The Mask

He looked at himself in the mirror. The make-up was intact. Chalky, gaudy and colorful. As he started peeling off its layers, his face was revealed, slowly, painstakingly. In glorious, tell-tale detail. First he could see the cheeks, heavily lined and sallow. Then the chin, a strong one with a deep cleft. Yes, the same one that had been an unending source of wonder and amusement to his sister and friends in his childhood days. That seemed so very long ago! Back then, all of them would take turns to touch his chin and feel his cleft.

        “We could store some oil here,” they’d joke. “Or we could paint it red, like the circus clown’s!”

        “Why not fill it with mud and cement it so that it becomes all-over round and smooth?” His innocent sister would ask, in her sing-song, shrill voice. She was five and he was ten. He’d look at all of them amused. His eyes were mature, far so, for his tender age. After all, he was the only earning member in his family that comprised of his parents, his sister and himself; besides the baby which his mother was carrying in her protruding belly. One more mouth to be fed, he would often contemplate.

         His father was a street-side rope-walker, who had done nothing but the tight-rope walk, literally and figuratively, for the best part of his life. His deft maneuvering had been cut short by a fickle rope that had given way one fine day, when he had been performing in front of a 500-strong audience, in the outskirts of the city. He had fallen headlong on to terra firma, from a height of 50 feet, and promptly turned into a vegetable, overnight.

         The doctor at the Municipal Hospital had washed his hands off that poor man by saying that he had suffered grievous injuries to his brain and would never recover. He could only communicate through sign language and lay on a bed without any movement of his legs. His spinal chord had been broken too.

         Now it was left to his wife to either perform the tight-rope act or perish in hunger along with her family. Her little son had begged her fervently, on the first day of her performance, to restrain from doing so and join his father as an invalid, later in life. He persuaded her to allow him to don some make-up and perform street plays based on mythology.

         Thus the six- year old Parkash (as his parents and friends called Prakash) had painted himself with cheap paints and worn borrowed clothes from a kabadi’s (second-hand goods’ dealer’s) shop and become Hanuman, the monkey-God, complete with a swishing tail (courtesy the hair-attachment worn by his mother). The artificial braid was ideal for his get-up. In all that borrowed finery, he really felt as mighty as the Lord. He felt powerful enough to feed his family and look after them.

         His act was a hit with the crowds on the roadsides, who cheered loudly and showered coins on him, rather the monkey-God. No one dared to heckle his act, fearing the wrath of that strong deity. Everyone started referring to him as Hanumanji. Only his family called him Parkash. When they did call his name, they did so rather reverently. Wasn’t he really their God and savior, who fed them two square meals a day and provided for all their needs, medicines and the rent for their shack?

           He could see the pride in his incapacitated father’s dull eyes and the bright eyes of his relieved mother, who could now fully concentrate on her household chores and look after her husband. She felt happy and secure that the yet-to-be-born child was fortunate to have such a responsible brother. Both Parkash and his younger sister Susila (Sushila) went to the nearby municipal school.

           As soon as he returned from there, Parkash became Lord Hanuman. He looked forward to that transformation. While he had felt weak and wronged before, he felt strong, brave and confident now. Ready to take on the world and the enemies, just like his alter-persona!

           Fortunately, he didn’t really have any enemies. Yes, there were awe-struck friends and envious neighbors, but none who could be branded as ‘enemies’. Besides, his Godly image deterred potential trouble-makers as they feared Divine wrath. For didn’t one who play religious parts, have the blessings of those deities themselves?

         His mother delivered a baby girl. She was the most beautiful infant in that shanty-settlement. He was very proud of her. Possessive too! He wouldn’t allow anyone else to hold the baby when he was around. He even zealously warded off the ubiquitous evil-eye, daily, with a lemon and a green chilly charm.

          The years rolled by steadily, as all the three children grew up. When Parkash was 28 years old, his sister Susila was married off to an eligible young boy from their neighborhood. The younger sister Pari (lovingly named by Parkash himself) was a lissome 22 year old girl.

           Charming and talkative, she was the life of their house and of the entire neighborhood. She had many suitors. As the days went by, Parkash had a difficult time, managing his street plays and warding off lecherous guys from his sister.

           His parents had departed to the other world, some years back, content in the knowledge that they had nothing more to worry! As long as Parkash was there, their daughters would be well-cared for. They were indeed lucky to have such a doting brother.

           By then, Parkash had graduated to playing Ram, Krishna and a host of other Gods. He had wanted to provide variety in his entertainment. And who could’ve been better than his sweet sister Pari, to enact Sita, Radha and other Divine consorts. Hence, paradoxically, the brother and sister duo were lovers and consorts in the plays, by days; and siblings by night! This is when destiny started playing its mysterious tricks on them.

           Parkash started being plagued by vague feelings of attraction towards his own sister. He was horrified. He felt ashamed to even look her in the eye. At home after work, he would not talk to her properly and avoided being alone with her. He started sleeping outside the shanty. He picked up quarrels with those guys who tried to befriend Pari.

            She never suspected anything amiss as he had always been over-protective about her. As for his being withdrawn, she felt that he was tired and needed rest from his routine. So she just let him be! She cooked tasty dishes for him and fanned him with her dupatta, as he ate; oblivious to the unchaste thoughts crowding her brother’s brain, just then! Parkash was in a dilemma.

         Among the people who thronged their shows, which were now staged in the municipal school’s grounds, was one ardent admirer of Pari; Avdhut. He was a strapping lad of around 20 years; tall and muscular, with a square jaw and proud features. His brown eyes had time just for Pari. He would only watch her. The other characters in the play just didn’t exist! Often, after a play, he wouldn’t be able to recollect whether he had seen Ram Leela or Krishna Leela, much to the amusement of his close friends.

         They would tease him about it. “Marry her before you go crazy! One of these days, you might even forget your own name!” He would grin shyly.

         He was waiting for himself to settle down into a stable job; to ask for her hand in marriage. Moreover, though he hated to admit even to himself; he was very scared of Parkash. He instinctively guessed that he’d be a tough nut to crack. Didn’t he hover around his darling little sister for the better part of the day? Yes, he didn’t have a life of his own. It revolved around Pari.

          Pari had often felt Avdhut’s eyes on her and had secretly started liking him. He would be perfect for her. In fact, she’d have loved to have him in their plays, starring opposite her, instead of her obsessive brother. She really did feel stifled at times!

          One of her closest friends suggested that she could broach the topic casually with her brother and watch his reaction. She’d have to do so when he’d be in a good mood. Alas, due to his enactment of serious Gods, he had forgotten how to laugh! All his plastic smiles were reserved for his plays. Off-stage, he was bereft of emotions, except the one that was smoldering deep down, within his soul. One, which he didn’t want to openly confront! God forbid…

            One night, Pari hesitantly asked him “Dada, could we get Avdhut to act opposite me, in our plays, henceforth? It will be a good change for both of us.”

             Parkash, who had been excitedly counting that day’s bounty, suddenly went deathly still. Only a vein in his temple throbbed obviously. His jaws clenched and his eyes filled with venom as he quietly looked at her. Pari shivered. She felt as if he was a cobra about to strike at its enemy. She cowered under his contemptuous gaze. Suddenly, the deadly spell was broken as he let out a guttural moan and ran outside the shanty.

            When he returned home, at midnight, he was calm, composed and happy. Now everything would be well with his little world. Tenderly, he looked at ‘his’ beautiful Pari, bundled into fetal position in her sleep. At least she was safe. He took his pillow and mat and went out to sleep.

             The next morning, Pari’s world was shattered as the news of Avdhut’s death reached her ears. He had jumped into the overflowing canal outside their shanty and committed suicide. Pari guessed that her brother definitely had a hand in Avdhut’s death. But how could she prove it? How could she point fingers at the only relative in the world that she had? One, who had provided for her and protected her all his life! Why did he do it?

             She got the answer after 2 months. Parkash was patting her forehead and stroking her hair as was putting her to sleep, one night. This had been their routine ever since she was a babe-in-the-arm. She used to sleep deeply when she had his comforting presence and after their soothing tete-a-tete at night. That night was different.

             Parkash’s hand wandered to her neck, then to her chest. She jumped up, trembling; and looked at him fearfully. Her feminine instinct had warned her that this touch was not appropriate. Besides, wasn’t he her brother? She couldn’t bear to look at the lusty expression on his face. She grimaced in disgust, went out of the shanty and retched and vomited her dinner. Then she went inside and spat on his face.

              Vehemently, she told him, “So this is your true face! Where’s your mask of godliness? And of what use is it to me, if it can’t even protect me from your lust? After enacting so many plays with me as your consort or beloved, it seems that you have lost your senses. I am your sister, Dada, in case you’ve forgotten! Now that your mask has slipped, let me tell you that I know the fact that you murdered my Avdhut, my beloved, in cold blood. But now I can no longer keep mum. I’ll go straightaway to the police thana and report your offence. I’ll even show everyone in the basti, your true colors.” She was raving and ranting like a mad woman, by then. She resembled a beautiful witch!

         Parkash pounced on her, stuffed a cloth into her mouth to silence her and throttled her with his powerful hands. Then after a cautious look outside the shanty, to ensure that no one was around, he just dragged her with one hand and hurled her slim body into the canal.

         Back home, he wept copiously for his Pari, his foolish and beautiful Pari. Why had she not understood his feelings for her? He obviously had too much at stake, if Pari would have gone public about his amorous overtures towards her. His reputation, livelihood and life were at stake. He couldn’t afford the scandal.

         Who would accept him as any God thereafter? Who would adore and revere him? The devoted audience of his plays would castigate him and lynch him. After all, Gods were meant to be perfect! He was imperfect. Perverted and not fit to be a human being, leave alone a deity! He had got accustomed to being deified and was hungry for adulation all the time.

         The next morning the basti-dwellers saw Parkash running from shanty to shanty, asking anxiously about the whereabouts of his darling little sister. No one had seen her. When Parkash had completed the round of the entire settlement, he sat outside his shanty, with his head in his hands, then started crying loudly, repeatedly moaning “Pari, my sister, Pari, my sister! Why have you left me alone in this world?”

          Everyone gathered around their “God” and consoled him in turns. “Please get a hold over yourself, Dada, we are there for you. May her soul rest in eternal peace! She had always acted like a “Devi” so she must have definitely found a comfortable place in Heaven! Don’t worry!” said an elderly man. The others nodded their heads in unison.

          The next day, Pari’s body was found in the neighboring village, into which the canal flowed. The police were informed and they sent it for post-mortem and sent a constable to Parkash’s shanty to inform him about the sad and untimely end of his beloved sister. The villagers had recognized Pari, as most of them had seen the brother-sister duo’s enchanting performances on stage. The policemen had been in their audience several times. No one suspected Parkash’s hand in the murder.

         Rape had been ruled out (by a postmortem) and all her meager jewelry of a thin gold chain, 2 bangles and earrings were intact, hence robbery had been ruled out too. There was apparently no motive for the murder. After some half-hearted investigation, the police shut the case. Parkash was relieved, to say the least. The police allowed him to cremate her body, without much ado.

          Parkash refused to look at the bloated corpse, tightly closing his eyes and pretending to be terribly heart-broken; and requested his neighbors to cremate her. He later repaid them handsomely. After all, she was his darling little sister!

           After a ‘suitable’ mourning period of three months, he was back on stage, slaying the demon-kings, Kansa and Raavan. His mask was intact! Though he was a demon in God’s disguise, his mask of godliness and purity remained intact.

          Now, as he was ruminating over the past events of his life, he was nearing fifty, slightly over-weight and balding, but as powerful and persuasive as ever, on stage. The audience still lustily cheered his performances. He had acted opposite a succession of charming actresses and non-actresses. He still sorely missed his Pari.

          Whenever he put on his pancake make-up, her face taunted him from the mirror, mocked him and spat at him. He’d recoil and touch his cheek to wipe the imaginary spittle off! The lines on his face were deep. Each one told a saga of love and lust, murder and betrayal. He thanked God for his mask. At least, he didn’t have to face himself in the mirror, daily!

           He knew that he had to face God one day. He only hoped that he didn’t have to face Pari, ever again! God forbid…

                                    THE END

The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.

Word count: 2606