Lurking in the shadows and corners, wandering from small town to small town, staying as inconspicuous as possible, he carries with him an aura of desolation and hopelessness, along with a perpetual smell of greasy ointment. His forehead is covered with a dirty bandage caked with blood from an apparently recent wound. He never smiles nor acknowledges another's presence, he never looks another in the eye nor talks to anyone, not even to ask for food. His name, is Ashwathama.
Image Credit: Lasse Holmen
No comments:
Post a Comment