Before going to the saloon

(Translated by Shawkat Hussain)My hungry hair flies wildly in the air Not easily tamed. Many times, many times, Have I tried to feed it well And put it to sleep. “The monster is coming…sleep my baby,” But nothing works. My hair stands sleepless Like a santal sardar with his lean muscular body, unclad; Or like some motionless, unblinking rebel Unbent by storms or bowed down by the rain, He stands for ages, for ages. This mad, black horse Terrifies everyone, threatens to disrupt Afternoon traffic, injure friends and relatives. Everybody says the same thing, “It’s grown too long, cut it down to size,” It’s grown too long, past the ears, Down to the shoulders. There’s nothing to do. It’s my hair, but not within my control. It grows on its own, moves and scatters, Flies like a rasping crow, Invades someone else’s sky Like its own, uses it with reckless abandon. My hair is like some truant schoolboy’s Covered with dust from head to foot, Obsessed with the dream of possessing a football; It is like some maverick player Dominating the field Like a stubborn monarch, Heedless of the referee’s whistle. So this is my hair, my ruffled, unruly hair, Somehow sticking to my perplexed skull. Suddenly, like a traffic signal, My wild, disorderly hair will be tamed When the barber’s firm, active scissors Snip them off—And so I would go to the best saloons, To discipline my hair. The arrogance of my hair(Translated by Shawkat Hussain) My hungry hair flies wildly in the air Not easily tamed. Many times, many times, Have I tried to feed it well And put it to sleep. “The monster is coming…sleep my baby,” But nothing works. My hair stands sleepless Like a santal sardar with his lean muscular body, unclad; Or like some motionless, unblinking rebel Unbent by storms or bowed down by the rain, He stands for ages, for ages. This mad, black horse Terrifies everyone, threatens to disrupt Afternoon traffic, injure friends and relatives. Everybody says the same thing, “It’s grown too long, cut it down to size,” It’s grown too long, past the ears, Down to the shoulders. There’s nothing to do. It’s my hair, but not within my control. It grows on its own, moves and scatters, Flies like a rasping crow, Invades someone else’s sky Like its own, uses it with reckless abandon. My hair is like some truant schoolboy’s Covered with dust from head to foot, Obsessed with the dream of possessing a football; It is like some maverick player Dominating the field Like a stubborn monarch, Heedless of the referee’s whistle. So this is my hair, my ruffled, unruly hair, Somehow sticking to my perplexed skull. Suddenly, like a traffic signal, My wild, disorderly hair will be tamed When the barber’s firm, active scissors Snip them off—And so I would go to the best saloons, To discipline my hair. The arrogance of my hair Is not acceptable to members of civilized society, It has to be cut, shortened. My head has to be like ten other heads, Like ten other heads in society, And so it must be cut down, Trimmed and flattened, silenced over my skull, It must lie quietly plastered over my head Like a cold mat. Still, it is my hair! Blind, silent, and deaf, It springs up again Like an injured horse Even before the month is past. Shawkat Hussain is Head, Department of English, University of Asia Pacific. Is not acceptable to members of civilized society, It has to be cut, shortened. My head has to be like ten other heads, Like ten other heads in society, And so it must be cut down, Trimmed and flattened, silenced over my skull, It must lie quietly plastered over my head Like a cold mat. Still, it is my hair! Blind, silent, and deaf, It springs up again Like an injured horse Even before the month is past.Shawkat Hussain is a writer and translator.