The Tales of Tora, Master of Masks
"The Trial Of Lakhiya Bhoot"
(Hill Jatra Mask)

The square town of Dhor, with its uniform houses and labyrinthine streets, stretched out under the fading light of Tabhilt’s skies. At its core stood Tora’s enigmatic spiral house, a structure that defied comprehension, ascending toward the heavens while delving endlessly into the earth. Amid the countless masks adorning its concrete walls, a new one had emerged. Unlike the others, which spoke of distant lands and long-forgotten epochs, this mask exuded the essence of freshly tilled earth and the vibrant cadence of festivity. Its intricate design pulsed with colors—crimson reds, verdant greens, cerulean blues—each accented by gilded borders. This was the Hill Jatra mask.

Tora, known throughout Dhor as the Master of Masks and Conjurer of Identities, approached the mask with scholarly curiosity. At first glance, its craftsmanship appeared deceptively simple, yet the carvings revealed stories of ploughmen, mighty bulls, and spectral beings who danced along the liminal boundary between the mortal and the ethereal. As Tora traced the contours with his fingers, he felt an almost imperceptible rhythm—the resonance of drums and the echo of chants—emanating from the mask itself. Compelled by an unseen force, he lifted the mask and placed it upon his face.

The moment the mask settled, Tora’s spiraling house seemed to convulse, as if responding to the shift. The walls around him dissolved, giving way to terraced fields that clung tenaciously to the slopes of verdant hills. The air was alive with the din of a vibrant festival—masked figures moved in harmonious rhythm, their elaborate costumes catching the light as they danced. The scent of freshly turned soil mingled with the pungent aroma of burning incense, while the haunting notes of the ransingha horn reverberated across the landscape.

Tora’s appearance was transformed. His layered garments and mysterious air were replaced by the rugged form of a Halwaha, a traditional ploughman. His hands, now calloused and worn, clutched a wooden plough resting across his shoulder. Beside him, two bullocks—their horns adorned with intricate patterns painted in turmeric and vermillion—stood placidly. Around him, villagers moved with purpose and reverence, preparing for the Hill Jatra festival with a joy that seemed as ancient as the hills themselves.

Tora tilted his head, gazing at the bullocks. “Do you think they know they’re central to all of this?” he mused aloud, though no one answered. “Why horns? Why not... feathers? Or stripes?” The questions, like stones cast into a pool, rippled through his thoughts before dissipating.

Tora’s integration into this world was seamless, yet his consciousness remained his own. The villagers—figures such as Mankhi, the ebullient storyteller; Bhudiya, the venerable elder with a gaze like twilight; and Sarda, an inquisitive girl whose laughter carried like a mountain brook—welcomed him with unguarded warmth. The day commenced with sacred rituals at the village temple, where offerings of rice, clarified butter, and garlands of marigold were laid at the feet of deities such as Bhagwati, the maternal goddess of fertility, and Bholenath, the stoic guardian of the highlands. Gratitude permeated every action, directed toward the earth, the animals, and the invisible forces believed to govern their existence.

“Why marigolds?” Tora interrupted as the villagers prepared their garlands. “Is it because they’re golden? Or do they... smell particularly divine? Why not sunflowers? They’re larger.” Sarda, startled by his sudden interjection, simply giggled, unsure how to respond.

As the Halwaha, Tora assumed a pivotal role. Entrusted with the ceremonial ploughing, he led the procession to the fields. With each cut of the plough into the fertile soil, the villagers sang their "lok geet," age-old folk songs that celebrated the cyclical nature of existence—birth, growth, harvest, and eventual rest. The bullocks moved in steady rhythm, their bedecked horns glinting in the sunlight. The act of ploughing transcended the mundane; it was a ritual, a supplication to the land for sustenance and survival. Tora felt the sanctity of each furrow as though it were a prayer offered to the universe.

“If the soil remembers every furrow,” he asked aloud to no one in particular, “does that make us writers? Are we writing stories it can read?” The villagers continued their singing, perhaps too immersed in their labor to indulge his wandering thoughts.

As the day progressed, Tora discerned the profound significance of the masks worn by the villagers. Each mask encapsulated an aspect of communal life: the bull, or "Nandi," symbolized perseverance and agricultural strength; the deer, or "Harin," embodied elegance and equilibrium; and Lakhiya Bhoot, the spectral figure cloaked in mystery, served as a poignant reminder of the tenuous boundary between the physical and the spiritual realms. These were not mere artifacts but sacred vessels of collective memory, binding the present generation to their forebears.

The festival reached its zenith with a grand procession. The villagers, adorned in their masks, gathered at the central celebration ground. The ransingha horn—a traditional crescent-shaped trumpet, its metallic timbre resonating with ancient solemnity—heralded the commencement of performances. The dhol, a cylindrical drum struck with dexterous precision, produced a percussive rhythm that echoed like a heartbeat through the valleys. The performers enacted stories that wove together themes of toil, festivity, and spirituality. Tora observed in rapt attention as the Lakhiya Bhoot character glided among the throng, its eerie presence eliciting a blend of reverence and trepidation. The villagers’ expressions, half-concealed by their masks, revealed a spectrum of emotions—joy, melancholy, and profound reverence.

“Why do we fear the ghost?” Tora wondered aloud. “If it lives among us, doesn’t it... belong here too?” His question, unanswered, lingered in the air like the notes of the ransingha.

As the festival crescendoed, Tora felt the mask upon his face grow heavier, as though imbued with an unseen gravity. The Lakhiya Bhoot character approached him, its spectral visage gleaming in the flickering firelight. The revelers fell silent, their collective gaze fixed upon the unfolding moment. The spectral figure extended a hand, beckoning Tora to follow.

Guided beyond the village to a secluded grove, where towering sal trees loomed like sentinels, Tora stood bathed in ethereal moonlight. The Lakhiya Bhoot, its voice an amalgamation of whispers and echoes, conveyed the mask’s true purpose: it housed the collective memory of the Hill Jatra community. To fully comprehend the essence of their existence, Tora must confront the unseen forces that shaped their lives.

The trial began with a cascade of visions. Tora witnessed the villagers enduring profound hardships: torrential rains that devastated their crops, searing droughts that cracked the earth, and seasons of scarcity that tested their resolve. He felt their anguish, their desperate prayers to unseen deities, and their indomitable will to endure. The visions shifted to moments of triumph: fields resplendent with golden grain, jubilant festivals, and the unyielding bonds of kinship. Tora’s spirit resonated with their sorrows and exulted in their joys, his heart swelling with empathy and admiration.

“If the gods gave us such trials,” Tora whispered, “do they cry when we fail? Or are they... unmoved?” The Lakhiya Bhoot merely gestured for him to continue.

When the visions subsided, Tora found himself once more at the heart of the village’s festivities. The villagers encircled him, their masked faces radiating anticipation. With deliberate reverence, Tora removed the mask and held it aloft. His voice, resonant with the profundity of his journey, addressed the crowd:

“Your lives are a symphony of opposites—earth and sky, labor and celebration, hardship and abundance. This mask is no mere adornment; it is the essence of your existence, a testament to your resilience and unity. Guard it well, for it connects you to each other and the eternal forces that sustain you.”

The villagers erupted in jubilant applause, their voices harmonizing into a chorus of gratitude. The festival resumed with renewed vigor, the energy of their collective joy palpable in the crisp night air. But Tora, though immersed in their celebration, felt the call of his own existence pulling him away. His time in the world of the Hill Jatra was drawing to a close, yet he remained curious about the essence of the mask and its connection to his own identity as the Master of Masks.

As the dawn painted the hills in hues of soft gold, the villagers gathered to bid farewell to Tora, unaware of his true nature. Sarda approached him, her youthful face partially obscured by a deer mask, and handed him a small, intricately carved figurine of a ploughman and his bullocks.

“This is for you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “To remember us.”

Tora accepted the gift with a solemn nod, touched by the sincerity of the gesture. “Thank you, Sarda,” he said, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic warmth. “But tell me—what will happen if the mask is lost? If no one remembers this tradition?”

Sarda hesitated, her youthful optimism giving way to a thoughtful frown. “Then... I suppose the stories would fade, like mist in the morning sun. But we won’t let that happen. We’ll keep dancing, singing, and ploughing the fields. That’s how we stay connected.”

Her answer, though simple, resonated with Tora. He realized that the mask’s power was not merely in its artistry but in the people’s determination to uphold their traditions and remember their shared struggles and triumphs.

As Tora ascended the terrace one last time, the Hill Jatra mask began to hum with a gentle vibration, signaling his departure. The familiar spiraling sensation returned, and the verdant hills dissolved into the infinite architecture of his house in Dhor. The vibrant rhythm of the Hill Jatra faded, replaced by the quiet hum of his endless staircase.

Tora removed the mask and placed it carefully on the wall among the countless others. Its colors, though vibrant, seemed to blend seamlessly with the myriad expressions surrounding it. He stood there for a moment, gazing at the masks and pondering their stories.

“The soil writes, the masks read, and we—all of us—are the stories,” he murmured. A small smile played on his lips. “Perhaps I’m more a librarian than a conjurer.”

The Hill Jatra mask had left a mark on Tora. It was more than just a temporary transformation; it had deepened his understanding of the world and his role within it. He felt a renewed sense of purpose: to preserve the essence of every mask, to honor the lives and stories they represented, and to continue his journey as a bridge between identities and eras.

The townsfolk of Dhor, going about their routines, noticed the subtle shift in Tora’s demeanor. Though still enigmatic and often lost in thought, he seemed more connected, as if carrying the weight of countless lives with an enduring grace. His questions, once perceived as strange musings, now carried the weight of profound insight.

As the seasons turned, Tora continued to gather masks, each one a testament to a world, a culture, or a story. The Hill Jatra mask remained a favorite, not for its vibrant design or festive energy, but for the reminder it carried: that identity is not a fixed construct but a living, breathing symphony of connections, traditions, and shared humanity.

And so, the Master of Masks journeyed on, ever curious, ever seeking, ever honoring the tales of those who lived, toiled, celebrated, and dreamed.