Shaman was a barber. He had spent many years in this salon,
with the same white tiles, now a pale shade of yellow. His customers were the
only variety he had, some dark, some fair, young and old, but all alike sat on a seat with peeling leather. Some sat still with stony faces while some had
interesting stories to offer. Shaman would give this assortment of men the same
deft service of his scissors and the kind smile. One chilly night, when he was
closing his salon he noticed a frail man walking down the street with tangled
hair, and a bloodied suit. Shaman hurried him inside at once, and gave him good
wash and spare clothes. He slid a few biscuits and a glass of milk towards him,
with a meek smile saying, “This is all I can offer you, good sir...” The man
cut him off abruptly, “what you have done is more than I could ever ask for. I
shall not trouble you further and leave at once.” He bowed with gratitude and
left. A year later, with the death of Shaman’s father, his brothers conned him,
forged documents and asked for a share in his shop. His kindly face made it to
a small article in the back pages of the local newspapers, but he was deemed a
cheat, who placed money over family. Shaman was in a miserable state. He asked
his gods what was he being tested for. He couldn’t even afford a lawyer in his defence. He sat in his salon, his face buried in his hands. “Rise.” Said a
familiar voice. Last time he had seen him, he had a beaten face and a tattered
suit. Today he looked resplendent and somewhat powerful in black robes. “That
night, I was beaten up by goons of a rich politician for filing a litigation
against them. When no one supported my decision of speaking up, you gave the
kind of support nobody could have. Come, let’s go to the court, I must repay
your service.” Shaman rose, and unknowingly, led the city’s most powerful
lawyer.
~Chirag Jain
class: XI ROSE
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