As a child I was naughty to the core and even the sharp barber’s razor, a priceless possession of my father and passed on for generations in the family was not spared. As children, more for his ferocious looks and robust build, we feared Madhavan barber mainly for the barber’s razor that he was carrying and with which he used to threaten us children to sit still twice a month during the tortuous ritual called ‘haircut’. All said and done quite strangely I developed a curiosity to try the barber’s razor at least once.
I used to wonder at the skill of my father who indulged in the risky ritual called shaving with the priceless possession he inherited from his forefathers and how with consummate ease and confidence he handled the razor and moved it over his cheeks without any fear as if he is shaving using a feather. We the children ‘the peeping toms’ without any shame daily peeped through the openings in the window to see him shaving and found him totally engrossed in the exercise — holding the middle joint of the razor and bending it with his middle and index finger he moved the razor up and down on both cheeks so smoothly like spreading butter over a slice of bread with a knife. The razor was always kept under lock and key and we children had no entry at any time of the day into the room where he engaged himself in this dangerous morning ritual to remove the stubble from the face fearing we might try the razor on ourselves out of curiosity.
Also equally interesting like his morning shave was his dedicated and meticulous involvement in cleaning the razor and so priceless a possession his razor was for him that every weekend his precious 30 minutes were earmarked for that — the razor will be run, both sides alternatively touching over a leather-like sheet hanging down over the wall, then it will be put in oil and later soaked in a soap solution. Finally in the last part of the laborious exercise the razor will be run over a lengthy black stone-like thing to retain the sharpness and sheen. After drying it in the sun it will be put back into the sheath designed for it.
Well, as days went by the temptation to have a feel of the razor or to run it over the cheeks started mounting. The day arrived on a weekend when the razor was kept outside after the polishing and cleaning. While my father had gone to attend a telephone call, like an experienced burglar I sneaked into the room. After making sure no one was around I applied some soap lather on both cheeks and in a typical appa style held it between the fingers. Hardly had I gone through the process of shaving when I screamed at the sight of blood pouring steadily like a stream from my cheek. The scream brought the entire household into the room and cursing his fate my father rushed me to the hospital where an elderly doctor gave him a dressing down in harsh tones for being careless with a sharp thing and for leaving it in the open with children around and advised him to go in for a small ‘hand razor’ instead of using a ‘sharp weapon’ to shave.
There was a lull at home for a few days after the bloody incident. The razor was kept in the open as my father might have thought that the ‘gory’ incident would have taught the ‘naughties’ a lesson.