Back from the barber shop after trimming his hair, Pun Dai sat in the balcony of his house, from where he observed a flock of birds returning home after a long, humid day. Pun Dai found this evening a bit different. Instead of going straight to the ground after the haircut, he had urgently walked towards the house, where his mother gazed at him in mock surprise. Why did her balding son find it necessary to trim his scarce hair? “How was your date?” the mother joked, just to make fun of her son, who, according to her, lacked the colours of life.

The son, as always, wasn’t impressed with his mother’s joke. He hardly reacted, and when he replied back sometimes, there was no trace of bitterness in his tone. In his mother’s eyes, Pun Dai was a solemn gentleman, a harmless soul, lacking the art of vibrant living.

As for the regulars in the park, Pun Dai’s absence would be the hot topic for discussion, sparking speculations about where he could have gone. “Pun Dai is a CID officer, and he is on the hunt today.” “Pun Dai is perhaps coding for a software company.” “Pun Dai is a foreign spy.” Pun Dai, in his absence, was an object of entertainment for the boys. The world could say anything about him, but his arsenal contained only genial smiles. Pun Dai’s only battle was with his conflicting inner self—the demon that had repeatedly started poking his predictable life. And no one but the barber—originally from a far, alienated land—had the power to trigger the demon residing inside him.

Pun Dai, 34, had encountered hundreds of people in his life, but no one came to his mind when he sat back to think about connections. Was it his fault that he couldn’t transform casual friendships into lifelong bonds? He assumed that the world saw him a bit differently and that he was innocent in the uncertain times he lived in. Would Pun Dai ever accept that his assumption could be wrong, too, and that the world had no time to explicitly think about him? What if this world didn’t work the way he thought, and he was only making himself feel superior by assuming that he was different? Whatever it was, this evening had Pun Dai rethinking his self-introspection and the growing curiosity about the hideous barber.

“Are you not bothered that I don’t make money?” Pun Dai’s question almost made his mother choke on her daal-bhat. They were in the dining hall, eating silently, until he asked the unexpected. “Why? Have you started earning in the park?” The sarcasm was intact. “No, I’m just asking,” Pun Dai said seriously, as if he were going to announce his departure to a foreign land. “For me, there’s no need for money, as your father’s pension is enough for us to sustain. It would be good for you if you involve yourself in something and make some money out of it.”

That was it. Pun Dai didn’t speak further. He stood up, cleared his plate, and went to his bedroom. His mother’s gentle suggestion that he should earn for himself buzzed in his ears. He knew she would not live forever, and her pension would stop at some point. All these years, he had been dismissing the possibility that the pension would halt, and afterwards, he would have to grind on his own to make ends meet. The day was inevitable when he would have to say that enough was enough and walk into the unknown. There was no point in faking nonchalance and dragging it further.

The next thing Pun Dai knew, he scanned the room for scissors, which were never there. Despite knowing very well that he had never bought one, his search extended from his room to his mother’s. When she asked what he was searching for this late at night, he simply dismissed her with a wave of his hand, as though a simple reply would mar his important mission. In the morning, without even drinking tea, he scampered towards the market instead of opting to dilly-dally in the park.

The deployment of security forces in the streets reminded him of the elections scheduled three days later. People in the neighbourhood were eager to make their votes count. Promotional songs of political leaders echoed through the streets that had never been stepped on by them before. Leaders walked door to door, promising reforms and prosperity. A few days ago, several leaders had knocked on the doors of Pun Dai’s house, and it was his mother who dealt with them. He simply didn’t have an opinion about the leaders and their work. Although it had been circulated that youth participation would be significantly high, Pun Dai was not going to cast his vote. His disinterest in polls reflected his silent disenchantment with the political class.

At a shop, Pun Dai bought a pair of good-quality scissors and returned home in a hurry. Again, his quick arrival shocked his mother. “Has the park been decimated or what?” Her ugly teeth were on full display. “These days, I don’t feel like going there,” he said and disappeared into his room.

Taking a paper from inside the drawer, he sat on his bed, adjusted the scissors in his right hand, and snipped the paper into two pieces. The sound of the scissors cutting through the paper pleased his ears. He liked how effortlessly he could do it. But cutting paper and trimming hair were two entirely different things. That day at the barber shop, the barber had asked Pun Dai to bring a fresh pair of scissors, and he would teach him the tricks involved. What Pun Dai couldn’t figure out at the time was whether the barber had said it seriously or if it was just one of his harmless jokes. He forced himself to believe that the barber wanted to train him.

Now he needed to muster the courage to tell his mother he wanted to take up this new profession under the guidance of a random barber. His mother would surely call him nuts and pose countless questions. Would it be better if he didn’t tell her and let her find out on her own?

As expected, his mother stopped him when she saw him about to exit the main gate. “Now where? Again off to that park of yours? Can’t you stay home for a couple of days? Who knows, there could be conflict once again? Do you even know what the country is like at the moment?”

“I will be okay,” Pun Dai said, his voice sounding weak even to himself.

“You can go wherever you want after the elections are completed. I don’t have faith in people. They can fight anytime and anywhere.”

He wondered if it was the perfect moment to confess his plans. There was a chance she would allow him to go out if he gave a valid reason. But he simply chose to comply with her request and pulled himself back from visiting the barber shop. Just two days, and the elections would take place, and his mother would normalise his aimless visits. What would change about the visits, importantly, was the destination. Now, Pun Dai wouldn’t visit the park anymore.

It was beginning to dawn on him that his routine visits to the park were an escape from reality. Pun Dai had accidentally found a purpose in his life. More than that, he had found a companion with whom he felt lively and alive. It thrilled him to think about the prospect of them eating panipuri at a nearby stall after a long day. Was the barber equally good to all his customers? Did he value Pun Dai more than others, or was Pun Dai simply mired in illusion?

On the election day, after his mother left home for the polling center, he decided to sneak out. Earlier in the morning, she had emphatically stressed the importance of each vote in the election. “I don’t want to go,” Pun Dai had simply stated.

Now, as he stepped out with two pairs of scissors in his hand, he saw people moving about in wild excitement—chatting, whispering, waving, and dreaming of an ideal life promised by the leaders. The barber shop would be closed according to the rules, but a knock or two on the shutter, followed by Pun Dai’s request, would prompt the barber to briefly open it.

“To the polling centre?” a man Pun Dai knew asked on the street, ignoring the scissors in his hand. Pun Dai nodded without stopping to explain; it was simpler that way. The elections were for those who had already won their inner battles by figuring out the “purpose” in their lives. For someone as detached as Pun Dai, they held little value. So, virtually ignoring the vote, Pun Dai scampered towards the barber shop—his ultimate refuge.