Chellappan the Barber

Chellappan the Barber

The late 1970s in Trivandrum was a time of quiet transformation. The country was emerging from the shadows of the Emergency, imposed by Smt. Indira Gandhi, and life in Kerala's capital, though still slow-paced and steeped in tradition, was beginning to feel the stirrings of change. The railway track had just been extended to Trivandrum, and the iron rails stretching towards Kanyakumari were a testament to the progress inching its way southward. Amidst this backdrop of evolving landscapes and political shifts, the simple rhythms of daily life continued, untouched by the larger tides of history. It was within these rhythms that the humble figure of Chellappan the barber found his place.

Chellappan was a fixture in our lives, a man who seemed as old as the ancient banyan tree that shaded our backyard. With a head full of silver hair, which glistened like the first rays of dawn, he carried an air of wisdom that belied his humble profession. In his sixties, Chellappan was the barber of our neighborhood—a title that carried with it much more than the act of cutting hair. He was a traveling storyteller, a bearer of news, and a keeper of secrets, moving from house to house with his well-worn leather bag of tools slung over his shoulder.

Barbers in those days were much more than mere tradesmen; they were vital cogs in the social machinery of Hindu families. They performed the sacred rite of Mundan—the first haircut or clean shave of a child—marking the child's initiation into the community. This ritual, like many others, was steeped in tradition, and it was men like Chellappan who ensured that these traditions were upheld with reverence and care.

Our home, like many in Trivandrum, adhered to the customs and caste rules of the time. Chellappan, being from a lower caste, was not permitted to enter the house. Instead, his workspace was the backyard, a place that served as the stage for the many small yet significant events of our lives. The banyan tree, with its sprawling roots and dense canopy, provided shade, while the sound of his scissors—sharp and precise—cut through the stillness of the afternoon air, a rhythmic accompaniment to his steady flow of gossip and tales.

Chellappan’s arrival was always heralded by the faint sound of his footsteps on the gravel path, followed by the creak of the backyard gate. We would watch as he carefully laid out his tools on a clean white cloth, his movements deliberate and methodical, honed by years of practice. His scissors, polished to a gleam, were his instruments of both art and information. As he worked, shaping hair with a flick of his wrist, his voice would rise and fall, carrying with it the latest news from the neighboring villages, the whispered secrets of the market, or the political happenings that trickled down to even the most remote corners of Kerala.

To us children, Chellappan was a source of endless fascination. His stories, though often embellished with his own colorful imagination, were our windows into a world beyond the confines of our home. He spoke of temple festivals with towering elephants, of marriages that brought entire villages together, and of the quiet struggles of those who lived on the fringes of society. His words painted vivid pictures, filling our minds with images that lingered long after he had packed up his things and moved on to the next house.

But despite his role as a storyteller and a harbinger of news, Chellappan’s presence was also a reminder of the rigid social hierarchies that defined our lives. After every haircut, the ritual was always the same: a quick shower in the washroom outside the home to cleanse away the remnants of hair and, symbolically, the touch of someone considered lower in status. It was a practice so ingrained in our upbringing that we never questioned it, even as we grew older and the world around us began to change.

For my first Mundan, Chellappan had arrived with a sense of purpose, knowing that this was not just another haircut but a milestone in my young life. I was born in Vatsala Nursing Home in Thycaud, Trivandrum, and by then, the railway track had just extended to our town, the sounds of progress mingling with the echoes of tradition. As my father held me on his lap, Chellappan approached with his scissors, his hands steady, his eyes focused. The first snip of hair fell to the ground, a simple act that carried with it the weight of generations of ritual.

In that moment, under the watchful eyes of my family and the gentle sway of the banyan tree, I was introduced to a world that straddled the old and the new—a world where men like Chellappan played a vital role in bridging the gap between the two. His was a life marked by simplicity and service, yet it was filled with a richness that came from being an integral part of the community’s fabric.

As I look back now, the figure of Chellappan looms large in my memories, a symbol of a time when life was slower, when the bonds of tradition held strong, and when even the simplest of men could be a source of wisdom and connection. His story is not just his own; it is the story of an era, of a community, and of the countless unsung heroes who shaped our lives in ways both big and small. Chellappan was more than just a barber; he was a keeper of our past, a narrator of our present, and, in many ways, a silent architect of our future.