Friday, June 27, 2014


Mr. Ana was a handsome man in his middle 50's, on the plumper side. A bush of white hair , with salt and pepper streaks, aureoled  his head. Given to british colloquialisms, a remnant of his worship of all things english though he now proclaimed disdain for any colonial hangover, he liked  to see himself as an anomaly. He was gifted, unique, a maverick, chosen for a special purpose. His sense of superiority was unparalleled.
H believed, though with not inconsiderable righteousness, that he was singular.

And singular he was, as all of the human race is, in its constituent singleness. But the singularity he laid claim to was both qualitative and quantitative. In degree and kind he bethought himself singular. What distinguished this self confidence or indeed arrogance was an unhealthy self regard bordering on solipsism. What he sought, through the intervention of this solipsism, was a scaffolding, a way of tenuously keeping together his sense of being which was precarious.

And indeed such shaky foundations, based on such a weak backbone were collapsible, liable to a symbolic obliteration that was inconceivable. Mr. Ana was , in believing his handsomeness, imbued with a fallible sense of overestimating his irresistible charms. He has a knack of attracting attention but people never ventured close to him, fearful of breaching the vulnerable self belief he so assiduously held.

And he singled people out. By drawing out others, a select coterie he formed a circle of loyal acolytes maintaining whose unwavering regard became his sole obsession. A fondness for female flesh often landed him into unprepossessing propinquities with women who, sensing his real intention beneath the avuncular front he put up, fled incredulously but thankfully.

His days and indeed the years passed by with no spectacular accomplishments but a string of failed friendships, embittered relationships and rancorous exchanges unmitigated by any sense of reprieve from the unrelenting narcissism he evinced. 

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