Home PageCopyright of the text and the images with Arun Gaur© 2010 Arun Gaur Shaving on the Jodhpur Roadside / Tripolia-Exploring India-Arun Gaur’s Indian Landscape Images |
It was an accomplished piece of art
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Roadside ShavingWhile we were passing by the side of the colonial clock-tower (Ghantaghar) of Jodhpur in the morning, Rano nudged me in her typical way that was a sure indicator of the presence of a potential scene to be photographed. I also noted then. There we saw a very serious task of getting a morning shave on the roadside. The sun was quite bright and the duo—the artist who was working on the canvas and the canvas himself—was quite absorbed into each other to pay any heed to me or my camera. |
The winter sun went through my ear illuminating it. Making it transparent. The fingers of my friend held the white of my hair in a tight but gentle hold. O the white would spread in the hollow of my sunken cheeks and the blade would come as naked steel in the shadow of the morning sun. |
O how awkwardly my friend tilts up my chin and head. Can the friends be cruel? White swathes become visible on the throat. They are the white of the foam of the wilderness of the sea. The whiteness of my head is lost into the whiteness of the floor that throws back at me the ugly whiteness of the glare of the sun. It is a bit of an agony. |
Like Wallace Stevens the fingers of my barber play on the blue guitar. Myriads are the shapes that the fingers take, myriad forms. Firm and gentle, probing and pinching. My chin, my cheeks have become the arena for experimentations. For minor scuffles. |
The nails of my barber are like the waning moons. Four waning moons in different phases. The serrated moons slowly settle on my chin and I know from their gentle stance that the cool shade of the steel is almost upon me. I close my eyes in high expectations of mild fear. |
How pink are the moons and how precise the touch of the edge. Crescent touches of the waning moons. I was worrying unnecessarily. |
His knuckles are too protruding. Too too protruding and fingers too straight. In the business-like fashions. Straight-forward talks. |
The dark web of his fingers hovers over my stubble plains like lowering clouds. Am I losing my existential profile? |
The blade is like the pleasant oar of the boat. It is a pleasant silver. That noble element. This would take me to my place of destination. The light comes through my ear once again. It glows. And my face is beautiful. |
His fingers turn backward. Like hooks. Blade withdraws to a distance. It is a moment of recapitulation. Of taking cognizance. Of deliberations. What next? |
Back to business again. O how protruding is the glare of the sun that surrounds me and my head together. |
Now this is a difficult stance. Very acrobatic. What he is up to? Even if I lower my eyes, I cannot gather anything. |
It appears as if a house-fly has settled on his arm. The sun is warm and now comes from the other side. His arm does not move and the fly does not budge. A flake has settled in the corner of my forehead. Near my balding line. A flake is also settled on the back of his head. Like that fly. Immovable. Everything. |
His little finger has thrust itself too deeply into my cheek. Can his little finger exercise such power over me? Everyone would now come to know that there is no tooth inside to stop this protrusion. |
Now this is a pose of utter composure. It would be fitting even for the president of a great nation. My chin glows. The waves are fine and telling. My neat ear bespeaks of wisdom. Oiled it is. With the oil of fragrant Eastern spices. There is evenness of light and shade and shadows. Soft murmuring song of the thumb-driven spring-engine is around my lips. Below my chin. Rings of light around my head. At a little distance. |
My head is flooded with light and there are hints of halos and rings. Who would compete with me? |
These are the last twisting touches. O hidden dragons. O crouching tigers. These are the last twisting touches. I hope. I hope so. Do I hope? |
