Fabrications and altercations
A tailor arrives at 3.25,
and waits in my verandah, (behind
dark green blinds) for me to bring him
my grandma's saris; to change their shape
and form and create something anew.
He draws out my ideas with a quick
but flimsy hand, all along, wearing
a measuring tape round his neck. He
counts my shoulders, my chest, my
waist, hips, thighs, knees, ankles.
Then I run my finger down my collar
between my breasts to where the neckline
should be. He looks away and increases
my wishes by an inch. We proceed
to mould the past into a modern, calculated, irreverent future.
The Barber
There is a barber who sets up shop on the side of the street everyday. Blue shirt, grey pants, creased round the knees. He lies slouched against the barbed wires of the park behind him, but his droop is so that he looks as though he may have been missing his floating ribs. His hair was short, but his cowlicks shoot up in various angles, radiating from his head like flower petals from their stigma. His legs are crossed, so that his dusty feet are barely visible. He looks like a blue knot that grew out of the railing. His mirror hangs beside him, reflecting silently, the cacophony of passing traffic. On the side of the mirror are a row of skin and hair tools, scissors, blades, tweezers, razors. Below the mirror is a table; adorned with old skin oils-- shaving cream, after shave, aloe creams, fairness creams, milk based lotions. On the high chair is nobody, a blank face staring into the laterally inverted traffic, a hollow head waiting for a haircut, or a shave, to beat the heat, and renew his strength to wade through the cows, the vegetable sellers, the middle aged ladies in bright salwar kameezes and the young men who offer them rides on their precarious scooters, with the promise of safety and a quick ride home. The middle-aged ladies, seeing mirages everywhere, accept these hollow invitations; in their heated, embellished imaginations, they dream of when he would get off his bike, take of his helmet, hold their waists and kiss them: if only he had shorter hair, or perhaps wore some aftershave today.
Himali Singh Soin is a poet and ideator with a degree in English and Theatre. She likes taking photographs of peeling walls and pipelines and wondering about rebirth. Other activities include traveling to the source, connecting dots, plotting revolutions and imagining alternative realities full of the color orange and spiral staircases and love. Recent poetry will be published in Kritya and New Quest.
A tailor arrives at 3.25,
and waits in my verandah, (behind
dark green blinds) for me to bring him
my grandma's saris; to change their shape
and form and create something anew.
He draws out my ideas with a quick
but flimsy hand, all along, wearing
a measuring tape round his neck. He
counts my shoulders, my chest, my
waist, hips, thighs, knees, ankles.
Then I run my finger down my collar
between my breasts to where the neckline
should be. He looks away and increases
my wishes by an inch. We proceed
to mould the past into a modern, calculated, irreverent future.
The Barber
There is a barber who sets up shop on the side of the street everyday. Blue shirt, grey pants, creased round the knees. He lies slouched against the barbed wires of the park behind him, but his droop is so that he looks as though he may have been missing his floating ribs. His hair was short, but his cowlicks shoot up in various angles, radiating from his head like flower petals from their stigma. His legs are crossed, so that his dusty feet are barely visible. He looks like a blue knot that grew out of the railing. His mirror hangs beside him, reflecting silently, the cacophony of passing traffic. On the side of the mirror are a row of skin and hair tools, scissors, blades, tweezers, razors. Below the mirror is a table; adorned with old skin oils-- shaving cream, after shave, aloe creams, fairness creams, milk based lotions. On the high chair is nobody, a blank face staring into the laterally inverted traffic, a hollow head waiting for a haircut, or a shave, to beat the heat, and renew his strength to wade through the cows, the vegetable sellers, the middle aged ladies in bright salwar kameezes and the young men who offer them rides on their precarious scooters, with the promise of safety and a quick ride home. The middle-aged ladies, seeing mirages everywhere, accept these hollow invitations; in their heated, embellished imaginations, they dream of when he would get off his bike, take of his helmet, hold their waists and kiss them: if only he had shorter hair, or perhaps wore some aftershave today.
Himali Singh Soin is a poet and ideator with a degree in English and Theatre. She likes taking photographs of peeling walls and pipelines and wondering about rebirth. Other activities include traveling to the source, connecting dots, plotting revolutions and imagining alternative realities full of the color orange and spiral staircases and love. Recent poetry will be published in Kritya and New Quest.
