Wednesday, 21 March 2018

いちきゅうはちよん (Ichi Kyuu Hachi Yon)


6 PM one evening.
Right after a maths tutorial,
I felt the need to get a haircut.
It’d been two weeks since my last after all.

I used to visit a barber shop.
It was never a ‘saloon’
That’s how we spell ‘salon’, right?
Sounds swanky anyway.
Anyway.

Welcome sprays
of fresh, cool water
against warm skin
still murky with quadratic equations,
polynomials and geometry.

The smell of alum,
shaving cream and combs.
Or hair stuck on clippers.
Or faces of women
on cartons of hair colour.

Blades snug inside razors.
A pale white polish
on the walls and cabinets.
We sat on those,
right besides the mirrors.

The chatter of another body
was rising with each second.
But the chatter was personal,
indeed.

The account of a young boy,
now a man in his 30s,
maybe more, maybe less.
In purple, biceps marked clearly.

“O, he used to be a goon even in his youth.”
This was no surprise.
“Used to tease women, and fight.”
Yeah, no surprise.

“His family’s always been with this political party.
Great, now he’s a candidate too!”

It was my turn,
and I asked for the usual.
A well practiced crew cut.
Well practiced because I hated it.

“One day, sitting in my balcony,
from a distance I saw him
place a car tyre around the neck
of a young sardar, a neighbor,
and then he set it on fire.”

“I didn’t step out of my house for weeks.
Used to wet my pants every time
I thought about it or recalled it by mistake.”

Indira Gandhi had died that year…

In that moment,
with my insides fresh
from the recent
and violent scramble,
I decided to look over to him.

His eyes, probably still gleaming
from fear, or pain.
Or maybe just a yawn.

I returned home.
Hated the practiced crew cut.
But I was a fan of John Cena once.

I started growing my hair in 2014.
Visited the barber shop even less,
and decided to try a real salon instead.

Over varied lengths
of my curls (brilliant!),
I passed by the doors
of the barber shop.
Awkward glances weren’t rare.

Since a December afternoon
last year (and even now),
the barber shop is rubble.
A heap of thought bubbles,
wit and experienced advice.Rubble.

4 comments:

  1. This is so relatable on so many levels. Takes me back when I was around 6-7 years old and my dad use to take me to such barber shops. And then ofcourse that teenage crew cut tragedy. This makes me wanna visit that shop again, maybe not for a haircut but to relive those moments.

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    Replies
    1. Hahaha, yeah that thought comes to me every time I pass by such barber shops.

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  2. Wonderfully evokes up that familiar atmosphere, that familiar feeling of being vaguely dissatisfied with one's hair and look...
    In the end, is the speaker duplicating the response of that purple-clad man who turned away from the scene of violence?

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  3. Aw, thank you (:

    And the speaker and the man in purple, to me, act quite opposite to this scene of violence (be it vocal or visual). The speaker moves out of that space and is almost content at the fact he never witnessed the said event. The man in purple though, I guess he's closer to it, and there's more powerlessness attached to his experience than the speaker's.

    But at the same time, your comment does make me wonder about how people try to cope with violent incidents that they've witnessed or have heard from others.

    ReplyDelete