DALIP KHETARPAL,

DALIP KHETARPAL

A NARCISSIST CONDOLENCE

(Features of narcissism)

Her husband died.

Amidst relatives and friends

She was to mourn

On the date and time scheduled.

Oblivious of the tragic demise,

The way to present her best self

Even in the sordid scenario

Became so important that

Anxiety instantly pervaded her psyche.

Grave and urgent issues like,

The fascinatingly melancholic clothes to wear,

The specific beauty parlor to visit,

Powerfully occupied her sub-consciousness.

Though only a few hours were left

To reach the burial site,

She could not embellish herself

To an extent that would make her appear

Both beautiful and sorrowful

To impress and attract the mourners

With her improvised beauty

And counterfeit dejected expression.

She then rehearsed the gloomy expression

That she was to soon wear

Before an all sides view mirror,

For, the face, deemed the mirror of the soul,

Ironically blushed with remorse for being so unnatural.

Anxiety began to grow, it grew so deep that

The flurry of excitement

Impelled her to rush into her car,

To quickly occupy the driver’s seat

And hurriedly drove past all red lights,

Cleaving deftly through thick traffic.

In the twinkling of an eye,

Her car finally almost collided head-on

With the best beauty parlor.

With some slight latent remorse and shame,

She urgently demanded

For the best waterproof make-up

From top to toe

That deluded the beautician into thinking

That a grand wedding ceremony awaited her client.

Enthralled by that misconception,

She rushed home after renewing

Every millimeter of her being, except her soul.

But another problem sprang-----

----attire, compulsively fascinating,

But sober and demure,

Must have to be worn.

But, that became another difficult milestone

For her to cross,

For modest and grief-stricken she had to appear

To harmonize well with the solemn occasion.

She ferreted and delved into the deepest depths

Of all the shelves of her wardrobe

And fished out a dress…. soberly fascinating.

Soon, she reached the grim venue.

Tears welled up

In the eyes of many

But, in the souls of only few.

Seemingly unfortunate, but actually fortunate rains

Assisted some dry eyes

Including hers, to be tempestuous

And rain all rainless eyes, facilitating successful display

Of false grief.

But the rain-resistant make-up face she wore

Was unaffected

Like her love-resistant heart

That was also unaffected

By the permanent parting

Of her soul-mate.

Narcissism is all!

Mental and even spiritual interest

In oneself, one’s beauty,

Instead of God, nature, humans

Or even animals,

Reveals selfishness unbounded, unimaginable

Displayed naturally and brazenly by a narcissist.

A vain grandiose view of one’s own traits hollow,

In fantasy or behavior

And an abnormal craving for admiration

Proceeding from the abnormal pursuit of praise

To egoistic admiration of one’s presumed attributes

Is nothing, but a disorder.

A long term pattern of such abnormal behavior

Characterized by an excessive sense

Of one’s own importance

By one, who also wants to be breathtakingly beautiful,

Is dangerous also, for, she could demean herself

To any extent

To elicit admiration and success

That enlivens and sustains

Her ceaselessly demanding personality

That is also ironically, an extreme defense

Against her own feelings of worthlessness.

Behind this mask of ultra beauty,

Seeming success and confidence,

Lies a thin veil---- weak and sensitive,

Vulnerable to the slightest censure

That could derange her completely

And could also result

In the failure of all relationships,

Be it home, work-place or society.

Inability to handle the real,

Uncomfortable with her own deficiencies and limitations,

She unconsciously lives in fool’s paradise,

For peace and survival,

Signifying a colossal waste of time and energy, rather life.

Covert narcissists are a rare breed

And hard to decipher.

They owe their existence

To the attention they get excessive

Or tortured by rejection or neglection excessive,

Generating a huge void in adulthood.

Magnifying a real or perceived offense,

Taking offense also at minor criticisms,

Cornering most people,

They search for some flatterer

They earlier had or now lack,

But their never-satisfied stance

Perennially creates a frustrating vacuum

Never to be filled.

Their own problems for them are paramount,

While others’ are deemed meaningless and useless.

Adept at shooting from the hip with swift advice

And averse to answering or asking questions, they prefer

To shut down dialogue completely

To avoid any exercise or strain,

A conversation entails.

Outwardly, they appear very benign,

But can be damaging

And cause infinite distress to others.

Love to play the victim, they down play themselves,

Simply to bait others into sympathizing and complimenting them.

Cocooned in their make-believe world,

They’re warm, comfortable and safe,

Resisting all changes positive.

But, who’ll bring adamant, arrogant narcissists

Out of an overpowering stench of habits vicious,

Trends, tendencies and behavior

And restructure their psyche?

One may also be blown to bits

While belling the cat.

But once the gift of reflected appraisal is imbibed,

All narcissists would be wiped out from this planet.

A PRIEST DISCONNECTS GOD’S CALL

After beating their brains out

All great professionals, researchers and specialists

Failed to decipher

What lies in the life after life.

The same idea also surged

Violently, uncontrollably,

In my sub-consciousness many a time

That finally, only confounds me.

I then searched for the most enlightened priest

Of the town.

On finding one, I willy-nilly, but reverentially asked him,

‘Where does a man go after he dies?’

His answer was stereotyped---- heaven or hell.

While the former is for the people good,

The latter is, for the bad.

On being asked about his fate

After death politely,

His answer was again off pat,

‘My seat after I die is reserved in heaven,

For, as a true priest, I’ve done infinite good

And also being nearer to god than any common man,

There could be no other place, but heaven for me.’

Instantly awestruck, but easily lapsed

Into willing suspension of disbelief

I bid him adieu.

Three days later,

I went to a hospital

To see an ailing friend admitted there

Owing to some heart problem.

Co-incidentally, I saw the same priest

On the adjoining bed, smiling.

On being asked after him, he said

A pain in his chest a day before

Made him presume that

He had cardiac arrest,

But doctors diagnosed him

With just a minor gastric problem.

Immediately a humorous, but witty and

Meaningful idea occurred

That I could not afford to conceal it.

Maintaining still my reverence for the priest

I straight away, but meekly unfolded him

Something strongly brewing in my consciousness

Since I saw him:

‘When you suffered the pain in your chest,

God was actually calling you’, but by calling the doctor

You unconsciously disconnected His call, so He,

Who is the greatest, the mightiest and the most supreme,

Must be annoyed with you’.

Suspended between repentance and shame,

He hung his head thoughtfully.

Encouraged, I further enlightened him,

‘If you were very sure

You would go to heaven after death,

you would not have called the doctor to intervene

In His communion with you,

You would have rather easily allowed yourself

To die sans treatment

And go to heaven, as you affirmed,

For in heaven there is no pain, no disease,

Problem or even death;

One can enjoy eternal bliss there,

So who would not like to go there?

Even fear of death would become extinct

And it would be most welcome

If one is sure to go to heaven after death.

It shows your faith

In your own religion was not firm’.

The whole episode proved that

Even the best theist

Is a bit of an atheist.

Conversely, a staunch atheist

Is also a bit of a theist,

For when he is thrown

In dire straits

Or stuck in a dire situation

Or on the threshold of death

And no human help is in sight,

He would imploringly look towards heaven

And solicit His grace to help extricate him

From the mire into which he has sunk,

Becoming quite unconsciously or even consciously

A bit of a theist.

So, the whole truth represents that

no one is purely an atheist

And none, purely, a theist.

But hypocrisy is universal,

For, man often pretends and projects himself to be

What he is not……..

THE AGONIZED

PSYCHIC ODYSSEY OF A WRITER

As a choked volcano

Releases a gush

Of abrupt thick trail

Of fiery embers and lava

After its choked silence,

A choked heart

Throws up

A strong gush of warm trail

Of pent up emotions

After its choked silence.

A writer spills,

Oceans of ink,

Soils, endless papers,

Toils, endless nights,

To solely vent the plethora

Of his choked feelings and thoughts,

But only to simply remain choked, ironically.

Even after repeated ventilation,

This choke continues ……

…… fated to be eternally choked, as it were.

Strangely, the ignorant creative genius

Is ignorant of the blessings of choking,

Of its redeeming features

That every bad has.

He, perhaps, knows not

That choking stimulates creativity,

Cooks and beefs up raw ideas,

Speeds up the creative process,

Of his catalytic mind.

But, a fateful day finally arrives

When after much vent,

His entire creative exercise

Gets exhausted

Along with the exhaustion

Of his life.

During the entire creative life

A writer sees

No material fruit

His creation bears,

But still writes incorrigibly, unrelentingly,

For he fails to resist

The irrepressible surge

Of his inner irresistible urge

That bursts like every bubble,

That must inevitably burst.

But lucky is still he

Who knows not

That such resistance

Is fatal,

Such retention kills,

That any suppression,

Be it of sentiment,

Emotion or sex

Often takes a heavy toll,

That only ventilation

Infuses a new spirit,

And gives a new lease

Of life.

A compulsive writer

Lives to write

And also writes to live.

He has to live

The life of contentment

Even with the random passing accolades,

For he often realizes that

He has to feed not only his own,

But perhaps, many starved bellies

Not with encomiums empty,

But with work alien and distasteful

That often interferes, gnaws and claws

At his creative diet tasteful

That makes praises insubstantial

Vis-à-vis issue survival.

Even the showering

Of great awards or rewards

On Shakespeare, Milton

And some renowned masters

Miserably fall short

Of their magnitude of greatness,

Of their acme of creation,

Of the intensity and sublimity,

Of their thought, feeling,

Keen perception, unsurpassed expression,

Mighty imagination, profound vision

And unique language skills.

Doubtless, their works are glorified,

Their names are also always sung

With reverence and awe,

But only to the unreceptive souls.

A beleaguered writer knows that

Making a living by writing

Is a remote dream.

However, mushrooming growth

Of pseudo-writers

Whose only marketing and not pen

That speaks,

Surge rapidly

To flood and defile

The world of letters, of creation,

Finding a kindred soul,

Plagiarists or copy-cats also join the camp

To further intensify and hold the sway

Over the aggrieved and the true

And multiply their woes

By subtle maneuvers and crooked

Marketing strategies and selling skills….

….. ejecting also the deserved battered few

In the process

With their creations trashy.

But the truly worthy noble laureates

Withstand this painful onslaught

With all their psychic might

Even after being unfairly hit

Below the belt;

Their frayed psyche, laden

With untold misery,

Releases not groans and shrieks,

But melodies sweet and deep

That enthrall even the unworthy

And the prosaic.

But this is the way of the world

And this is how the pitiable odyssey

Of a writer goes on….

…. who knows, for how long!

SEEMINGLY IMPLICIT APOCALYPSE

Israel shrieked

With countless wounds of conquests foul,

Millennia of torments later,

Her diaspora returns now.

Prophecies haunt her again,

And the Mayans had to be red faced

For being astronomically naïve,

Now see, a universe

That still appears alive

Was in truth dead, long ago.

Gagged, muzzled, sans identity,

Timid, in anticipation

Of imminent loss,

Danger, repercussion, lurking disaster,

We are stilled…..psycho-somatically.

Puissant, mankind lives,

Breathes, pulsates,

But should this be deemed the real meaning

That life or living really is!

Turned into zombies,

Mute, indifferent

Or intimidated into silence

And shamelessly apathetic

To the crumbling, collapsing system,

Our ruination begins.

We are automatons

Or pathetic cyborgs on death row

In the quest of a human death----

……ironically and miserably becoming human

Only on the threshold of death.

With their uncannily abstruse philosophy,

The inquest into the hidden order

By the curious seers, doubters and agnostics

Seem to lend credence, meaning and purpose

To this incomprehensibly absurd life.

But, one’s mind often resonates with an awful din

Of absurdity, emptiness and nothingness

That life seems to comprise,

That savagely lashes the chamber

Of a probing psyche.

When the biologically absurd activity

That is sex is performed,

The aftermath that is birth,

Becomes inevitable,

When the absurdity that is existence is lived,

The long stretch of darkness

That is before us has to be traversed,

And the ontological truth

That is death also has to be embraced----

---making man, oblivious forever,

And the whole universe,

A travesty or nix,

For, to cyborgs, spiritual enlightenment

Is a remote dream,

And rebirth, most fantastical.

Many a time,

Under the spell of collective unconsciousness,

When my latent divine spark

Ignited my inflammable instincts divine,

My heart broke, my soul wept,

When I could neither see nor hear

The arrival of Christ

At the appointed time.

I then also thought that

Mayans calculations were, perhaps, based

On the collision of this earth

With an asteroid,

So, I strongly felt that

The destruction of this earth

Would have been

A momentous occasion.

I was also to feel elated, to witness

Some joyously destructive transition

To the new era,

But I was disillusioned

To see nothing.

Smoldering within for years

I wanted to ask God

Why demons have been given so much time

To go on with their orgy of bloodshed, rape,

Murder, plunder and evil deeds multifarious.

When everything has gone topsy-turvy,

Every ill, irremediable,

Every damage, irreparable,

Every good, irreversible,

Should I then with some credulity presume

That cataclysm has struck

‘With a whimper’

But not ‘with a bang’

And God has emerged triumphant

In this God-Satan long silent war of attrition?

Christ displayed exemplary endurance,

Shed infinite blood,

Before and during His crucifixion----

…..salvaging nothing.

The virtuous also today

Salvage nothing

Even after displaying remarkable sacrifice

And endurance to endure the pain

That is even beyond endurance,

To further only endure the long-awaited, well-deserved

And excruciatingly silent

Ongoing apocalypse with bleeding hearts

And dismal squeaks and groans.

HOW VOID SOMETIMES ASSUMES FORM!

(An inspired poem)

Coincidentally, we met

Sans terms, sans words of affection, love,

 Or an affectation of love or surprise,

Sans even any assurance

Of the purpose, aim and meaning

Of the movement, of the momentum

Of our advances

That drew us towards each other

So strangely, spontaneously and inexplicably,

With unimaginable velocity

That we knew not how

We unconsciously or sub-consciously

Generated a relationship

By this mysterious, unplanned psychic journey----from alpha to omega,

From a formless void to a concrete tenable form

We call friendship or relationship and whatnot

Which is the sum total of everything

Whereby we give each other faith, love,

Commitment, sacrifice, pleasure, ecstasy,

Comfort and peace…… ……..incredibly, lifelong!

DALIP KHETARPAL,

DR. DALIP KHETARPAL Author, poet, critic, reviewer, editor, Columnist and short-story-writer. Former educationist and administrator.