It is a beautiful day outside. One of those days when one wonders why the powers to be not wake up, take some time out from their political bickering and declare it a national holiday and give their citizens a chance to celebrate life. Doing so would be a nice boost to their own political rating.
Looking outside, what greets the eyes is a stunning blue sky without a sliver of cloud to disturb its pristineness.
High above, there are few contrails though. People sitting in the belly of a metal contraption that transport them from point A to point B. Some are traveling to see their loved ones, some to get away from the drudgery of life and escape to Maui hoping that few days in the paradise is the balm that soul needs.
Whatever it may be, almost everyone has some hope in their heart except for a few who may be rushing to beat the dying breaths of a loved one or are on the way to attend the last rituals of someone they loved, or are leaving a promised land behind, which after all, did not turn out to be so promised.
It has been six months of winter and along with the crisp blue sky there are other signs of spring. New leaves on the honeysuckle are beginning to open bringing promises to spread their aroma in the summer mornings in a month from now.
Daffodils have already sprung up and are gazing proudly at the world around them.
An anticipation of spring is also a time when vague nostalgia of times gone by stir inside.
The transition of seasons – from summer into winter and then from winter to spring – rekindles the awareness of the passage of time. The feeling is so much stronger than New Year's Eve. The rituals of that day are so formalized and orchestrated that it hardly stirs any emotions anymore.
New Year's Eve no longer holds promises of mysteries to come, or of memories of the moments gone by.
In the nostalgia brought up by spring I am transposed to the days of transition of summer to winter while growing up in India. When that transition happened, there was something different in the air. A distinct feeling that time and life are on the march.
In that nostalgia I also see a man sitting on the verandah of our home about to start one of his rituals. The ritual of shaving.
In front of him on a table sit the sacred items that are part of the ritual – a razor blade, a box of shaving cream, and the centerpiece of show, the shaving brush. Alongside there also sits a small bowl with warm water in which the shaving brush is tipped over to get its bristles softened up.
After a while, the precise steps of the ritual begin.
The man picks up the shaving brush and let it travel across his face to moisten bristles. Next the brush dips in the shaving cream, and when enough foam is gathered at the end of its tips, starts to decorate his face with a whiteness that looks at odds with his brown skin.
After foaming of the face comes the next step of using the razor blade; with smooth motions of his hands the bristles on his face start vanish, and with that, paths of clean-shaven skin emerge,
The fun part of the shaving ritual is the gestures he makes to get to the hard-to-reach parts of his face - the nook and crannies under the chin and the nose. Accompanying the effort are odd facial expressions in attempts to stretch the skin taut so the blade can run smoothly over the skin.
Finally, the ritual is over and there is a twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes; the pride of a job well done. Yet another ritual performed to its perfection. No nicks and cuts and the task is accomplished.
That man sitting outside on the verandah and going through the ritual of shaving is my father.
I wish I had the foresight to take some snapshots of those moments and frame them for posterity.
I have inherited his beard, the bristles that every couple of days, if not every day, need tending, however, I have lost the ritual of shaving.
For me, shaving is no longer a standalone task as it used to be for him. For me, it is using my fingers to spread shaving foam on my face. After that, wait for a minute and use a supposedly high-tech blade to get the appearance of the smooth skin back.
Instead of being a twenty-minute ritual it is now a five-minute chore. For some, it could be using the electric razor while waiting for the red light to change. I have seen that happening too.
Living in the cities and maybe living in high-rise apartments, many similar rituals of life have been lost. One can no longer light the sage and hope to push negativity away lest the fire alarm goes off. When warm drops of summer rain come down, we no longer step outside and feel its touch on our faces.
So much is lost or has changed. Remembering my father going through the ritual of shaving, however, something may have survived in my subconsciousness. It just happened that a few days back I had the urge to buy a shaving brush, and as always, Amazon was there to oblige.
Now, I am a proud owner of a shaving brush. Perhaps over time, I will bring back one of his rituals, and in some ways my father's memory will carry on.
Ciao.
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