The White Ghost - By Chamith Hettiarachchi

Written By: Chamith Hettiarachchi

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Welcome to the mesmerizing world of "The White Ghost," a short story by Chamith Hettiarachchi, participating in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. In this reflective narrative, Hettiarachchi explores the intricate dynamics of contentment and the human tendency to overlook the simple joys in pursuit of more. This story, a part of the Short Story category, invites readers to ponder the true nature of happiness and the unnoticed beauty in life's routine.

About the Work

"The White Ghost" delves into the life of an individual grappling with the unending pursuit of progress, juxtaposed with a moment of revelation sparked by an unexpected encounter. Hettiarachchi crafts a narrative that beautifully captures the monotony of everyday life, infused with moments of introspection. Through vivid imagery and a contemplative tone, the story encourages readers to reevaluate their perception of happiness and satisfaction.

The White Ghost

Original Submission by Chamith Hettiarachchi

The White Ghost

by Chamith Hettiarachchi

There was nothing particularly wrong with my life, and that was part of the problem.

I had a decent job with a salary that kept the household running. The housing loan was being paid, although more slowly than I would have liked. There was food on the table, a roof above us and enough left at the end of most months to manage without borrowing.

My wife cared for me in ways I had grown too accustomed to notice. She remembered the tablets I forgot to take, kept dinner warm when I came home late and could tell from the way I placed my bag on the chair whether it had been a difficult day. My children were healthy, doing reasonably well at school and causing only the ordinary problems children caused.

From the outside, mine was a good life. From the inside, it felt as though nothing was moving.

Every morning began in almost the same way. The alarm sounded, I delayed getting up, and my wife reminded the children to hurry while preparing breakfast. There would be a missing book, an unsigned school paper or an argument about who had taken too long in the bathroom. I drank my tea, checked my phone and left home already thinking about work.

The journey to the office followed the same roads. The same traffic gathered at the same junctions, and the same impatient drivers fought to gain a few metres before stopping together at the next signal. At work, I answered emails, attended meetings and solved problems that returned in slightly different forms the following week. My salary arrived, bills consumed it, and another month began.

I knew I should have been grateful. That knowledge made the dissatisfaction more difficult to admit. Complaining about a bad life would have made sense. Complaining about a good one that no longer felt sufficient made me seem ungrateful, even to myself.

Still, I could not silence the feeling that everyone else was progressing while I remained in the same place. A colleague younger than me received a promotion. Someone I had studied with posted photographs of his new house. Another friend moved overseas and appeared online beside mountains, lakes and streets that seemed cleaner than any place I travelled through each day. People bought newer cars, changed jobs, opened businesses and took their families on holidays.

I watched their lives move forward through the screen of my phone while mine repeated itself around me.

My wife occasionally asked what was troubling me.

“Nothing,” I would say. “I’m just tired.”

It was easier than explaining that I had everything I had once hoped for and had somehow become disappointed by it.

One evening, I left the office later than usual. The day had been filled with meetings that produced more meetings, and an email received shortly before I left had undone several hours of work. By the time I reached the main road, I was already irritated.

Traffic moved slowly beneath the fading evening light. Motorcycles slipped through the narrow spaces between vehicles, buses changed lanes without warning, and drivers sounded their horns as though noise might make the road wider.

I sat inside the cool air of my car, holding the steering wheel and thinking about everything I did not have: the promotion that had not come, the salary that could have been better, the larger house we might never build, the holiday we had postponed again and the version of myself I had expected to become by that age.

That was when I saw the lorry.

It was travelling in the lane beside me, an old vehicle with faded paint and a rear cover that had been tied only halfway down. Inside were sacks of flour stacked almost to the roof, with a man sitting on top of them.

He must have been the helper who loaded and unloaded the lorry. He wore nothing but a torn pair of shorts. Flour covered him from head to foot, settling into his hair and coating his face, bare chest, arms and legs. The shorts had also turned white beneath the dust. His eyebrows and eyelashes were pale, while only his eyes and lips remained dark, making him look like a ghost being carried through the evening traffic.

An empty plastic bucket rested upside down between his knees. Perhaps it had been used to carry water for washing the lorry or cleaning the flour from his hands. He tapped it gently with his fingers, repeating a simple rhythm while his lips moved with the beat.

He was singing to himself.

I could not hear him through the closed windows, so I lowered mine slightly. The noise of engines and horns entered the car, along with warm air carrying dust and exhaust fumes. Somewhere within it, faint and broken by the traffic, I heard his voice. I did not recognise the song.

He was not singing loudly or performing for anyone. He appeared to have forgotten the vehicles around him. His legs rested loosely against the sacks as he watched the buildings, trees and people passing beside the road. The breeze moved through his flour-covered hair, and his fingers continued tapping the bucket.

There was no obvious sorrow or hurry on his face. He seemed settled within that moment, as though sitting on sacks of flour at the back of an old lorry was precisely where he needed to be.

My first thought was simple and perhaps unfair: he had so little, yet he looked happier than I felt.

I immediately realised that I knew nothing about him. I did not know how much he earned, where he lived or who waited for him at home. He might have been working since before sunrise. His body might have been aching from carrying sacks heavier than anything I had lifted in years. He could have debts, a sick parent, hungry children or worries far greater than mine. The expression I read as contentment might only have been relief that the day’s work was nearly over.

I had seen only a few minutes of his life and had no right to turn him into an answer for mine. Yet there was something in those few minutes that I could not dismiss. Whatever troubles awaited him, he had found room for the evening breeze, the passing scenery and a song tapped out on the bottom of an empty bucket.

Meanwhile, I had spent the journey replaying the day behind me and worrying about the years ahead. The road, the sky and the world outside my windows had passed without reaching me.

The lorry moved slightly ahead. The man adjusted himself on the sacks and held one hand against the side as the vehicle changed lanes. His other hand continued tapping the bucket. At the next junction, the lorry turned left and the white ghost disappeared from view.

Traffic closed the space it left behind, and I continued towards home. Nothing around me had changed. The road remained congested, the email still waited unanswered, and my colleague still had the promotion I wanted. Yet the questions inside me had changed.

What exactly was I searching for? How much more would make my life feel sufficient? If I received the promotion, how long would it take before I wanted the next one? If we built a larger house, would I enjoy it, or would I begin noticing houses larger than ours?

I had spent years believing happiness waited somewhere ahead, attached to the next achievement or possession. Each time I reached one, the feeling lasted briefly before the distance opened again. Perhaps happiness was not waiting ahead at all. Perhaps it had been travelling beside me while I looked in another direction.

When I reached home, the gate made the same scraping sound as I opened it. The light above the front door had already been switched on, and through the window, I could see my family moving inside.

One of my children came to the door before I had removed my shoes and began telling me about something that had happened at school. Normally, I would have listened with half my attention while checking my phone or thinking about dinner. That evening, I looked at the animated face in front of me and tried to follow the entire story.

It was not an important story. It involved a missing exercise book, a suspicious classmate and a teacher who had apparently blamed the wrong person. Still, I listened until the end.

My wife looked at me curiously.

“What happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“You look different.”

“I saw someone on the road.”

“Someone you know?”

“No.”

She waited for an explanation, but I did not know how to give one. How could I explain that a stranger covered in flour had made my own home look different?

Dinner was the same kind of meal we had eaten many times before. The children spoke over one another, someone complained about the vegetables, and my wife reminded me about a payment that had to be made the next day. Nothing extraordinary happened, and that was precisely what I had failed to understand.

The life I called monotonous was made of people returning to the same table each night. The roof I barely noticed sheltered the voices I would one day miss. The routines that frustrated me existed because there were people, responsibilities and places that remained connected to me.

The white ghost had not shown me that I should want less because he possessed less. I did not know what he possessed or desired. He had not proved that hardship created happiness or that ambition was wrong. He had simply made me notice how much of my own life had been passing unseen while I searched for something more.

I did not become a permanently contented man that evening. The next morning, the alarm still irritated me. The traffic remained unbearable, work continued to frustrate me, and I did not stop wanting a better position or a more comfortable life.

But whenever the old dissatisfaction returned, I remembered the tapping of fingers against an empty bucket. I remembered the flour-covered face turned towards the evening breeze and the song I could barely hear through the traffic.

I never learned his name, and he never knew that I had been watching. Perhaps he was not happy at all. That was no longer the point. The white ghost did not haunt me. He simply opened my eyes to the life I had stopped seeing.

The White Ghost by Chamith Hettiarachchi.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious platform celebrating literary talent worldwide. It provides a stage for writers to showcase their creativity and offers audiences a diverse array of poetic and narrative expressions. This competition fosters a global community of writers and readers, united by a shared love for the written word.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Chamith Hettiarachchi for sharing "The White Ghost" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your thought-provoking narrative challenges us to appreciate the life we live and the beauty that often goes unnoticed. We are grateful for your contribution and look forward to more of your insightful storytelling.

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.