The Barbers knife and the Iranian secret…!

Credit By: SYED NISSAR H GILANI

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• 03 Apr 2026

From brides driving their grooms in Baramulla to the bustling, impersonal traffic of modern Srinagar, the world has moved on

In 1967, the world felt both vast and very small from the vantage point of a barber’s chair in Mallaratta, Srinagar. Near my ancestral home, Yarkand House, stood a legendary corner known as Salman Hair Cutting Saloon.

Owned by the late Abdul Gani, it was an iconic establishment—not just for its grooming, but for its modernity. It was among the first in the area to feature modern chairs and a cleverly designed, "squeezed" washroom within the structure. For the reasonable sum of just one Rupee, it offered the luxury of a hot shower, providing a sanctuary for many during the biting cold of a Kashmiri winter.

​The saloon was far more than a place for a trim; it was a premier intellectual and social hub. Despite a space that could hardly accommodate eight people at a time, you would frequently find the city’s most eminent minds thronging the shop.

Literary giants like the late Professor Rahman Rahi  Professor G.N. Firaq,  late Prof Dr . syed M.Amin Andrabi, Dr. Abdul wahid ,  alongside high-ranking bureaucrats like the former Registrar of Kashmir University, the late Peerzada  Ghulam  Hussan,  K G Ahamed were regular visitors. While they waited, they were kept engaged by beautiful handmade paintings on the walls and a newspaper that was always laid out on the table to spark debate.

​During the marriage season, the shop transformed into a grooming center for prospective grooms. For a total package of five Rupees, a young man could get a haircut, a clean shave, and a hot shower. In later years, the shop even began offering special headgears and garlands, making it a one-stop shop for wedding preparations.

​The Day the "News Center" Froze

The Salman Saloon was a verified news center, but sometimes the news walked right through the door. I vividly remember an incident from 1975 involving my friend and classmate, the late Dr. Ghulam Hussan. While serving in Iran, he had secretly married an Iranian lady from Mashhad without his parents' consent. By the time he returned to his home in Mallaratta, the couple had a two-year-old child.

​One hot day, as proceedings were underway in the saloon, both Ghulam Hussan and I happened to be waiting for our turn. A taxi suddenly pulled up outside, and a foreign lady emerged, carrying a baby in her lap. She began asking for the address of her husband, Dr. Ghulam Hussan.
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At that very moment, Ghulam Hussan was already in the chair, tucked under the barber’s knife and scissors, being groomed to look like a prospective groom himself. A pin-drop silence fell over the shop. My friend turned pale and went numb as he recognized his wife and son. In a moment of pure theater, the barber pointed his scissors toward the chair, silently signaling to the lady that her husband was right there "under his grip."

The confusion eventually broke when Ghulam Hussan stood up, still in a daze, and led his family home. The event was later celebrated with a traditional Wazwan to give the union an official and religious touch.

​The Fiat and the Changing Street

Incidents like these were the heartbeat of the saloon. I remember sitting in that same chair in 1967, feeling the cool glide of the razor, when the rhythm was shattered by hooting and catcalls from the street. We all tumbled out—barbers included—to see a woman confidently driving a Fiat car through the narrow streets.

​In those days, a woman behind the wheel was a revolutionary sight, reserved for a few trailblazers like Mrs. A. L. Mangi, Mrs. Muzaffar Andrabi, or Mrs. Shariefa Naqashbandi. We would also occasionally spot the foreign wives of prominent businessmen driving through the streets of the Jama Masjid area. Even Preco, the famous photographer on Residency Road, had a wife whose presence behind the wheel was a frequent talking point around town.

A Profession in Transition

Looking back, the rates at Salman’s were remarkably fair compared to the landscape of today. Our youth have largely rejected the profession, fearing it lowers their prestige. Many families have even changed their surnames from Naved to Hakim to distance themselves from the craft, leading to nearly 80 percent of locals shunning the trade.

​As a result, the neighborhood barbershop as we knew it has vanished. Today, the salons of Srinagar are almost entirely manned and run by outsiders. The intimate, intellectual "news centers" of Mallaratta have been replaced by branded parlours with gleaming glass fronts and air conditioning. These modern establishments charge hefty sums for services that were once simple community necessities.

​Fast-forward to today, and the "unusual" has become the everyday. From brides driving their grooms in Baramulla to the bustling, impersonal traffic of modern Srinagar, the world has moved on. Yet, as I watch the cars go by, I realize that while the "Fiat" of 1967 is a memory, the spirit of those Mallaratta afternoons—where life, poetry, and history converged in a barber’s mirror—remains a vanished treasure of our city’s soul.

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(The Author is a former civil servant from the administrative service. Email: nisargilani57748@gmail.com)