Born without a name, without an identity, the faceless man’s journey begins as any other slum dog. No, he doesn’t grow up to become a millionaire. I doubt any slum kids do. The faceless man’s life is consumed by emptiness and without reason. In his life, there is no such thing as destiny.
You’ve all seen the faceless man before – As an infant in his mothers lap, crying out of hunger. His mother by the side of your car window, pleading you for some money to feed her starving child. Remember? Yes, you do. You looked away. Don’t try and justify yourself to me. You can very well go on convincing yourself that you would have only attracted more beggars by helping this one. I’ve done it and so have you.
The day this boy learns to use his mouth and legs, he no longer acts as a prop but takes over his mother’s unsuccessful business. Let’s admit it; no one buys tissue boxes sold by the roadside or gigantic spider man balloons. Unlike most of his comrades in the field, he doesn’t take to a life of drugs, thugs and cash. The faceless man grows out of the business and wanders somewhere into the wild.
This is where his true journey begins. Wearing nothing but give away brown pants and an almost torn shirt, a vagabond is born. He travels across the land, searching for redemption. Several days pass since his last meal, a bitter half eaten piece of bread. Changes in his body become quite visible from this point of time. His ribs begin to stick out like an anorexic teenage girl and his hair grows down to your everyday caveman’s length.
Seasons pass and the faceless man is far from where he started. Spending the cold, rainy night on the side of a foot path trying to ignore his body’s cry for food and warmth. He has no thoughts, no memories. So energy deprived that he has lost his ability to speak. The faceless man has had his last conversation years ago and now only relies on hand signals, which we often come to ignore.
I usually wonder what goes on in the mind of the faceless man. What does he believe in? What does he think of this world and the people that surround him? You can say that he’s seen every corner of the city but he still hasn’t seen the inside of a mall. Mindlessly wandering from place to place, sleeping under a bridge, letting out a powerless moan and sticking his hand out when he comes by you. If not for his appearance, he’d almost be as lifeless as a zombie.
By now his hair has gone white, his beard flowing down to his chest, tangled in knots and covered in dirt. His pants are almost completely torn and colorless. His torso is covered by a dirty sheet picked out of a foul sewer. His physique is that of a poor African war child. He now takes the support of a wooden stick. His appearance leads us to believe that he is a spiritual being with supernatural connections. No, this guy is not a magical priest.
No one has ever thought of who the faceless man is. No one has ever wondered if he does even have a name. He hasn’t mentioned it, nor has anyone asked in so long that he too has forgotten. What’s your story faceless man? Where have you come from? What cruelties have you endorsed in this nomadic life of yours? I want to know who the faceless man is. I want to give him a name. I want to know his story. I may not be able to help much, but at least acknowledge the fact that he exists.
However, the fear of a non responsive, uninterested, close to dead man haunts me. Does the faceless man want to be heard, or has he fallen into the void of no return? Is he just another walking bag of bones waiting for his time? How will we ever know…? He was here a second ago, but now he’s gone.
by Hamza Farooq
Beautifully moving story and so true it makes one uncomfortable.