Delusion Galore

Atmosphere around him was laden with heaviness due to his morbid mien. Contemplating a lively note was not only impossible, it was blasphemous. All the subordinates instantly switched to sepulchral slant as soon as they found themselves in his company. There was something eerie in the air you shared breathing with him. He smiled very rarely. If at all he did, it was blisteringly fraught with skepticism.

He was ‘monarch of all I survey’. Nothing moved, even in the civil sphere without his tacit approval, and a substantial number of notables were always at hand to pay homage to his 'benign' lording over the sparsely populated large tract of mountainous terrain, in the north west of the country. Yet the ephemeral distraction did little to alleviate his exasperation and baffled self. While wielding his powers, as the commander of a paramilitary force in the country's remote region, he was deterred by few constraints. But  a constant bewildered look on his face belied the boon.

Though he had long gone past the retiring age for his rank, guaranteed extension after extension (seven so far) made him look perennial. Romantic and simple people of the backward district held self- styled swami in great esteem. He identified himself superficially, with them and condescended to participate in their public joy and private griefs. Being hot favourite of the military ruler of Pakistan, his grip on Chitral was believed to last as long as the dictator’s hold on the country remained firm. 'I can commit a murder for him' he would sometime exclaim peering in your eyes. The tone and tenor would leave you no choice to believe otherwise, not to mention the extent of gratitude behind the exclamation.   

He was sixty and a confirmed bachelor. His clean shaven head and face, except for scant eyebrows, reminded one of a basket ball, which has been etched on by an idler mindlessly. His bulb nose, ear to ear mouth and expressionless face added to the ghoulish visage he did nothing to dispel. It was the face of a eager predator.

Having lived the better part of his adult life in paramilitary force deployed in mountainous and beauteous regions of the then North Western Frontier Province, he seemed to have lost stomach for civilization. He had least interest in what was going on in the world and for that matter in Pakistan. Movies, music, politics, current affairs, literature and anything remotely linked to fine arts were anathema. Nor was the religion of any use to him. He had not asked for casual or privileged leave for eight years to visit his native city.

What made him thrive (or oblivious of pathetic and ludicrous existence?) was no secret. He was a snob through and through. He never uttered a word except to elevate himself, either by forging a link with some  powerful person or a power center. Most of his time was spent in contriving ways and means to remain in the fond memory of those, whom he had ‘won’ over by the state of the art sycophancy. A strange feeling on his face when he interacted with VIPs, much higher than his station in life(federal ministers, generals and judges) in person or through telephone was of drunken exhilaration. He always managed to get their attention because he would take hosting to a new level every time they visited Chitral. Not only that; he got great kick out of strutting to and from his personally designed teakwood office. Two ceremoniously dressed lads(due to the widespread poverty, underage boys used to get enrolled by lying about their age)  not only marched ahead in unison but also stood guard outside the sacrosanct office throughout the day..  

He spent almost entire day in the office, despite the fact that there was very little office work to do. He would go to his residence at midday, but only to change into civvies and would be presently back to receive notables to bear witness to his stately station in life.

He was no less proud when he received foreign and local dignitaries from the capital , who came calling during brief summer to get scintillated by the nature at its grandest. Eternally snow covered craggy mountains nurturing luxuriant valleys in the midst of mostly desolate land held them spellbound.

He seemed to feel at a loss during encounter with women accompanying the dignitaries. Ladies unhinged him. He would be on tenterhooks during the entire period, blushing profusely and not knowing what to do with his hands. Blank look on his face and pain in unseeing eyes chilled the air and awkward silence seemed to persist forever.

On 17th August 1988, the military ruler of the country died in a military plane crash near Bahawalpur. The whole country was stunned yet relieved, but the commander was dumbfounded and forlorn. Knowing his special relationship with the wiped out(the most believe a bomb in the plane brought the it down) ruler, notables of the area came to condole with him. They found themselves sitting face to face with a ghost. So paralyzing was the impact that next day he didn't come to the office for the first time in eight years, Eid holidays including.

Within a couple of weeks he found himself deserted. Gone was the fawning obedience. Reverence had evaporated in thin air and was replaced with superficial protocol. His whimsical commands, he had got so addicted to for a decade, were not very tactfully ignored. It was coup d'etat. His felt doomed, was more than obvious from his face and scatterbrained response to some pressing routine matters.

The day before he shot himself in the head, he discussed casually and academically with the camp doctor the most painless way of doing oneself in. The doctor was not fooled, but was unable to do anything about it. His mother was flown from Gujarat to mourn his death after having been denied rejoicing in his life for the last fifteen years.

He chose to get buried in Chitral in the hope of keep on getting the same reverence after his death which he thought was his due during his life. But moss covered badly impaired grave tells another story.

Reviews

[Vera Anne Wolf]

Opening paragraph. It's rare that I am tripped up at the start of a story by vocabulary. Having to expand my knowledge of fancy words is one thing, having no idea what the writer is talking about by the end of the paragraph is another.

"...due to his 'morbid mien'." I have no idea what this means and a casual google search came up empty as well. Consider rephrasing.

The second sentence made me think he was a composer of sorts.

"sepulchral slant" - something relative to "gloomy, dismal" according to Google, which sorta makes sense but you've lost me twice now. Also, the setting is completely blank.

"There was something eerie in the air you shared breathing with him." - who is speaking here? Seems like the Narrator has stepped in to publicly describe their character. Whose point of view are we getting and why isn't that defined in the first paragraph?

"It was blisteringly fraught with skepticism" - unnecessary adverbs. "It was fraught with skepticism" gets the idea across just fine.

"civil sphere" - according to Google, something like your immediate social circle of friends, family, perhaps fellow colleagues?

Okay, so far the first two paragraphs are very passive narrative. To be honest I could sum them all up as 'Unnamed character who is a creative genius flawed by his immense sense of superiority and snobbery.'

So questions that haven't been answered. Who is this person? Why does he matter? What does he do (occupation)? Where is he? What does he want/need?

The 'hyphened bits' make no sense to me. Again, is this the Narrators point of view, and if so who is narrating? The writer or some unknown person. This again should be defined quite easily in the opening paragraph.
"I first met, (name of subject), ** years ago during my ***"
If neither, then they should be removed as it distracts from the 3rd person narrative you might be going for.

"Paramilitary force" - according to Google, "unofficial military organization". Vague. If this is his occupation in the present I have been terribly mislead. You might want to define this in more detail.

"He was" "He spent" "He seemed" "He chose" - very passive narrative all the way through. Even his death itself its noted so passively I'm left wondering what on earth about this individual was worth writing about?

Again, the questions I mentioned in the first two paragraphs are left largely unanswered coupled with, why the hell would anyone read/care about this 'Unnamed' character?

You did highlight a few flaws about the character, I don't remember any redeeming qualities by the end of this, but largely I have no idea who it was I just read about. (Again, why do they matter?). Characters are what drive stories. Interesting characters, passionate characters, mysterious characters are all connected to the reader through their goals, needs, flaws, etc.

The 'unnamed' character described so passively here is uninteresting, undefined, unmotivated, uninspiring, and very forgettable. I'm not sure where you were going with this. Dare I say, I'm not sure you do either?