Beneath the Mask - By Tharan Pillay

Written By: Tharan Pillay

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Tharan Pillay presents "Beneath the Mask," a captivating short story that delves deep into the complexities of identity and the challenges of self-expression. Through a compelling narrative, Pillay explores the dichotomy between personal authenticity and societal expectations, set against the backdrop of a life in the performing arts. This poignant tale invites readers to reflect on the cost of fame and the relentless pursuit of personal truth.

About the Work

"Beneath the Mask" artfully unravels the protagonist's journey through the vivid imagery of theatre and screen. Pillay captures the struggle between personal and public personas, creating a narrative rich in emotional depth and introspection. The story's mood oscillates between hope and despair, portraying the protagonist's battle for acceptance and understanding. Through powerful language and evocative scenes, Pillay delivers a thought-provoking message about the courage required to live one's truth in the face of adversity.

Beneath the Mask

Original Submission by Tharan Pillay

1181 words

Beneath the Mask

A life is a story. It belongs to the person who lives it, who endures, who overcomes. Indeed, it is their tale to tell. But for some, our stories are wrested from our hands, the unrelenting words maimed and twisted into grotesque forms, and shattered into a hellish kaleidoscopic mosaic of lies and deceit. Our stories are filched from us, defiled and immolated, offered up to the gods of discord and misery. Our pain is transformed into spectacle and entertainment, feeding the ravenous masses. Who then would lay claim to such a story? Who then would want to lay claim to such a life?

I suppose I was born to be an actor. My life began, I was told, with some theatricality. A long and difficult labour, my mother described, culminating in a cry that could wake the dead. Yes, I had announced my arrival with gusto, a flame that would persist despite the world’s attempts to douse it. My fight for my identity began from my days of boyhood. They clothed me in the vestiture of masculinity, sculpted my form to fit the mould of man. But these garments sat awkwardly upon me, my spirit too fluid to be shaped into a cast. For a while I played the part of course. I sat, walked and talked the way I was told to do, the role thrust upon me like some unwilling understudy. But roles are finite. They have a limited lifespan. I quickly realised that this role was different. They expected me to play this role for the rest of my days. What could I possibly gain from doing that, I thought. Turmoil, frustration and despair persuaded me to give up the role, but I soon found the answer to my question.

To be oneself is an act of courage. On the stage of the world, we choose to be authentic, and the audience taunts us. My father’s jeers and jibes still ring in my ears. They prick and sting, thorns upon the roses of love, which always hurt the most. I substituted these flowers for those I received from the theatre. Nothing beats standing on the stage at the curtain call basking in the adoration of a cheering crowd. At first however, I was given small roles: a face in the crowd, a mailman, a clerk. But a director saw something in my countenance, in my bearing. From her, I was given a more substantial role with a speaking part. I auditioned for larger and larger roles and my confidence grew, until I found myself standing in the spotlight. A chasm opened between my personal and professional life. Subjected to mockery and revulsion in one, I found solace in the admiration and approval of the other. But in time, this chasm would shrink, crushing my spirit, squeezing the breath from my body.

For a while, I bridged the chasm with ease. I used the whips and scorns of my personal life to spur me on in my professional life. Indeed, my career began to bloom in the way I had dreamed of as a young boy. By contrast, my personal life was tumultuous, my very existence an affront to my father. A painful love dominated, undercut by the inadequacy of a son that refused to conform. My body and mind became a canvas for his drunken disgust. My mother offered her secret love, faded petals of sympathy and consolation, but for me, the theatre became a haven of self-expression and safety. Still, at the end of the day, like an old, faithful wounded dog, I would slink back to my father. But he had sown the burgeoning seeds of rebellion within me. The nights of dejected hope were soon replaced with reckless joy: frequenting clubs and bars with my friends from the theatre, cruising in restrooms and being introduced to the highs of psychedelics and drugs. My father later expelled me from the house, but with my career thriving, I found a place of my own.

The theatre was always my first love, but as my career reached new heights, I made the transition to the screen. Success followed swiftly. I can still see the throngs of fans bursting with glee and excitement at the red carpet events, peppered with the blinding flashes of the paparazzi. But fame followed as swiftly as success. It whittled my personal life away to a nub. My audience was no longer limited to the stage or the screen. They were a faceless, omnipresent cloud hovering over me in every waking hour, casting its shadow of judgement. When I made mistakes, they were there. When I found love, they were there. When I lost my father to a heart attack, they were certainly there.

Grief is a strange figure. It comes, cloaked in remorse, and enfolds you silently until its embrace turns into a smother. Why would I grieve for a man who had disapproved of me, they asked. For a while, the admiration of the public sufficed, but their scrutiny took its toll. Guilt and shame clung to my psyche like devil’s claw, slowly ripping it to shreds. The tabloids followed like flies to rotted meat. Suddenly, the admiration of the people transformed into ridicule and scorn. He couldn’t give his father a man for a son. He must be committed to an institution. He killed his father, living like that. Eventually, the lure of the bottle and the needle beckoned and I submerged myself in the lull of liquor and heroin. I degraded myself with others for gratuitous, ephemeral pleasure. My misadventures in the bathrooms of clubs and bars led to my arrest. The puritans emerged in full force, armed with accusations of impropriety and immorality. Circulating rumours of something more sinister emerged. I had been appropriated by a cult. We have an agenda to sully the innocence of youth. Of course, this was nonsense. Still, I plumbed the depths of the ocean of despair. I clung to drugs and sex to keep me afloat, but it was a short-lived comfort. Offstage, I showed an indomitable spirit to the public. The act continued as I fell to pieces within. As the rumours of the sordid details of my private life raged on, I attempted to keep some vestige of self-respect. That is, until they were presented with their final image of me: a needle in the arm, cold blood stopped in the veins, a limp naked body lying lifeless in a bathtub.

All the fame and success in the world cannot afford one the power to control their story. Death is the ultimate silencer. All that remains now are the words of the living. This account of my life is nothing but ashes. My legacy is now in the hands of the world, a world that never accepted me. My story is no longer mine, but has been putrefied with the opinions of the people. It is a rancid carcass at which vultures peck and gnaw for entertainment. Such is the life of fame. Such is the life of the dead.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious event celebrating the diverse voices and stories of writers worldwide. This competition provides a platform for participants to showcase their talent and creativity, engaging with themes that resonate universally. It fosters a community of writers dedicated to exploring the human experience through poetry and creative writing.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Tharan Pillay for sharing "Beneath the Mask" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This thought-provoking short story enriches the competition with its exploration of identity and the enduring quest for self-expression. Thank you, Tharan, for your inspiring contribution.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.