I get up early in the morning at six. I take out my paraphernalia which consists of a razor, a pair of scissors, a clipper, a tweezer, a comb and a nail cutter. I sharpen the razor and feel its edge on my finger. My customers complain that the edge of my razor is always dull and makes scratches on their cheeks. But that is their own fault. A labourer is not supposed to have fine sensitive skin. My customers are drawn from the rank and file. They are unskilled labourers, shop boys, rugged peasants, masons and beggars. I have also a police constable on the list of my patrons. He is always the first in the morning because the razor has a fin edge at that time. He is very fond of his moustaches and spends more care on them than on his kit. It takes me fifteen minutes daily to give them the right twirl. I have never asked him for money because I am afraid of the official grunt on his face. Once or twice, I made a veiled reference to soaring prices and my poverty, but he put me off by his disarming smile. I wish police constables were prompt in matters of payment!

My work is not so easy as it appeared to me in the beginning, I have to work all day to eke out a mere subsistence. I get just an anna (penni) for a shave and two to three annas for a haircut it is very difficult to please the mill-labourers who always insist upon having a peculiar cut like their favourite actor. Hot their styles change so rapidly that it is difficult to keep pace with them. I am a clever man and always manage to please my customers. The other day, I have a clownish look for a fashionable guy. He was a little annoyed, but I told him that he looked like Dalip Kumar. He was mighty pleased with my compliments and went away perfectly satisfied.

    My work is really tiring, perhaps more tiring than the work of an ordinary labourer. In the evening when I get up from my hard mat, I feel like a jaded horse. But a hot cup of tea picks me up. Now and then I go to see a picture to wash away the tedium of day-to-day routine. At night I lie down in my stall and think of the days when I rambled in the village streets. My father, my mother, my boyhood companions rush back to my mind one by one. But let me not think of them, I am feeling so sleepy.