<p class="bodytext">Since Nana Hazrat, our term of endearment and respect for my maternal grandfather, passed away many years before my birth, he lives only through the stories narrated by my mother, which helps me sketch him out in my mind. This brief episode is from his octogenarian years, when old age had marred his memory and as a result he once lost his way to home after a stroll in the neighbourhood. However, a barber of the area, who knew him as a client, brought him back home safely. The short affair, with no literary embellishments or a great deal of strong dramatic extravaganza makes it too plain and easy to forget but that was not the case.</p>.<p class="bodytext">My siblings and I grew up listening to this incident as my mother often recalled it. This anecdote acquainted us to that barber who was still around, thus, whenever we spotted him in the street, we would rush to our mother announcing excitedly, “He is here, he is here.” A kind act performed many years ago became his ultimate introduction and identity. Surprisingly, we didn’t even know his name, just the fact that he was the hero, a saviour who once helped our Nana Hazrat get back home.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The barber, sporting a moustache was an affable man of short and thin built who roamed the streets carrying his wooden box secured with a leather belt, containing all the necessary paraphernalia -- scissors, brush, spray, puff and powder etc.,-- needed to perform his job. Back then it was common to have barbers coming to houses to perform snipping and shaving tasks. Our mother treated him with utter respect and made sure he never returned empty-handed. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Was it mere charity, a paltry donation my mother gave him? Or did the barber deliberately show up every now and then to collect emolument from a doting daughter who felt indebted to him? I often think of both the perspectives and gladly quash both.</p>.<p class="bodytext">What stands out is the fact that whatever my mother handed him was a sincere token of gratitude she offered in return of a kind act, done decades ago. It was a gesture to keep alive the memory of the day, she felt miserable when her baba did not reach home; it was a heartfelt sentiment she wanted to eternalise, a memory to be cherished and passed on to her children, rather than disregarded as a random act of kindness any human is naturally expected to perform.</p>.<p class="bodytext">It was an essential lesson for us that valuing the virtue of kindness in others makes you graceful; and since she repeated the story on numerous occasions, I felt the biggest takeaway was that any act performed out of goodness of character lives on as it is not stamped with an expiration date.</p>
<p class="bodytext">Since Nana Hazrat, our term of endearment and respect for my maternal grandfather, passed away many years before my birth, he lives only through the stories narrated by my mother, which helps me sketch him out in my mind. This brief episode is from his octogenarian years, when old age had marred his memory and as a result he once lost his way to home after a stroll in the neighbourhood. However, a barber of the area, who knew him as a client, brought him back home safely. The short affair, with no literary embellishments or a great deal of strong dramatic extravaganza makes it too plain and easy to forget but that was not the case.</p>.<p class="bodytext">My siblings and I grew up listening to this incident as my mother often recalled it. This anecdote acquainted us to that barber who was still around, thus, whenever we spotted him in the street, we would rush to our mother announcing excitedly, “He is here, he is here.” A kind act performed many years ago became his ultimate introduction and identity. Surprisingly, we didn’t even know his name, just the fact that he was the hero, a saviour who once helped our Nana Hazrat get back home.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The barber, sporting a moustache was an affable man of short and thin built who roamed the streets carrying his wooden box secured with a leather belt, containing all the necessary paraphernalia -- scissors, brush, spray, puff and powder etc.,-- needed to perform his job. Back then it was common to have barbers coming to houses to perform snipping and shaving tasks. Our mother treated him with utter respect and made sure he never returned empty-handed. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Was it mere charity, a paltry donation my mother gave him? Or did the barber deliberately show up every now and then to collect emolument from a doting daughter who felt indebted to him? I often think of both the perspectives and gladly quash both.</p>.<p class="bodytext">What stands out is the fact that whatever my mother handed him was a sincere token of gratitude she offered in return of a kind act, done decades ago. It was a gesture to keep alive the memory of the day, she felt miserable when her baba did not reach home; it was a heartfelt sentiment she wanted to eternalise, a memory to be cherished and passed on to her children, rather than disregarded as a random act of kindness any human is naturally expected to perform.</p>.<p class="bodytext">It was an essential lesson for us that valuing the virtue of kindness in others makes you graceful; and since she repeated the story on numerous occasions, I felt the biggest takeaway was that any act performed out of goodness of character lives on as it is not stamped with an expiration date.</p>
