a bubble of happiness (microfiction)

31.10.2025

A: Halloween comes once again.

S: Every day and night the dead haunt us. What is special about this day?

A: You are haunted. You always speak for everyone. When, in fact, you are different from everyone else. Do you ever feel happiness in your life?

S: I feel happy sometimes. I felt happy yesterday. You know that, naturally, I have a positive disposition. All my friends tell me that I have a positive energy. Unhappiness has been forced upon me. And I only feel the unhappiness most keenly in the night time and in the morning when it is hard to rise.

A: Yes, it is indeed remarkable that despite the amount that you complain, you never actually seem to be that low. Then we have your words in the night, a shocking contrast. Like Jekyll and Hyde. But to the question. How does a jaded and cynical, pessimistic person like you even feel any ounce of happiness?

S: There are people that make you happy. Everything comes from other people. They can make you happy. And then they can hurt you and make you sad.

A: Why talk about sadness?

S: Because that is what gives happiness meaning. Death and sadness, intolerable suffering, this is what gives happiness its meaning. In the old paintings, happiness was depicted as a child playing with a bubble. Happiness is a bubble. It is fragile and delicate. It is a shining orb of light which will only exist for a moment in this hard world. Look carefully at the surface of the bubble of happiness. It shines with light. It has all of the colours within its iridescence. It is beauty. The roundness of the bubble shows its perfection.

A: You can have the bubble forever.

S: The bubble has its enemies. What they should have shown in the old paintings is that the child has to protect his bubble from the world and the others. They are watching it jealously, hoping to prick at it and end its brief soujourn through the world.

A: So that is how you approach happiness? With fear?

S: Not fear. Caution. A warrior does not know fear. Do you know what the hero, my hero, Sunny Deol, the Punjabi Tiger says in the film ‘Jaat’? They ask this warrior who he is. He says that he is one that knows the value of life, but still puts his life in danger. What is most precious is what we risk in this life. That is the warrior culture. The bubble is precious. It is the most precious thing in the world. And we have to protect it. But we also put it at risk. In India, they believe in the evil eye. The eye of envy. It is real. Suffering in this world is created by people. But without risk, there is no meaning. And who am I? The biggest risk taker. The Tiger is known for his daring. Find someone braver. It is impossible. Because Tiger dares his whole heart on the people that he cares about and the things that he loves. Knowing the pain. Find someone else like that in this wretched universe.

the day of supposed happiness

30.10.2025

Again. Again it was the day. It was unlooked for. Hoped against. But what were we against the inevitability of time? A mere ant cannot swim against the current.

What was it that he was aiming to swim against? The day of supposed happiness.

It was supposed to be a day of celebration. A day of connection. A day that was to be remembered with fond memories.

Instead, every time, it was a day of sadness, hopelessness. If despair could be moulded into a shape, it was this day.

The day was like his leg. After they had burnt off the veins inside, they had damaged the nerves. If he brushed his hands against his calf, he could only just about feel it there.

How do we get through such a day?

In the morning, he lay there unmoving. What was racing with thought was his mind. What was fighting with every breath was his heart.

This burden of a day that was supposed to be happy. This burden of celebration. It was expected and wanted. He was being asked to perform again for this crowd. They that did not understand. That could not understand. He was sick of their inability to understand. And of the exhibition of emotions that did not run through him, which he would have to pluck from the theatre of selves around him.

Yet there were those that could be genuinely and earnestly happy on this day of supposed happiness.

They did not live his life.

skinned face (microfiction)

29.10.2025

Recently, I have begun disliking the sight of my face. It is not because I am ugly. Rather, it is because I am beautiful.

It is the beauty of the face that is causing upset. Because I look at it in the mirror, thinking to myself that that face has never done anything for me. Beauty is supposed to help someone find love. And it hasn’t.

It hurts me when people can’t believe that I don’t have anyone, when they tell me that I am so beautiful.

I am watching everyone around me get into a relationship at the drop of a hat. Whenever they want to. At any moment. Except for me. It doesn’t matter how long I know someone. It doesn’t matter how good the conversation is with them. It doesn’t matter how much I get on with them.

Someone put a curse on me when I was a child. That I would never have someone.

I am beginning to think that it would be best if I just peeled off that face. If someone with a knife just scraped all the skin off my face.

That way, my face would no longer be beautiful. And then, nobody would be able to see the colour of my skin. Nobody would be able to determine my ethnicity by looking at my face.

And then, maybe without a face, I would give up the dream of love. As long as I have this beautiful face, I keep on dreaming about love. And dreaming and dreaming. Without any love in my life.

sorry (microfiction)

28.10.2025

A: Your anger is too much. You are hurting people. You are saying things just because you are angry.

S: I am an angry person. I’ve always been an angry person.

A: You need to find some other way to get rid of it. You know how much it upsets you when you upset someone. The guilt completely consumes you.

S: Not when I’m angry. But yes, I genuinely feel sorry that I have hurt anyone. I did not mean to do it. I didn’t think it out. I made mistakes.

A: Why not just say sorry?

S: No one ever accepts an apology.

A: Really?

S: Well, a good friend did recently. But usually not.

A: Find some way to control your anger. Then you would not have to say sorry.

S: It seems like every emotion I have, I have to apologise for it. Maybe the best thing would be not to have any emotions at all. Isn’t that the ideal of Hinduism? Emotion is a cloud…

A: Your problem…

S: My problem is that when someone upsets me,maybe I should tell them I am upset with them. And then maybe I would hear sorry instead of having to say it all the time. Maybe I should only talk to people that can communicate directly in words what they are saying too. Because then I don’t have to read their expressions and their minds. Which I can’t do.

A: No one is going to communicate directly to you. They don’t. You can’t do it yourself. That is the problem for everyone.

S: The problem is that I’m sorry. And I can’t say it. And what good would it do? It is another emotion that you cannot express, regret. And then you wonder why I am so angry. It is the one emotion that a man is allowed to express. And even my anger, I am not allowed to express it fully. You see? There is no emotion that you can express. Tell me something, how do you express your anger fully? Surely you would not have me bottle it up inside?

A: Listen…

S: Everyone has moved on in life. The bridges have all been broken. I don’t have any bridges connecting me to anyone any more. Anything I did that hurt anyone, I am sorry for. But what is the point of anything now? The boats have floated away from each other. Some things, I am still not sorry for. Some things I am sorry for. The people that I most wanted to impress, they are disappointed. That is life. And I am not going to offer explanations and excuses. No one listens to them.

A: Has anyone ever said sorry to you?

S: Yes.

A: And what did you do?

S: I accepted their apology.

A: How long ago?

S: Just yesterday. Many times. Certain friends.

A: What do you think of the sorry?

S: If someone feels bad and wants to say sorry for something, I just forgive them. Because they are reaching out to you and they care about you and want to keep things as they’re going. That’s what I see a sorry as.

A: But you realise, for some people, sorry doesn’t mean anything.

S: Maybe nothing means anything in this life. I am going to sleep. One time a Punjabi guest came to the house. And when they left, they said to forgive them if they had committed any mistakes. Maybe that is all you can do in this life, whether the sorry is heard or accepted or not. There is an intention behind a sorry, if you could recognise it.

the shock of the racist (microfiction)

28.10.2025

S: It’s ludicrous, isn’t it?

A: What?

S: The shock of the racist.

A looks at S quizzically.

S: All they do is spout hate. Every single word is a hate crime. But then when you point out that they are racist, suddenly there is shock and surprise.

A: You are talking about someone in particular?

S: Look at that piece of shit Farage…

A: Here we go again.

S: He is lucky…

A: Stop there. Don’t say it.

S: Okay, I won’t. But look at their strategy. Hate crime after hate crime. The persecution and oppression of anyone perceived as other because of their culture or race. And then, if you ever point it out, then there is denial, denial, denial. Outrage even. That is the thing about a racist. If you point it out to them, they think that they are entitled to anger. They love lies and lies only.

A: And what of it? A bastard is a bastard. They cannot be legit.

S: You know what it is? The racist pretends that they love the Other. They have this deceit that they love the Other. They won’t countenance any exposure of the stuntedness of their hearts.

A: That’s going a bit far, isn’t it? How do you reckon they are fabricating a tale of love?

S: Look at imperialism. They pretended they loved us so that they could rule over us. They said they loved us so much that they were going to ‘civilise’ us. When they had no civilisation because unjust rule over another is not civilisation, it is barbarity. Thinking yourself better than another because they are different and excluding them is barbarity, not civilisation. A civilisation of barbarity.

A: You are importing your experience of that one into things. I know you. And your constant sneering is why you are unloved.

S: Love at the cost of conscience is not love.

A: Have you not heard that all is fair in love and war?

S: Stoop to their degraded level for love? Impossible for The Tiger. That is the cant of their culture, their celebration of injustice. Love is justice or it is nothing. And justice itself is love. That is why I stand apart from them. That is why there is one Tiger. And a world of sheep.

love cancelled (microfiction)

27.10.2025

S: All that this world does is to cancel love. We are not allowed to love.

A: Anyone? Everyone?

S: Us.

A: I knew you would say that.

S: Why not tell the truth? If we dare to love someone, everyone stands in the way of it. The family. This society. The one that you love themselves. Years even of a lover’s endeavour for a refusal…

A: Forget love. It is a snare. You have done well to escape it. The tragedies of your love only appear to be pitiful.

S: The real snare is loneliness.

A: This love that you wish to end your loneliness, do you really think it will do so? Enjoy freedom.

S: The solitary freedom of a Crusoe. Without a Friday or love in his life.

A: Why has your love been cancelled?

S: Because of my freedom. My heart is too free for this world. The lover’s love is the love of the Revolution.

A: You have said this before. What do you mean by it?

S: The lover does not look at status. The lover does not look at race. The lover does not see another culture and despair. The lover does not follow convention or care about what anyone else thinks about it. He looks into the eyes of the loved one to find unity and connection across status, race and culture. The lover has humanity. The lover has the prize of love. And in this world of hate, separation, the oppression of unjust power and differences, in this world of inhumanity, the lover is the Revolution. Because the lover only loves. That is why his love is the Revolution.

A: You are not the lover. Your loves were all unfulfilled.

S: They could not stomach it. But you know, I am named after the god of love. He that came to all the women at once. The power of love itself.

A: A name is not an identity.

S: I disagree. I am love. The love that goes against the sword.

A: Love itself is a venomous blade.

S: I tell you I drink the poison. And I smack my lips at it.

fighting the no (microfiction)

26.10.2025

S: The No had horns of fiendish sharpness. The No cut into me.

A: Did she wound you?

S: Fatally. Yet somehow I survived.

A: How did you the fight the No?

S: How do you fight a No? You cannot fight a No. There is no reason for a No that is given. There is no rationality behind a No. When someone rejects you entirely, all of you, how can there be a fight?

A: You are saying that you did not fight? You, the warrior? You laid down your arms? Like a non-man?

S: I am not saying that. I am giving you the benefit of my experience.

A: I knew you would fight the No. How did you fight her?

S: For two years I argued against the No. The No was wrong. I fought for two years for a chance. Every night I fought against that No. There was nothing. All there was was the No. I was snared in the No. All I breathed was the No. In my feverish dreams of horror, all I felt was the No.

A: When you were faced with an insuperable problem, you still fought? Why?

S: Warrior destiny is the war. It is written in the stars. Unalterable. Incontestable. But this No, it was contestable. It was a contest. My Yes against the No. Life against death.

A: But yet, Yes lost. No won. Life lost. Death won.

S: No can never win. Do you know, this world has erected a Great No? It dwarfs the one of difference. But what else do we worship except the men that fought against the Great No? The religion of my father is Guru Ravidasa. From the low castes, he fought against the Great No of the higher castes. He fought for us, the people. He fought for the Revolution, may a thousand kisses rain down upon it! The man of brown skin fights against the Great No of those without a brown hide. It is the fight against the Great No that gives meaning in life. Remember the Song of God in the Gita:

“You have a right to perform your prescribed duties, but you are not entitled to the fruits of your actions.”

a duet of love (microfiction)

26.10.2025

Without a fault, that was what this duet of love was. Voice, perfect. Words, beautiful. Music, immaculate.

Then why did the song inspire such sadness?

Melancholy ran through the melody and his mind. In his life, there was no duet of love. In his life there was either a song of yearning and unslakeable thirst or a lamentation of grief. Out of all in the world, there was not one that would make the music with him, share the song.

These Indians, these Hindi speakers, what words of love they would sing. They would promise their life. They would promise their love the stars and the moon with her peerless radiance in the night sky. And his own promises of love? They had never let him fulfil them. Instead, them and their world had stood up against him, threatening to crush him if he expressed what was inside his heart.

But India knew this. He had known it himself. Still he had dared to love. He had had to love stealthily in a world full of hate. Dressed in black in the night, like he was a thief in mourning.

Difference does not find love.

Integrity and love do not hold hands.

For resolution there is no romance.

Desire does not dance.

The classic Hindi song and the classic Hindi film pursue one theme: love in and against a world of hate. This new generation with their inexperience and their betrayals mock the Hindi film and the Hindi songs. The traitors to love scoff at her, pursuing practicality, power and convention.

For those of the old world, for those full of love, loyalty and passion – even obsession – the Hindi love song is the template of ourselves. For our love, we can give our life. For our love, we can give the moon and the stars and the sun. What we cannot give is our honour, our promise. And that is what a world without honour asks for. But honour has been promised to the Mother Goddess. You can’t live without love but you can live without a love duet. It is poison. But we swallow it.

survival (microfiction)

25.10.2025

Yesterday, he had been in a car accident.

An unaccountable crash had deafened everyone on the bus. A moment of shock and surprise. Its origin unclear, a bastard noise.

The explosion had come when he had been getting off at his stop. He had been gloating to himself about how quick his journey from work had been. He had cleared it all in about thirty five minutes. The train had come exactly on time. And then the bus had come exactly on time. It had even stopped raining.

In the first few moments, while the public were immobile and dazed, the duty of a hero called. He was a man of action and a man of quick thoughts. He was the only real man on that bus. Investigation to see if there was anyone that needed help. Instinctively, he had jumped out of the bus and gone round to the back. Without knowing what had happened. It could have been a terrorist with a gun. In the eventuality, it was an expensive white car which had collided with the back of the bus. They were fine. Stupid and incompetent. But fine.

As he had walked home, he had reflected to himself that it is never the ones that are tired of life that die. The ones that are tired of life, they are preserved. Priam in the Trojan war longed for death and it would not come. He had to watch all the ones that he loved die all around him. It could have been so easy, so peaceful. A loud noise and then sleep…

Even the stupidity and ignorance of these people around him, their sheer incompetence, these things could not kill him.

It was just a fact that the hand of the Mother Goddess was upon his head. Nothing could touch him. So many incidents in his life. So many encounters. The blood clot. Assaults. Being mugged. The bombing of London. The sickness. She had given him the strength and endurance to last in this cold and hard world of enemies and suffering. He would always live to fight another day. Whether he wanted to or not.

the children of genius (microfiction)

22.10.2025

S: When you think about it, there are millions of children that I am producing in a day. But none of them ever see the light of day.

A: And? It is the same for every man. You can’t regret potential for not happening. Everyone is full of potential.

S: Are they though? Is talent that common? I doubt it. But the point that I am making is that there are possibly hundreds of geniuses that I could be producing.

A: Here is this claim again. What qualifies you as a genius? Presumably you are saying that you want to pass on your intelligence?

S: Being able to see what no one else can see. I have proved it time and time again. Look at each of my publications. For these famous authors, they have been studied by experts for their whole life. And those experts still can’t see what I am seeing.

A: If you are such a genius, why don’t you have any recognition?

S: Racism. Ignorance. Difference is marginalised in this culture. If you can’t take my word for it, look at the studies that prove it statistically. The intelligensia in this country is one of the most racist in the entire world. Do you know why I was rejected from Cambridge? I passed the interview. It was my brown skin that got in the way. So they pooled me and eventually did not have me. It doesn’t matter what anyone says about it. That is what they are like. Full of racist shit. There is always the reluctance and the excuse. Any excuse. Exclusion on the flimsiest of pretexts. How many of those people they chose over me have published books and articles like I have? Exactly.

A: If you are a genius, don’t you owe it to the world to write?

S: I don’t owe this world of shit anything or anything to anyone.

A: You are squandering your talent.

S: Fuck these people. Let them drown in their ignorance. The gift is too precious to give to them.

A: Yet you told me that you are writing that new book, that colossal and earth-shattering book.

S: I will write it. Because one has been chosen to know all alone of the countless. Because one is a genius. Because a genius is proven by work, not by recognition.

A: If you are this genius, work out a way to pass it on. The waste if you are right…

S: I am working on it. In love, like in work, like in life, genius is not rewarded. Whereas ignorance…