Telugu original: Mangari Rajender ‘Zimbo’
Translated into English by Rajeshwar Mittapalli

Narayana Murthy woke late, heavy with sleep. From that morning onwards, he had nowhere to go. He rose slowly and stepped towards the dressing table. When he looked into the mirror, he saw his whole body—except his face.

At first, he felt only surprise. Then fear crept in.

He hurried into the kitchen. His wife was there, perfectly visible.

She looked up. “Will you have some coffee?” she asked.

That meant she could see his face. Then why could he not see it himself?

Bewildered, he went into the bathroom and bent over the washbasin. The mirror there told the same story. Everything was visible except his head.

He walked back to the kitchen.

“If I ask for coffee, will you actually give it to me?” he said abruptly.

His wife turned from the stove and looked at him in mild bewilderment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She had noticed, since the previous day, something uneasy in him—as though he had lost something important. She said nothing more.

He left the kitchen and went into the office room. His mind was adrift. His wife’s reply—‘What kind of question is that?’—told him that she could indeed see his face. Then why could he not? Had he gone mad?

He tried to reason his way through it. Yesterday he could see his face. Today he could not. What was the cause? Was his face truly invisible to him, or was he imagining things? No matter how long he brooded, nothing made sense.

* * *

When Narayana?Murthy reached his office, his personal secretary stood up at once, joined his palms, and greeted him with the customary namaskaram. The man had been typing out the last of Murthy’s decisions from the previous day. Apparently, the secretary saw his face. Otherwise, why would he stand and greet him so respectfully? Then why, in heaven’s name, could Murthy not see his own? A wild thought crossed his mind—he ought to smash his head against the wall. But if the head itself was not visible, how was he to strike it?

Did his wife see it? His secretary? Or were they responding only to his presence, his frame, the memory of the man he had been? He could not tell. The desire to confirm the truth grew unbearable. He decided to ask directly, whatever the secretary might think.

“Can you see my face?” he demanded.

The secretary stared, startled. For a moment, he said nothing, thinking he must have misheard. Murthy’s temper rose.

“One day of retirement and you’ve gone deaf, have you? I asked—can you see my face?”

The outburst frightened the secretary. “Yes, yes, of course I can!” he stammered.

Murthy felt lost. He rang the bell furiously. The attendant arrived and stood with folded hands, offering a respectful dandam. Clearly, he too could see the missing head. The question, however, died on Murthy’s lips.

He sank into thought. Everyone could see his face—all except himself. What was the meaning of it? What was he supposed to do?

His head throbbed. He left the office abruptly and shut himself inside the bedroom. He picked up his mobile and called Veerender, a close friend now teaching psychology in Chennai.

When Veerender came on the line, Murthy poured out everything—every detail, every fear. By the time he finished, he was almost in tears. Veerender understood at once.

“Murthy,” he said gently, “don’t panic. The light in your face came from your chair of power. Now that you’ve lost the chair, that light has gone out. It happens—especially to men addicted to authority, those who have grown used to command and flattery. You retired only yesterday, didn’t you? It’s perfectly natural that you feel this way.”

Murthy gasped. “Is there no remedy for it, Veerender?”

“Don’t worry, my friend. Find another post as quickly as you can. With your connections and experience, that shouldn’t be difficult. Once you hold a position again, your face will return—clear as ever. If not, arrange for a Government G.O. recognising your dignity and continuing your privileges. Only these two paths can restore you.”

With renewed urgency, Murthy began setting those plans in motion.
 

“The Man with a Missing Head” (titled “Tala Kanpinchani Manishi”  in Telugu) by Mangari Rajender ‘Zimbo’ was first published in Disha Digital Daily, 03?October?2024, and later included in his collection of short stories titled Nenu... Naa Nalla Kotu (Me… My Black Gown), published by Prose Poetry Forum, 2024.

Translated into English by Rajeshwar Mittapalli.

Mangari Rajender ‘Zimbo’ is an eminent judicial officer, jurist, legal educator, and writer with over forty years of service. Starting as an advocate in 1982, he entered the Judicial Service in 1989 and served across Andhra Pradesh and Telangana as Senior Civil Judge, Additional District & Sessions Judge, and Judge, Family Court, known for fair and humane judgments. He also contributed to legal education as Faculty at the AP Police Academy, Director of the AP Judicial Academy, and Member of the Telangana State Public Service Commission. A pioneer in delivering judgments in Telugu, he authored over fifty law books, six poetry anthologies, and six short story collections, including Hazar Ho, Okka Kesu Chaalu, Maa Vemulawada Kathalu, and Nenu... Naa Nalla Kotu. He last served as Director, Telangana State Judicial Academy, until August 2024.