Subhankar Roy
The Face in the Mirror
In the clay-walled room of his mud house, Gokul sat cross-legged before a cracked mirror, the bristles of his paintbrush trembling slightly as he dipped it into a pot of red. The morning sun filtered through a bamboo blind, casting lines across his bare chest. Today, he would become Hanuman.
With practiced hands, he painted white strokes over his brow, outlined his eyes in black, and added bold red lips. The paint smelled of turmeric and earth. It was the scent of his childhood, of his father’s hands guiding his tiny fingers to hold the brush, of whispers about gods and demons and the power of belief.
When he finished, he looked at himself—no longer Gokul, the boy who once wept at his father’s funeral—but Hanuman, the mighty vanara, protector, and devotee.
Outside, the village was already stirring. Cows lowed, a rooster called from a distant rooftop, and smoke rose from charcoal stoves as women began to cook rice and saag. Gokul wrapped a saffron cloth around his waist, picked up his tail and wooden mace, and stepped out into the morning.
The haat was buzzing. Traders laid out cheap bangles, bright plastic toys, and kantha-stitched cloth. Gokul walked past them, unnoticed, until he climbed onto the stone plinth near the temple gate. Then he began his transformation—no longer just through paint, but with voice, movement, spirit.
He howled like the monkey god, leapt into the air, told the story of the Sanjeevani mountain with such passion that a child in the crowd began to cry.
And then, at the edge of his vision, he saw her again.
Charulata.
The schoolteacher in her simple sky-blue saree. Always watching. Always silent.
She had watched him during Durga Puja, during Holi, even at the monsoon drama staged by the riverbank. But she never clapped. Never laughed.
Just looked. As if she was waiting for someone to step out from behind the performance.
That night, after washing away the paint with cold water from the well, Gokul lingered in front of the mirror longer than usual. He touched his face—bare, brown, tired.
He whispered to his reflection, “What are you without them?”
And the mirror, silent and cracked, gave no answer.
The Silent Applause
The next time Gokul saw Charulata was under the shade of the old pipal tree, just outside the village school. It was a Thursday, and the children were playing a game with pebbles while Charulata sat on the steps of the classroom, correcting exercise books with a pencil tucked behind her ear.
He hadn’t planned to stop, but his feet betrayed him. Still half in costume—his painted feet and crimson sash giving him away—he lingered behind the tree trunk, stealing glances.
She noticed.
“You perform today?” she asked without looking up from her notebook.
Gokul hesitated. “Yes. At the Shiv temple haat.”
“Hanuman again?” she asked, her lips curving just slightly.
He nodded, unsure whether she was mocking him or simply curious.
Charulata closed the notebook, set it aside, and looked directly at him for the first time.
“Why always gods? Why not yourself?”
The words struck him like a stone dropped in still water.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
She stood, dusted off her sari, and said softly, “I’ve seen your faces. All of them. Except one.”
Gokul laughed nervously. “This is my work, Didi. People don’t pay to see Gokul. They pay to see stories.”
“But stories come from people,” she replied. “And people are more interesting than gods, sometimes.”
With that, she walked inside, leaving Gokul staring after her, the ghost of her words heavy in the air.
That evening, he performed as usual, dressed as Ravana, his ten heads made of papier-mâché swaying with every move. The children laughed, the old men nodded, the women dropped coins into his bowl.
But his eyes searched the crowd—and she wasn’t there.
For the first time, his performance felt hollow.
Later, in the silence of his room, Gokul wiped off the layers of makeup slowly, almost sorrowfully. He stared at the basin full of pinkish water and whispered, “Will they ever want to see me?”
The mirror offered no reassurance.
But that night, he dreamed of Charulata—not watching from afar, but sitting beside him, her fingers gently tracing the ridges of dry paint on his cheek.
Painted Truths
The village fair was just a week away—Chaitra Mela, the grandest event before the Bengali New Year. People came from nearby hamlets, and even from the dusty towns, to eat puffed rice and jaggery sweets, buy new brassware, and watch the evening performances.
Gokul knew he had to prepare something spectacular.
He began working on a new mask—Mahishasura, the demon with green skin, curved horns, and bloodshot eyes. But each time he painted it, Charulata’s question came back like an echo—“Why not yourself?”
It gnawed at him.
That afternoon, while the sun blazed over the red earth, Gokul made his way to the school. He stood at the gate until the last bell rang, and the children scattered like sparrows. Charulata remained inside, arranging the chalks and wiping the blackboard clean.
He stepped in, barefoot, nervous.
She looked up.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, his voice dry.
“That’s dangerous,” she smiled.
He chuckled, then grew serious. “What would happen… if I didn’t wear a mask at the fair?”
Charulata raised her eyebrows. “You mean, perform as yourself?”
“Yes. Just Gokul. With no gods. No demons.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Then, walking over, she said, “People may laugh. Or walk away. Or listen quietly. But you’ll know, finally, what they see when they look at you.”
Gokul exhaled, unsure if he felt relief or fear.
Charulata leaned on a desk and asked, “What’s your real story, Gokul? Not the gods’ stories. Yours.”
He thought for a moment, then said slowly, “My father was a Bahurupi too. He said we must make people believe in something bigger. That without masks, we are nothing.”
“And do you believe that?”
“I used to.”
Silence hung between them. Then she reached into her bag and took out a book—Thakurmar Jhuli, the old folktales of Bengal—and handed it to him.
“Start there,” she said. “You’ve worn a hundred faces. Now learn to tell your own.”
As he walked back through the village that evening, the air felt different. Lighter. The birds seemed louder, the soil warmer beneath his feet.
And when he passed the temple, the priest called out, “Ei Gokul, what god tomorrow?”
Gokul paused, then smiled. “No god. Just a story.”
The priest frowned. “Whose?”
“Mine,” he said simply.
That night, for the first time in his life, Gokul didn’t reach for the paint.
He picked up a pen.
The Boy Without a Mask
On the morning of Chaitra Mela, the village woke to cymbals and conch shells, the air thick with roasted peanuts and marigold petals. Hawkers hoisted bright banners, children chased kites across the dusty fairground, and the usual troupe of Bahurupis painted themselves into gods and monsters.
Inside his hut, Gokul sat before the mirror—bare-faced, palms slick with sweat. The cracked glass reflected only his own anxious eyes and the faint scar on his chin – a memento from tumbling off his father’s shoulders years ago. Every instinct screamed to reach for the vermilion and turmeric, to disappear behind divinity.
He clenched his fists instead.
From under the cot he pulled out a small ektara—his father’s, the gourd polished by time. Its single copper string had been replaced just yesterday with money Charulata slipped into his hand, whispering, “A story needs a voice.”
Gokul slung the instrument over his shoulder, breathed once, and stepped outside.
A Sea of Eyes
By late afternoon, the performance square was a carnival of colors. Near the banyan tree, a Bahurupi Ravana strutted, papier-mâché heads bobbing. Across the path, a blue-skinned Krishna coaxed tourists into selfies.
When the announcer called, “Next—Gokul, the Bahurupi!” the crowd shuffled expectantly, searching for painted splendor. What they saw instead was a lean young man in a plain cotton kurta, holding nothing but an ektara and a shy smile.
A confused ripple moved through the onlookers. Someone muttered, “Where’s his mask?” A child tugged her mother’s sari, disappointed.
Gokul’s knees threatened to buckle. He spotted Charulata standing at the back, hands folded, eyes steady. Her silent faith held him upright.
A Story Carved in Clay
He plucked the ektara string—one trembling note that rose into the warm blue sky. Then he began, voice soft but clear:
“I was born on red earth, beneath the shadow of a bamboo roof.
My mother taught me lullabies; my father taught me faces.
When I was ten, he said, ‘Paint a god and you will never be hungry.’
So I painted, and people bowed—not to me, but to what I pretended to be.”
The crowd stilled, curiosity edging out disappointment. Gokul walked the perimeter, meeting eyes instead of avoiding them.
“One summer my father fell ill.
He told me, ‘A Bahurupi must be everything for everyone—
just never be yourself, for they won’t applaud that.’
I believed him, until a teacher with sky-blue eyes asked,
‘But who are you?’”
A hush settled. Even the Ravana paused, papier-mâché heads drooping to listen.
Murmurs and Mirrors
Gokul spoke of loneliness behind paint, of longing to feel wind on skin uncoated by grease, of nightly dreams where a cracked mirror demanded answers. Each confession was followed by a simple ektara phrase that lingered like incense.
When he finished, he bowed—not as Shiva or Hanuman, but as Gokul, son of a Bahurupi, teller of his own tale.
For a heartbeat, there was only the creak of a distant Ferris wheel. Then an elderly woman near the front clapped—slow, deliberate. A young boy joined her, then two traders, until applause rolled through the square like summer thunder.
Gokul’s breath left him in a rush. Tears blurred the faces before him, and for once they were not painted.
A Small Rebellion
Yet not everyone was pleased. The temple committee’s senior priest strode forward, brows knotted. “This is Chaitra Mela, boy. People come for gods, not sob stories.”
Gokul straightened. “I offered them truth, Thakurmoshai. Isn’t that sacred too?”
The priest sniffed. “Next year, wear your proper mask—or you’ll have no place on our stage.”
The threat stung, but applause still rippled behind the old man’s back. Gokul realized something: the priest’s scowl was just another mask, and he had no power over the freedom already kindled in Gokul’s chest.
Beneath the Banyan
Dusk settled, lanterns flickered, and the fair grew louder with drums and laughter. Gokul found Charulata under the banyan tree, its roots glowing amber in lamplight.
She smiled. “So, how does it feel?”
“Like stepping into sunlight after years in a cave,” he said, voice hoarse. “But I may have angered the committee.”
“Progress always angers somebody,” she replied, handing him a clay cup of jaggery tea.
They sipped in companionable silence until fireflies stitched green sparks through the branches. A breeze carried the mixed aromas of incense and fried jalebis.
Charulata turned to him. “You shared your story. Now let them share theirs about you. Some will praise, some will condemn—but you finally look like yourself.”
Gokul touched his cheek, marveling at the absence of paint. “Will you… help me write new stories?” he asked.
She laughed softly. “Only if you promise never to hide that face again.”
Gokul nodded, suddenly certain the next chapter of his life would need no mask at all.
Ashes of Old Paint
The next morning, Gokul stood beside the narrow pond behind his hut, watching the still surface reflect his bare face. In his hand, he held a rusted tin box—his father’s paint kit. Inside were small glass vials of indigo and vermilion, dried-out brushes wrapped in cloth, and a string of wooden beads stained with grease.
He opened each vial and sniffed the memories.
Of his father’s booming voice declaring “Narayan Narayan!”
Of temples echoing with coins clinking into his bowl.
Of lonely nights where the mirror was his only audience.
And then he dipped his hand into the water and began washing the vials clean.
One by one, the colors disappeared into ripples, trailing away like offerings to the past. The brushes, brittle with time, snapped gently in his fingers. He buried them beside the banyan tree, like bones of a life he was ready to let go.
That evening, a group of children gathered at his door, tugging at his lungi.
“Gokul da, no Hanuman today? No stories?”
He smiled, squatted down to their level, and held up a plain notebook. “Only real stories from now. Want to hear about the girl who taught a Bahurupi how to stop pretending?”
They giggled and sat around him, wide-eyed.
Letters and Looks
Charulata began stopping by more often after school—sometimes with books, sometimes just with tea. She brought him Tagore poems, journals from the city, even a half-broken harmonium left behind in the staffroom.
One day, she asked shyly, “Do you write your own stories now?”
He nodded, showing her a crumpled page where he’d described the first time he heard his mother hum while pounding rice.
“You write like you’re still performing,” she said. “That’s a good thing.”
They sat close, sometimes too close, under the fading light. The line between companion and something more began to blur—hesitant but warm, like the way fingers might touch accidentally and not pull away.
The villagers began to whisper.
“A schoolteacher and a Bahurupi?”
“She should find someone from the town.”
“She’ll leave, they always do.”
Charulata heard the murmurs, but never spoke of them. Gokul heard them too, and buried the sting in his notebook.
The Torn Poster
One morning, a poster appeared on the temple gate: Bahurupi Festival – Apply Now.
But at the bottom, in bold letters: “Only traditional acts with costume and makeup. No personal pieces.”
Charulata read it first. “They’re trying to shut you out.”
Gokul shrugged. “They have rules. I broke them.”
“But it’s cowardly.”
“It’s also expected.”
She looked at him for a long time. “You know, you always speak like you’re protecting everyone else. But who protects you?”
The question hung like fog.
That night, Gokul didn’t sleep. He sat outside, staring at the torn edges of old posters nailed to the tree trunks. One had his name in red, from last year—“Ravana Unleashed!” The other was for a medicine seller’s snake oil.
He chuckled bitterly. “A Bahurupi and a fraud—what’s the difference?”
The wind answered by tearing a piece of the poster loose, fluttering it into the dust.
A Fire in the Courtyard
Two days later, without telling anyone, Gokul built a small fire in the middle of his courtyard. The entire village watched from afar as he tossed the last of his masks into it—Shiva, Krishna, Kali, Ravana, even the monkey-tail of Hanuman.
He stood still as the flames curled around them, paint melting like butter, bamboo splintering. Some laughed nervously. Some whispered.
Charulata arrived just as the final mask blackened.
She didn’t stop him.
Instead, she stood beside him as he said softly, “I have no faces left.”
She reached for his hand. “No. You finally have one.”
Gokul looked at her, really looked—eyes soft, steady. She wasn’t afraid of the flames. And neither was he.
The Man Who Stayed
A year passed. Seasons turned the red earth green and then dusty again. The haats returned, so did the festivals—but something had changed.
Gokul was no longer the Bahurupi.
He was now simply Gokul-da—storyteller, writer, friend.
The children still came, filling the space outside his house with their noisy feet and questions. But instead of masks and gods, they asked for ghost stories, love tales, riddles wrapped in riddles. And Gokul gave them those, his voice weaving through evening light like a boat on a river with no destination, only rhythm.
Charulata still taught at the school, her voice now laced with gentler joy. Some said she was waiting for a government posting transfer. Others whispered she’d rejected it.
One summer morning, as the village yawned into another day, Charulata arrived at Gokul’s house with two bags.
“I got the offer,” she said. “Midnapore. Assistant Headmistress.”
He looked at her, stunned. “And you came to say goodbye?”
“I came to ask you,” she said, placing the bags on the ground, “if you want me to stay.”
The silence between them felt heavier than any applause he’d ever received.
He walked to the edge of the courtyard, where the banyan tree still bore the soot mark of the fire from a year ago. He placed his hand on its trunk, then turned to her.
“Once,” he said slowly, “I performed so people would see the god, not the man.”
“And now?”
“Now I want someone to see the man, and still stay.”
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she unpacked the smaller bag and began folding her clothes back into his wooden trunk.
The Festival Without Gods
That autumn, during the village festival, the committee gave in. Perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of awe. They invited Gokul to perform—no gods, no makeup, just stories.
He walked up to the stage in a simple blue kurta. The crowd was packed. Even the priest stood in a corner, arms crossed.
Gokul sat cross-legged, opened his notebook, and began.
“In a village far from cities and closer to dreams,
lived a man who wore a hundred faces,
until one day, he met a woman who asked him—
‘Which one is yours?’”
The crowd didn’t blink. He saw old faces, new ones. And one, in a sky-blue saree, leaning against a neem tree, smiling softly.
Epilogue: A Small Face in the Mirror
One evening, much later, as the wind danced through the window of their shared hut, Charulata called out, “Come see!”
Gokul entered to find her holding their toddler son in front of the mirror. The child was smearing red paint on his cheeks with curious fingers.
“Like Baba?” he asked, giggling.
Gokul knelt down, gently wiping away the paint. “No, little one. Like you.”
The child looked confused.
Charulata laughed. “He’s still learning.”
Gokul smiled, his eyes glinting.
“Yes,” he said, “and he has all the time in the world to wear faces—but only after he’s proud of his own.”
The mirror, no longer cracked, showed three reflections that evening.
None of them wore masks.
And all of them belonged.
The End
