The mask


As a very young girl I had a fascination for masks. Starting from the green man in yellow suit to the few stage plays I’ve been to, masks were indeed entrancing. They had colours, a mould, and there was always a rope to pull it off with when it suffocated. I was a child back then. Twenty years into life, and the word mask means a little different to me now. They have no colour, no mould, they have my face but not my soul. They suffocate but there is no escape rope. When life demands that I wear them, what choice do I have? The important lessons I learnt as a woman is, to blink away tears, constrain smiles, look without anyone watching, hug with just words, cry into wet pillows and move with the ‘crowd’. 

These masks are a part of survival. They are a part of life itself, a sign of growing up. What is important is to remember not to lose one’s face behind them and to fight them off when you really got to. Else, it might etch so deep into the skin that one might grow blind to their own face. May be, all the world is a stage and Shakespeare wasn’t wrong about it. 

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