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Boy With No Face by Bhanuraj Kashyap: Indian Literature: Short Stories
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My dreary existence speaks for itself. As the night drops in on us to take us to fitful sleep, I lie awake,
dreading tomorrow, with its infinitely long seconds; I dont know what to do with the time Ive been allotted.
Neither Im squandering it nor am I saving it.
Ah! Allow me to recount the tale of my uneventful and monotonous life, plagued by boredom. Im raving, I
know! But, I cant help myself. I have lost the clarity of my thoughts and my emotions are no longer stirred;
the instantaneous urges of mine have lost their strength and no longer do they scramble for their own
gratification. What pitiful sight! For what is a man that circumvents pleasure for no evident reason, other
than finding it unendurably weary and languid? Pleasure must speak for pleasure, extolling its virtues and
undermining its vices! Am I dead in spirit? Or am I succumbing to some mental illness of which Im as of
now unaware?
Ah! I met her a few weeks ago and took her hand in mine and breathed on the purity of her spirit. Even
love has lost its charm for me. Ive seen through it and what befalls is not a pleasure to senses but a
certain type of displeasure of aloofness and melancholy. Ah, but, again, Im digressing!
Im here to narrate a story and narrate I will but the story has not yet sunk in and my imagination has
already deserted me. Poor me! I shall carry on, writing as Im thinking, heaving the responsibility of
making out any sense of my rambling on my reader, apologising in advance.
Once upon a time, long long ago, there lived a boy- tall, lanky, skinny. He was devoid of beauty and all
those who looked upon him exclaimed with great terror and grief, Ugly! Isnt he but ugly! But, the boy
was unresponsive to their derogatory and disdainful comments, and instead smiled in resignation, a word
he barely understood. His mom shunned him at home and as he grew up, she left him to make a living of
his own, and so hed wonder around the village, all alone, without company and hooligan boys of his age
would throw stones at him, beleaguer him with nasty remarks and hed never complain, not because he
couldnt but because he wouldnt. He never held a grudge against them. He pitied them. For he
possessed what they could never hope to get hold of-no, not a pure heart-but, the beauty of silence. If one
could manage to close his eyes and be around him and strike a conversation with him, the
conversationalist in him would be unleashed to take command. He had a soft, effeminate, and lyrical voice
and the choice of his words was hauntingly poetic. Indeed, his speech was remarkable. But, his silence
was more daunting, more understanding. Many a times, people would seek him out and while he stood
facing his back to them, theyd talk and hed listen. Theyd share their most profound grievances and
revelations, declaim their most shameful desires and passions, cry out their most appalling traits and
weaknesses and hed encouragingly and calmly listen, without so much as so passing a judgement or a
suggestion in between, but, he might occasionally break in on their flow-without, in fact, in any way
jeopardizing it- speak a little here and there, and then would allow the speaker to resume his tale. Had
one ever looked at him in those moments, one would have observed the unusual spark in his sea green
eyes, the light twirls of his curly loops in the sunlight, the crease of understanding across his brow and the
slushy way he licked his pale dead lips. Indeed, he was charming and his charm precisely kept him well
fed as people- in exchange for hearing him speak- might throw in stale food, which hed later relish. He
was an outcast, living within the village. His words were hanging in every household while he was still
living on the street.
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Ah! He was the secret keeper-always available, never really out of sight. Although he was a nomad, yet,
one knew where to find him when the need to confess took hold of oneself. And the boy was always by his
own, lost in his dreams and his patrond approach him from behind, the noise of his footsteps giving him
away, and the boyd acknowledge his presence with a nod and that was the cue for the patron to begin.
Strangely, never did the visit of two people collide! And only when one was done, would the other follow!
What the boy did in his spare time was a matter of no interest yet some of his unctuous patrons had seen
his back observe the sky, his hands make shapes in the sand or his dirty mud smeared feet hum beats.
But, never did they hear the listener become the speaker and most of his regular visitors, often wondered
whether he had any feelings or emotions to express and once or twice, his mom (his most esteemed and
promised patron) tried to make him emote himself, more out of obligation than out of consideration. She
never succeeded and was secretly happy about her failure. She feared if her son ever did unveil his
emotions, hed complain bitterly about his mother, and run her name through the mud; as if it was her fault
in the first place he had turned out to be as ugly as he was, so ugly that even words fell short of ridiculing
him. Shed often rant about her helplessness in solving his predicament. He was born just fine, she once
claimed before him. In fact, he was more exquisite and delicate than his two elder siblings could be and
people from places unknown and unimaginable came to stare at him in wonder and in awe. Then, when
he was two years old, while happily suckling milk, he bit her nipples, drawing a spring of blood and a curse
befell him. For two days, she profusely bled blood and for two days, he profusely bled beauty. His
ugliness, his wretchedness was his fault, she once shrieked at him. Later, after that dreadful episode
elapsed, against the wishes of her husband, she carried her son to pundits and priests who dwelled in far
off places, and as each rebuffed her after a fleeting glance at her son, she soon realized to her dismay
there was no hope for her son and hed always be tainted with this curse, never purging himself off it.
Beauty is the norm of the society, she once complained to him. When she returned to the village, after a
period of three unrewarding years, she learned her husband had quite recently passed away and now she
not only had a house to run but also had to look after her three children, one of whom was a disgrace. I
did try killing you if its any consolation, she once muttered to him, tears welling in her eyes. She had
taken a pillow to his mouth and would have smothered him without a moments hesitation had he not
muttered his first word, Mom. She gave an involuntarily start and threw the pillow aside. She was
delighted. Her suspicions were mollified- her son wasnt dumb, after all. That was the last time she had
hugged him. And, years later, when his fist pubic hair developed, she threw him out of the house. She was
scared his curse would be passed on to her two gorgeous and petite girls and she couldnt bear to
consider that thought any further, so, she got themselves rid of him. Besides, no handsome and well off
boy was calling on his sisters because of him and they were soon to be married; she decided to sacrifice
him for them and never once did she repent her decision. Only once did she hesitantly apologise to him,
more as a formality than as a lament. To this, he replied softly, Mom, you neednt apologise. To me, your
love is more precious than your expression of it. I know you youll always love me, wont you, mom? She
never replied.
Ah, but thats who he was! To him, love drifted in the heart and not in its gestures; gestures could be
flawed. But, again Im digressing! Forgive my over indulgence, its a trait I have recently picked up and
cant seem to do away with it.
But, he never lived in a farce for the villagers guarded him against the outsiders, and his legend stayed
only with them, and his fame never spread for it was not allowed to spread. Even when outsiders passed
through the village or visited for a few days, hed be kept out of sight. The villagers were possessive about
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him- their gesture was all fine, albeit their intentions were strangely clouded. So, when one day, a young
girl with sorrow in her eyes sought him, he was taken aback and his ears took time to get accustomed to
her choking voice and her first words to him were, Hes getting married to my best friend. And then, she
recounted her love story and he listened to it attentively and in the middle, she broke down many times,
and hed let her cry, and soon after an hour of crying, she was exhausted and numb and only then did he
trust himself to ask, Did you really love him? A few seconds of suspended silence and she burst out
laughing, loudly and cheerfully. After she had regained control, she leaned towards his back, softly
touched his shoulders with her fragile hands and whispered to him, I guess you are right. I was never
actually in love with him. It was mere infatuation. She shook her head and ruffled his hair and took his
leave. That night, he could barely sleep and tracing the warmth of her touch on his skin, he convulsively
sobbed.
And thus began an intimate friendship.
Every evening, theyd sit in each others company, mostly hushed and lost, and occasionally, shed share
a joke or an anecdote with him and at times, he even shared bits and pieces from his life and he
discovered, to his amusement, she was a listener nearly as patient and sympathetic as he was. Shed ask
him questions, here and there and hed oblige with answers and then shed reply, I love listening to you.
And hed smile. She had never seen his face and he had never seen hers and yet they were deeply drawn
into each other, mumbling words of tender and warmth. In those rare moments of human closeness, hed
be freed of his feelings and let them pour out. He confided in her those things he had kept hidden from
himself- his painful memories of his parents, his embarrassment and self hatred when people looked at
him and cried, Grotesque! Grotesque! Oh, sheer horror!, his grief over his sisters indifference to his
pitiful condition and his doubt over his life and his heaviness at blaming himself for his repulsive looks. He
once told her, Back in my house, my sisters used to avoid my shadow. They werethey were horrified by
me. Once, he asked her, Why do you think Im an excellent listener? When she failed to come up with a
reply, he answered, Because I know my words hold no value. And the first time she asked him, Do you
think you are ugly? It took a minute for him to think and respond, May I kindly point out it doesnt matter
anymore? I was six when I first registered the word ugly used for me and I retaliated and I rebelled, with
all the immense belief I had in myself and in my inncoence. For the next few years, thats what I did but
how long could I have fought? No one voiced my opinion and I had to fight against the world. Slowly, and I
cant say when, a lingering doubt crept in and like a parasite, it grew and grew and gradually all my beliefs
and hopes were dashed. So, the day a stranger, saw me and spit in my face, I realized to my horror that I
was, indeed, ugly, that I was indeed, despicable, that I was, indeed, despised and with the last cry of
battle, I spent that night scratching and fiercely scratching and brutally scratching my face, hoping that my
sharp nails would dig in my flesh and mould my features into something more pleasantmore human.
After a pause, he added, Unfortunately, even an ugly cannot love himself. She broke down and he
consoled her, But, its all in the past. Now, now, no one dare look upon me. And she yelled, I want to
gaze at your face for eternity. His face tightened and his body tensed. He curtly declined her offer and
said, in his musical voice, I cant bear to lose the only friend that I have. She was relentless, severe and
forcibly she turned him around and saw his gruesome face. He was scared, his eyes were shut and his
heart was beating with the anticipation of violence. She stared at him for a moment, her breathing shallow,
and for them, a moment stopped, and suddenly, she bent over and kissed him on his lips, almost magical,
almost paranormal.
He had taken one step at a time and she had kept on nudging him in the right direction.
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And then
Amidst a whirlwind, with shoulders brushing almost apologetically and whispers passing- of dreams
incomplete and spirit indomitable, of emotions secretive and loud laughter, of heat oppressing and cold
winter, of daffodils blooming in the meadow and dry leaves crackling, of loneliness killing and silence
interminable, and of each others body tightly pressing together, almost to the brim, choking
andgentlycravinglysuffocating.
Their heads were in the cloud and thunderstorm blazed on the ground.
And balls of fire dropped.
And, for them, the two enraptured in one, each moment was fleeting, evading, and running away from the
monotony of life, as if scared of its strangling quality, and they pitied all those who lived lifes masquerade,
pushing themselves on, pulling themselves up, struggling and calling it surviving- they hadnt experienced
the pleasures of love!
But, not for them-the two enraptured in one!-whose every touch was a spark, trembling with symbolic
possibility
Ah, but what neither noticed was his face, which, with every passing second, and with every outburst of
passion was taking a new shape of its own and adding new contours to itself, until, one day, she saw him
and exclaimed, You are the most beautiful boy there ever was! He squinted at her uncertainly, unable to
believe his ears but her expressions painted sincerity. He ran towards the lake and in its clear crystal
water, he sought his reflection and touched his face and tears simmered in his eyes. He, indeed, had
become handsome. He sat among the greenery of the trees, gaping, holding her hand and then, as if in
falling in delirium, he started murmuring thank you thank you to her and then, out of the blue, he began
jumping and yelping with delight and wonder.
Alas, beauty comes with a price! Yes, for days, people showered kisses and bestowed words of honour
on him and his family presented him as if he were a jewel, a precious little diamond they owned and he
was ecstatic, ignoring the hypocrisy of the masses and spending most of his time with her. But, as more
and more days elapsed into nothingness, people observed he no longer had time for them and their secret
keeper had a life of his own. Some of his regular patrons approached him, requested him that he spend
some time with them as well and he gave in for he knew the addiction of a person is the most harmful of
all and hence, is hard to drop.
But, his patrons couldnt bring to reveal themselves before him anymore. Theyd look at his proud, erected
spine and would run out of words. They knew, on the other side, was a face of a sculpture they might
never see. So, they complained again. And a new setting was adopted. He faced them, stared into their
eyes. But, the moment their eyes fell on him, they were dazzled and quickly forgot what they were
supposed to say. They blamed his beauty and disliked his apathy. But, he chose to ignore them. An
underlying current of coldness and anger rushed to meet him. People turned their backs on him, glared at
him through their windows and chaos and mayhem spread in the village. Fights broke out in shops and
domestic violence became a common occurrence. They were finding it difficult to fall back on to those
peaceful times when he wasnt around and suppression to them was second nature. Now, they couldnt
check their impulses and didnt know how to cope with their prickling emotional confusion. They threw
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punches on walls, shrieked from within and their eyes became hollow and faces turned pale. He was
unintentionally torturing them. His mother refused to believe her son had become a stranger and
continuously asked herself, Is a new face a new identity? His sisters werent hankered after and their
magnificence was drowned in his and for once, jealousy brewed in them and they prayed for his death.
Only two people remained happy and they were the boy and his beloved. Theyd still meet at night, in
secret, and clutch each others hands tightly and build a future together. He was grateful to her and
nibbled her ears and bit her neck.
So, one fine day, he called on her father and asked him for her hand in marriage. Her father was an
uptight, conventional man who followed all the norms and the norm in the village was: Stay away from the
boy. So, her father declined his proposal and concocted a story that her daughter was betrothed to his
friends son and he couldnt break his promise. He pleaded and went on his knees and begged and there
was sympathy in the girls fathers heart but he didnt act on it because, he shockingly observed, that the
beauty of the boy was wearing off a little and he made a connection that dumbfounded him for a few
minutes. His wifes eyes were red, she was irritated and she had often visited the boy; for the past weeks,
they had been continually brawling and grumbling and as his understanding augmented, a solution
strolled into his mind. He towered upon the boy and declared, She will never meet you again. And he
asked his wife to take their crying daughter away and lock her in her room. Within a few minutes, the boy
was back to his earlier self, and tears were smeared all over his disfigured face and the girls father cried,
Grotesque! Grotesque! Oh, sheer horror! And with it the town breathed a sigh of relief and people
walked on the streets, shaking hands, celebrating and exclaiming, Love! Love was the culprit! It was
love!
In the evening, the boy was back to receiving his patrons, listening to each one patiently and cursing his
beauty of silence from inside.
And, after a week, as the town was restored to a state of equanimity and as his moms son was back and
as her sisters were given the attention they were son used to, and as people decided to put this horrible
incident past them, the boy and his beloved had planned a surprise for them.
In the middle of a cloudless night, while the stars shifted and moved here and there, they eloped.
In the morning, a party was organized and for months, it looked for them, tried to locate them but search
to no avail. And no one knew what happened to them.
They were eternallylost.
AndMayhem ensued.
Ah, even now if you take a lazy walk around the town, you might chance upon a face so gruesome, so
horrific, and so ghastly, that you will shriek in disgust. But, then, calm your weak heart. Narrate a story to
him
Once upon a time, long long ago, there lived a boy- tall, lanky, skinny. He was devoid of beauty and all
those who looked upon him exclaimed with great terror and grief, Ugly! Isnt he but ugly! But, there lived
a brave girl who possessed the courage to look beyond his skin to see that beautythat even
beautyonly resided in him and that lovelove is the culprit of all beings.
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Author: Bhanuraj Kashyap Genre: Short Story Country: India