FACELESS -the hollow mask

part 1:FEASTING GODS

Evening light falls on the crowded bus stand.

A thin boy-no more than twelve-stands alone. He sells safety pins and hair clips from a small cardboard tray.

He was raised by an old tribal woman named Suichi. After a tragic accident when he was nine years old, he was found by Suichi, who took care of him in her house in the mountains. He spent months bedridden. When Suichi passed away, he was given two options: join the tribe's thieves or leave entirely. They didn't trust someone who wasn't one of their own. He decided not to go with the thieves. The last memory he had of his mother's voice told him to say no. So, he started selling the wares left behind by the old woman.

But he cannot sell enough to eat two meals a day. Hunger has already hollowed his cheeks. To survive, he begins collecting broken red bricks and charcoal from the roadside. He draws gods-using the brick dust for deep reds, and the charcoal for outlines and shadows.A releif smile tugs on his face while drawing. He tries to sell his artwork, but no one stops-not even to glance at it. That night he tells himself, If I draw better, God will notice. One day He will set the table bright. He carefully counts the few small coins he has earned. With some of them, he buys a piece of chalk to colour and line the drawings. He polishes every edge, giving the rough artwork an almost glowing finish. Then, he lies down on a park bench, his lips whispering a poem called "White Night Prayers," which he believes his mother taught him long ago. "When the white night brings the cold, Mama's warmth is yours to hold. God will take your little hand, Walk you to the sleepy land. If you're good and do what's right, He will set a table bright. Lots of food and warm, sweet bread, Rest your sleepy, little head." Then, he falls asleep. The next day, he still cannot sell a single drawing. Some people look at him for a second, then leave. He has no idea why he is failing. Still, he draws through the third night under a dim street lamp.

Morning. He stands again at the bus stand, holding up the new drawings and the tray. He calls out, but no one stops. By evening, He steps forward, getting close to the passing people. Eyes brimming with tears, he holds out his work and prays someone would buy it.

Ash, a twenty-year-old rushing to an appointment, walks with the crowd..." when he notices the boy. The boy turns in his direction, looks up at him, and pleads. "Only twenty rupees, na." Ash glances at the hundred-rupee note in his hand, saved for his own dinner. Why must it be me? Ash thinks. There are so many others here... The boy watches him walk away. He closes his eyes, grips the last drawing tightly against his chest, and whispers, his lips trembling: "When the white night brings the cold, Mama's warmth is yours to hold. God will take your little hand..." A moment of silence. Then, he collapses. Ash stops in his tracks. Something feels wrong. He turns back, rushes over, and shakes the boy's shoulder. It feels too light.

The same eyes that had been shut in prayer will never open again.

Ash's gaze drops to the cardboard still clutched in the dead boy's fingers. In the drawing, every god the boy had sketched is feasting. Plates are piled high. Mouths are open in loud, joyful laughter. Bellies are round and full. Ash stares at the note in his hand. In his mind, it is already soaked in blood. His grip loosens. A faint breeze carries the money away, dropping it into a puddle that trembles like a pool of blood. He leans closer to the water. The surface reflects only a smooth, blank, hollow mask where his face should be. No eyes. No features. When he looks up, no one in the crowd has a face either.

That night, all Ash has for dinner is the coldness still clinging to his palms from touching the dead boy. He spends the entire night on the bus, staring at the drawing. His appointment was postponed.

(NEXT PART WILL BE IN TWO DAYS )