[Picture: The Barber] IN INDIA it is not good form to shave yourself.
You ought to respect the religious prejudices and social institutions of
the people. If everyone shaved himself, how would the Barber’s stomach
be filled? The pious feeling which prompts this question lies deep in
the heart of Hindoo society. We do not understand it. How can we, with
our cold-blooded creed of demand and supply, free trade and competition,
fair field and no favour? In this ancient land, whose social system is
not a deformed growth, but a finished structure, nothing has been left to
chance, least of all a man’s beard; for, cleanliness and godliness not
being neighbours here, a beard well matted with ashes and grease is the
outward and visible sign of sanctity. And so, in the golden age, when
men did everything that is wise and right, there was established a caste
whose office it was to remove that sign from secular chins. How impious
and revolutionary then must it be for a man who is not a barber to tamper
with his own beard, thus taking the bread out of the mouths of barbers
born, and blaspheming the wisdom of the ancient founders of civilization!
It is true that, during the barbers’ strike a few years ago, the
Brahmins, even of orthodox Poona, consecrated a few of their own number
to the use of the razor. But desperate diseases demand desperate
remedies. When the barbers struck, Nature did not strike. Beards grew
as before, and threatened to change the whole face of society. In view
of such an appalling crisis who would say anything was unlawful?
Besides, British rule is surely undermining the very foundations of
society, and I doubt if you could find a Brahmin to-day under fifty years
of age whose heart is not more or less corroded by the spirit of change.
Your young University man is simply honey-combed: he can scarcely conceal
his mind from his own mother or wife.
[Picture: A happy patient] But I must return to the Barber. The natives
call him _hujjam_. He has been bred so true for a score or so of
centuries that shaving must be an instinct with him now. His right hand
is as delicate an organ as a foxhound’s nose. I believe that, when
inebriated, he goes on shaving, just as a toad deprived of its brain will
walk and eat and scratch its nose. If you put a jagged piece of tin into
the hand of a baby _hujjam_, he will scrape his little sister’s face with
it. In India, as you know, every caste has its own “points,” and you can
distinguish a Barber as easily as a _dhobie_ or a Dorking hen. He is a
sleek, fair-complexioned man, dressed in white, with an ample red turban,
somewhat oval in shape, like a sugared almond. He wears large gold
earrings in the upper part of his ears, and has a sort of false stomach,
which, at a distance, gives him an aldermanic figure, but proves, on a
nearer view, to be made of leather, and to have many compartments, filled
with razors, scissors, soap, brush, comb, mirror, tweezers, earpicks, and
other instruments of a more or less surgical character; for he is,
indeed, a surgeon, and especially an aurist and narist. When he takes a
Hindoo head into his charge, he does not confine himself to the chin or
scalp, but renovates it all over. The happy patient enjoys the
operation, sitting proudly in a public place. When a Barber devotes
himself to European heads he rises in the social scale. If he has any
real talent for his profession, he soon rises to the rank and title of
Tom, and may eventually be presented with a small hot-water jug, bearing
an inscription to the effect that it is a token of the respect and esteem
in which he was held by the officers of the —th Regiment at the station
of Daree-nai-hona. This is equivalent to a C. I. E., but is earned by
merit. In truth, Tom is a great institution. He opens the day along
with tea and hot toast and the _Daree-nai-hona Chronicle_, but we throw
aside the _Chronicle_. It is all very well if you want to know which
band will play at the band-stand this evening, and the leading columns
are occasionally excruciatingly good, when a literary corporal of the
Fusiliers discusses the political horizon, or unmasks the _Herald_,
pointing out with the most pungent sarcasm how “our virtuous contemporary
puts his hands in his breeches pockets, like a crocodile, and sheds
tears;” but during the parade season the corporal writes little, and
articles by the regular staff, upon the height to which cantonment hedges
should be allowed to grow, are apt to be dull. For news we depend on
Tom. He appears reticent at first, but be patient. Let him put the soap
on, and then tap him gently.
“Well, Tom, what news this morning?”
“No news, sar.” After a long pause, “Commissioner Saheb coming
to-morrow.”
“To-morrow? No, he is not coming for three weeks.”
“To-morrow coming. Not telling anybody; quietly coming.”
“Why?”
“God knows.” After another pause, “Nana Shett give Mamletdar 500 rupee
for not send his son to prison. Then Nana Shett’s brother he fight with
Nana Shett, so he write letter to Commissioner and tell him you come
quietly and make inquire.”
“The Mamletdar has been taking bribes, has he?”
“Everybody taking. Fouzdar take 200 rupee. Dipooty take 500 rupee.”
“What! Does the Deputy Collector take bribes?”
“God knows. Black man very bad. All black man same like bad.”
“Then are you not a black man?”
Tom smiles pleasantly and makes a fresh start.
“Colonel Saheb’s madam got baby.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Girl, sar. Colonel Saheb very angry.”
“Why?”
“He say, ‘I want boy. Why always girl coming?’ Get very angry. Beat
butler with stick.”
[Picture: Tom, the Barber] Yes, Tom is a great institution. Who can
estimate how much we owe to him for the circulation of that lively
interest in one another’s well-being which characterises the little
station? Tom comes, like the Pundit, in the morning, but he is different
from the Pundit and we welcome him. He is not a shadow of the black
examination-cloud which lowers over us. There is no flavour of grammars
and dictionaries about him. Even if he finds you still in bed,
conscience gets no support from him. He does not awaken you, but slips
in with noiseless tread, lifts the mosquito curtains, proceeds with his
duty and departs, leaving no token but a gentle dream about the cat which
came and licked your cheeks and chin with its soft, warm tongue, and
scratched you playfully with its claws, while a cold frog, embracing your
nose, looked on and smiled a froggy smile. The barber’s hand _is_ cold
and clammy. _Chacun à son gout_. I do not like him. I grow my beard,
and Tom looks at me as the Chaplain regards dissenters.