The Mask Seller

The Mask Seller

Finsbury Park was my own little world, away from the rest of the globe. I lived in its embrace, in a quiet house on Seven Sisters’ Road, I grew up, nourished in its liveliness and when it was time to leave the nest, it made sure that each time I returned, it welcomed me with its arms wide open.

Stepping out of the station, I sighed, letting the chilly spring air cool my travel weary countenance. From the corner of my eye, I saw two boys, peering through the glass wall of the Arsenal store, eyes shining with typical Gunners’ loyalty, hearts left craving for want of finance.

My heart leapt, as I smiled softly in their direction, before beginning to walk home.

The path from the Finsbury Park Tube Station to my quiet house on Seven Sisters’ Road was a journey in itself. It was the first walk that I had taken all by myself, at the age of five, with a parent stationed at each of the terminals. The spirit of independence radiated through me, twenty years since that day, when the smell of fried chicken wafted through the air.

‘Hallo, Riz,’ I said, waving to the owner of the burger shop, right past the curb. He was getting the grill ready, before the evening business kicked off.

‘No time for greetings, love,’ he said, winking at me, ‘No time at all.’

I shook my head. Riz never had time for anything, save for finding ways to sneak as many chips into a single burger box without breaking the box. His menu, handwritten, said that he sold “Single burger. Chips included”. Dad always said that he should rephrase that as “Chips. Single burger(mostly) included”.

It was our go-to dinner on Friday nights.

I walked on, looking at the Finsbury Park, gearing up for the London Fair. The game stalls had been built and a huge pendulum ride emerged in the middle.

My heart beat faster, and my insides leapt with adrenaline, thinking of the pendulum, also called “Thor’s Hammer”. It went on for four minutes and if some poor, tormented visitor asked the foreman to stop, he’d add a bonus two minutes.

My mother had her heart in her mouth, each time my father and I rode that ride, usually earning us a six minute riding time, by voicing her concerns.

I stopped outside the Russian bakery, just before the turn into Seven Sisters’ Road, remembering my mother’s request of getting a loaf of bread and some lemon cake on my way home.

The owner, whose name I’d never learnt, nodded, a slight smile etched on her face, as I ordered.

‘We now have ko-fe,’ she said, gesturing to the coffee machine in the corner.

‘How lovely,’ I said, ‘A cup, please.’

‘First ko-fe, on house,’ she said, walking up to the machine.

I grinned, watching her start the machine, before coming back to pack my cakes.

Making my way to the small sit-out outside the bakery, I took a seat, facing the park, watching Finsbury Park in its full glory.

The sun shone over the treetops in the park, reflecting over the metal of the rides. The pavement bustled, with children watching the rides being built, adults, returning from work, the fitness-conscious individuals, running past all the people, aloof to their existence, parents pushing prams, stopping midway for a chat.

My mind settled into a peaceful harmony and the feverish homesickness wore off, making way for that healthy security that Finsbury Park brought.

Just then, an echo of a voice reached my ears.

‘Balloons,’ came a man’s voice, ‘Balloons of all kinds, balloons for everyone.’

I gasped, turning to the place where the balloon seller stood. He meant every balloon. There were the usual round ones, the long, squiggly ones, heart shaped, foil balloons, the new plastic ones with the fairy lights.

But that is not what struck me.

‘Balloons of all kinds,’ he said again, his voice echoing through the houses on Seven Sisters’ Road.

Memory stirred. I shut my eyes, wondering why a simple ballon seller’s calling affected me so profoundly.. My heart fluttered, my mind strained to find the memory. My sense of peace dwindled, giving way to a mystical restlessness as I went back several years, to the summer, when I had just turned thirteen.

In my mind’s eye, I could clearly see that day. It was hot. Very hot, even for summer in London, and the heat had made my family wallow in lethargy.

‘Don’t you have anything better to do?’ said my father, peering over the newspaper that he had already read thrice, ‘Go to the fair. Win those little bears that you keep winning.’

‘The fair hasn’t started yet,’ I said, putting my book down, ‘They’re still building the rides. I hear there’s a ride that dribbles the riders like a basketball.’

‘Amazing how creative they get,’ Dad said, ‘It’s got to be thrilling.’

‘I don’t understand how tormenting oneself is thrilling,’ said my mother stepping into the room with a bowl in her hand, ‘And don’t you think of going, your heart isn’t meant for all this madness.’

‘Mask seller,’ came a distant voice, cutting through the conversation, ‘All kinds of masks, masks for everybody.’

‘Mask seller?’ said my mother, raising a brow, ‘Never heard of one.’

‘And a loud one at that,’ Dad said.

‘Mask seller. Masks for all.’

‘I am going to see,’ I said, ‘Can I have some dosh?’

‘What are you going to do with masks?’

‘Mask seller. All kinds of masks.’

‘Here’s a ripe pound,’ said my father, ‘And here’s three more.’

Grabbing the money, I ran out of the house, looking around to attach a face to the voice.

‘Mask seller.’

The voice was deep and rather musical. I looked towards Finsbury Park, my eyes fixed upon a man with a cart of masks.

I saw nothing else.

Drawn, as if in some trance, I walked up to the man, his voice captivating me in some profound joy. I had crossed the busy street without knowing it, and I stood facing a wall of masks.

Masks of all kinds, smiling back at me.

I took a step back, touching a child with the head of a lion.

No. A child wearing a mask of a lion’s face.

Behind him stood a doll with a crown.

No. A girl wearing a doll mask.

‘A mask for you, miss?’ it was the mask seller. I turned to face him, seeing a tall man, with a rock steady built. He could have been in his late twenties or he could have been many centuries old, I couldn’t tell. His eyes held mischief, they also held a deep wisdom that made him what? A sinner? A saint.

‘What are these masks?’ I asked, my lips moving, as though I spoke in sleep.

‘A mask for you.’

He handed me a mask and smiled.

His face had mirth, yet he could have been crying.

I didn’t see the mask that he offered me. I simply put it on.

My eyes glimpsed clouds, dark clouds, rushing past, giving way to white cumuli, silver-lined, with the sun.

I saw a vast field of the greenest grass, gently ruffled by the breeze. Closer and closer, my eyes saw each blade, some lined with dew, some sunned to a mild lime hue. The field was empty.

Save for a single rose.

It was a white rose, standing tall and sure, in the middle of the field. Its petals resembled a rich velvet and its thorns glinted in the gentle rays of the sun. It grew larger, the closer I got, each crease on the petals, like a pleat on velvet, and then, I saw a single butterfly.

Everything came to a standstill. The moment froze and all I saw was the butterfly.

Its wings were of the hue of sapphires, dotted with a ruby red. It sat still, perfectly at ease.

The stillness was addictive. It was perfect.

Till the butterfly, ever so slowly, made to flap its wings.

‘Ko-fe, miss.’

The Russian bakery owner’s voice broke my reverie. She stood over me, holding a large mug of coffee and a paper bag.

I nodded absently as she placed the things on the little table.

My eyes went towards the pavement where the balloon seller stood, only for them to glimpse a single white rose, on which sat a butterfly.

Its wings the hue of sapphires, dotted with a ruby red.

By: Samiksha Deshpande

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