My Sundays or Ode to a barber shop --- A poem by Ramesh Iyengar
My Sundays dawn at the barber shop.
At the backyard of my house
this premise remains,
cosy, little, low roof
that functioned all the day………………
I promptly go there every Sunday.
My family barber invites me,
gets me a cup of piping tea,
provides newspapers,
magazines dating back to yesteryears.
The broadcast from Ceylon radio,
lulling me with songs.
My barber seats me in his wooden ' throne '
plays a practises hand,
cuts my hair,
trims my sideburns,
perfects my curls……
His roaring rusty machine ploughs
playing a sonorous rhythm.
He gossips……………………
about the natives,
about politicians, matinee-idols,
about nations unknown,
about who eloped with who,
He alerts me on mundane issues,
……..shaves my beard, moustache,
his massaging fingers throws me
into a hypnotic sensuous state………
A heavy lunch at noon,
with dhall and rasam
and a siesta later,
hugging my mother's neck.
My lazy Sundays…………………………
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Ramesh Iyengar
