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.

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.”

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.