The Ugly Manling

The man snored, swaddled in the cradles of sleep. Morn was about to crack open, as was yet another day of warring. The sun soon rose, awash in it’s colours, dripping it’s hues over the sore sky, with the night melting away. Rays sneaked in and onto the man’s face, awaking him as gently as a mother would.

As he was getting dressed, he couldn’t help noticing what he saw every day. The mirror reflected back the jarring realities of himself. The dark, scarred face saw him back, smeared with red pimples. His lips were swollen always, and he made quite some jokes at that to amuse him. His eyes ran up to his forehead, above which hair had refused to grow since years. He liked whatever hair he did have, and refused to shave it clean. ‘You look thrice your age,’ those who were willing to talk told him. ‘Ugly,’ they called him behind his back.

. . .

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The Ugly Manling

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