light and darkness (microfiction)

21.10.2025

A: It is Diwali today. The triumph of light over darkness.

Me: Does light really triumph over darkness? Are we celebrating a real victory?

A: There is a philosophy behind that question. Go on then. Out with it.

Me: This world is darkness. That is my philosophy. I am the light. I am the sun. And I am losing against the darkness.

A: So why do people think that the light has triumphed then?

Me: There is no limit to a self-serving delusion. They think they live in a world of justice. Because it serves them.

A: It is easy to say others are deluded. It is hard to admit your own delusion.

Me: Then that would mean I am the same as everyone else.

A: It means that you are no better than anyone else.

Me: Why should I be? But to add to the philosophy, why should light win? What is inherently better about light? The Dark Mother, Kali, she is the darkness. She is the shadow self. And she is the perfect warrior.

A: You are not a warrior. I have told you before. You worship warriors but you are not one yourself.

Me: You are wrong. I am the true warrior. The war that I am in is a spiritual war. Harder to fight. More time consuming. More draining. I last because I am powerful.

A: I keep on telling you that the world is not against you.

Me: And I keep on telling you that you are wrong. It is.

A: You have told me yourself that all of your closest friends are from the dominant culture. That means that not everyone is against you.

Me: We argue together all the time.

A: That is because of you. You are argumentative.

Me: What do you expect from Punjab?

A: Stop calling yourself Punjab and India. It doesn’t do you any good. Not all Punjabis and Indians argue all the time.

Me: The Tiger is warlike. The Tiger fights. Punjab is the warrior culture. Your mouth and your fist had better be instruments of war. We are known for being warriors. We are known for war. Our language is known for its energy, our bodies for our strength…

A: Boastful, pessimistic, cynical…

Me: A proud Punjabi. A proud Indian. And an Englishman. That actually has a backbone.

diwali

20.10.2025

Once, his friend had read his writing. And told him that he had never read anything so alienated and jaded. But, he had explained to his friend, life is really like that. Life really was like that.

Again, it was Diwali. Diwali would always come. India had a religiosity that was irrepressible. In this Diwali, he suffered.

For three years, he had been chasing love all over London. He had travelled everywhere, been to everything, met literally hundreds of people. His phone was absolutely full of numbers of those that he had been after. But it was Diwali and he was still completely alone. He had to spend the evening by himself. He had to get into that bed by himself.

When he had been walking out in London, he had thought to himself how nice it would have been to collapse crying in the street as a piece of wreckage adrift in the storm of life. How nice it would have been to have the people pretending to ignore him as he cried, to be a performer of tears for that little shabby part of London in the dark and cold and wind and rain.

And then, when he had finished working all day at his two jobs, well into the night, when he had finally arrived at the local tube station for the local bus home, he had heard the explosions of fireworks in the night. But he couldn’t see the fireworks. That was the thing. That was what life was. Fireworks going off all around you and not even being able to see them. All there was: frustration, obstruction, missing out.

There was never going to be connection with the fireworks, with the thing.

Yesterday, when he had been buying drinks in the pub, a blonde woman wearing a skimpy outfit had approached him in his pink blazer. She had asked him if she could try it on. She had modelled his blazer to her friend, striking poses and then pulling his spectacles out of the pocket and then putting them on her face to get some photographs. Curiously, he had watched her. Why was she imitating him? Why did she want to wear his clothes? Why did she want to be him? She had handed back the clothes and glasses and then gone back to her party with her friends. Other people, he did not understand. You just watched them walk off.

It would be nice just to pack everything in. All those activities that he went to to try and meet people. Just pack them all in. Give up completely. Stop working. Forget about everything and not do anything. What was the point of doing anything? It did not give you love. What was the point of work when you got no love for it? He only worked for love. He was not getting it. Nothing he was doing was getting him love.

What would it actually feel like to be loved for once?

the contest of difference (microfiction)

19.10.2025

Their culture was based on the mirror. Conformism. Emulation. Mimicry. They were all clones of each other. Whoever the original had been, that had been lost to time. Their uniforms? Black or sombre. Camouflage to become invisible. Their philosophy? Money and the self, individualism. The worship of the rich. Consumerism. Their knowledge? Pretence and arrogance. Ignorance, distortion. Lies.

Where did he begin with this? He had been imported into their land. His origin had rejected them. At first, the combined strength of their indoctrinations had proven too heavy. He dressed like them. He thought like them. But he was not one of them. Because he was brown. And because, at home, he was raised in a different version of being. Those teachings from the old world, they were slowly taking root in the cosmos of the self.

When he discovered that they would never accept him, when he found that all the important things they would keep from him, the home in him erupted into the public. He wore what was extraordinarily bright, the rainbow robes that his mother wore. He would not hide. He would stand out. The colours were difference, diversity. Their philosophy he attacked. He had been given his own path. Family first. Service before self. The community and the People over everything. The Revolution…

They had made him into the foreign woman. He knew it. He was she. Poor, excluded, marginalised, degraded. Difference herself. And they thought that would make him weak. But he knew that she was power. She was the goddess. It had become the contest of difference. He modelled his speech on her. He modelled his dress on her. When they attacked her, he fought for her. Family first. Us over I. Our language. Our culture. Our thought. The community and the People. She was the mother of his self.

Not integration but independence. Real independence and not the selfish scam that passed for it in their lies. The authenticity and integrity of being, the freedom to be, the confidence of selfhood. Honour. Love. Unrivalled power. The mother goddess who stands triumphant. The way that had lasted through eternity. However much he lost in the world, in the contest of difference, he had chosen the play of the winner: What the judge does not consider/because he has been corrupted by the highest bidder.

Escaping the Labyrinth: Equality and Diversity

(Editor Welcome written for an Equality and Diversity newsletter)

An ancient religious and spiritual metaphor, the labyrinth signifies that we are in the midst of confusion. That we have no clear path, no clear destination, that we don’t know where we are going. And therefore, that we do not know who we are. Because without purpose, we cannot find our destiny and identity.

But what is significant is that the labyrinth is an ordered structure. It is just the order of the other. That is why it is confusion. And remember, there is a solution to the labyrinth. There is an escape.

This is why I believe the idea of the labyrinth resonates with the struggle to find true equality and diversity in this world, true unity. Sometimes, we all look at the world around us that has been created by others and ask ourselves, amidst this entanglement and disorientation, can we ever find our way? Against the order of the other, how can we create an order of our own? Can we escape from this order into freedom? It is a daunting task to even begin.

Personally, I always put the example of India before me. And I think of our freedom fighters. These brave men and women were up against the greatest superpower the world had ever known. This superpower was the law. It was the government. It was the country.

But they did not shirk from the colossal challenge that was before them. They knew that they had to carve out their own path in these convoluted bureaucratic and legal structures, their own destination and their own identity from the entanglement that was presented to them.

They did it. India is free. And because she is free, she gives me hope. And I trust that she will also give the world hope. There is a legend around that either Zhou Enlai or Mao Tse-tung replied to a question about the influence of the French Revolution by saying it was too early to say. Whether or not this is true of the French Revolution, it is certainly true of the Indian Revolution. And I look forward to seeing how much of an impact this can make for all of us in this world.

the game of dying (microfiction)

17.10.2025

Life had become a thing with thorns in it for many. A complicated and crushing thing. It was evident that happiness was only for the others. So now, the people did not want to live.

So they would go to the game of dying.

You could die any way that you wanted to. For a moment, you could feel the ease of death. Just for a few pounds. You could escape this thing called life and this trap that was the world.

The game of dying promoted itself as moksha, the Hindu ideal of freedom and departure from the chain of being and constant rebirth.

The downside was that even after dying, you had to go back into the world.

You could choose how you wanted to die. Poisoning. Being stabbed. Burning.

First, I started off by being poisoned. After all, was this world not poison that one had to swallow? It was exceedingly painful. The throat would swell up, there was severe nausea. It was hard to breathe.

My next death was the revolver. I would sit there with it, staring into the barrel of it, completely focused. I would forget about all the many problems and the unfulfilled cravings, of the friends and loves that had betrayed me. Then when I pulled the trigger, the beautiful oblivion…

But now, the death I chose every time was burning. It was the most painful death. Excruciating and unbearable. The most intense death.

They would watch us. The ones that had led us to death, they came in droves to watch us. The ones that had taken all the happiness would watch, eating popcorn, smiling at each other. It was an amusement for them and we were their clowns. They had always watched our suffering and poured petrol upon us while we burned. That was how the world went around.

burnt (microfiction)

15.10.2025

Diljale. Which means ‘burnt at heart’. It describes a cynical, distressed or disappointed person.

It was the word that came to mind to him when he passed by the restaurant and looked into the window. There she was. And then, there he was. The two of them. Together. She was smiling and laughing. She was happy.

And he was out alone in the street.

It was cold, dark and windy. Specks of rain flew into his eyes. The beautiful warm light from within was closed off to him and nobody inside was giving him the slightest notice.

This was what it felt like to be a cliche of the pathetic fallacy. He should tell the story to his colleagues in the literature departments. It would be good for a laugh or two.

He had made a desperate effort not to look into the man’s face. Because he did not want to inflict any further traumas upon himself. That was a memory that he would have to return to time and time again. Why did she choose him over me? Why did he have to see them before him?

He walked off. He tried to forget. He tried to ignore the dirty hungry invisible rats that were gnawing away at his insides and eating their way up to his throat and that horrible feeling of nausea.

You are alone. You came into this world alone. You are going to go out of this world alone.

It was not fair. It was not fair that this happiness was their’s for the taking whenever they wanted it. And never his.

Diljale. The burnt heart. It was really going up in flames. A doctor would deny it, but it was burning. He was a corpse on fire. In India, they cremated their dead. He really was dead. He was burning in the rain. The rain could not douse these flames.

What was funny that they criticised him for being cynical and pessimistic. So many disappointments in this life. All he had was disappointment to look in the face.

And what was there to walk towards in the rain? But he would walk in the rain by himself. He would have to keep on going. And he would never be sitting in that restaurant with her. That smile was going to burn in his dreams of terror.

the maximalist of doing (microfiction)

15.10.2025

He was known for work. But why was he known for work? Why did he work so much?

First of all, there was the empty ache in him. No one had come to fill that space. So he crammed it in with works. Time yawned open unforgivingly. The loss of her and the family that there would have been… There had to be some substitute, some forgetfulness in the work. When he was not working in culture for money, he taught, wrote, photographed, drew, painted, sang and acted. When he worked, he always had the desire to meet someone through that work. He did not. So he kept on looking and looking. So that was why he was the maximalist for doing.

Secondly, there was the relentless energy. No one had come to claim that energy. So he crammed it in with works. And still, despite that, he could never get tired. So that was why he was the maximalist of doing.

Also, the ambition. To be someone. That monstrous ego. To be everywhere, to be god upon this earth. To shape the world in his own imprint. Ambition was a monster that had straddled his back. The self belief: I am one that will live eternally in my name. Not just for himself, for his people this ego, the ego for the Oppressed that had been crushed into the ground for thousands of years. To be their champion, their light and guide.

Then, there was the background. A father who had always been working. A family who had always been working. His working culture background. A family and a culture that always kept busy and productive. That had worked as farmers and shoe makers. A background of hard, labourious work. So that was why he was the maximalist of doing.

And what about the commitment? The desire to change the world. The desire to contribute to society. The desire to be a productive member of this reality. To not just take but to give.

Do not forget the money. To have those savings. To always be ready to provide for a family. Money not for the self but for the family which never came.

And what did he get from the work? Did Sisyphus cry? When you move the rock up the mountain and never succeed, do you cry? Does the maximalist of doing ever cry? He did not cry. He could not. But he wanted to cry. His life was a punishment for some grave sin. He did not have the happiness of undoing, only its tragedy. Because the more he did, the more he was undone.

So that was why he was the maximalist for doing.

a dream of heartbreak (microfiction)

14.10.2025

The night before, he had watched a play. And unexpectedly within the performance, the players had begun talking about heartbreak. It was a complete departure from what had been taking place and an absolute surprise. It was an outpouring of mourning.

He had watched uncomfortably, trying to forget their words as they spoke. He had thought that he had succeeded. That he had diverted his attention.

In other words, he had fooled himself.

Because in the morning, he woke up from a dream of heartbreak. He could see her face, more clearly than in a photograph, the face in life. Someone was telling a story about her. Her face was sad. They were saying that she was to marry someone else.

The mourning was not over. It had been years and he was still mourning her. She was alive and he was mourning her. It was never going to end.

He could not cry. He could not let it out. So his stomach churned with nausea and his thoughts kept on returning to her. His dreams cried for him.

He wanted to be free of her. He wanted his freedom. If he couldn’t have love, could he at least have freedom? He wanted her out of his mind. That mind was his. If she could not be his, she was not wanted in his mind.

Recently a fantasy had begun to take hold. To drink himself to death. It would be so easy, complete oblivion. Like the Indian film ‘Devdas’. Which was surprising. Because he abhorred drinking. But it was just an alteration of the usual fantasies of extinction aroused by his romantic failure. He was going to be haunted by the ghosts of the living dead forever. And there was never going to be any consolation in his life.

the conspiracy against love (microfiction)

12.10.25

They wanted to liberate the people from love. But instead, they were liberating them from their humanity.

In this era, online interactions had replaced real life ones. It was no longer fashionable to date in the pool of people that you knew. The desire was for the stranger because the grass was always considered to be greener on the other side. And the stranger was appealing because prolonged human contact was no longer desirable in and of itself. Superficiality reigned, not deep knowledge of someone. That was what was undesirable. Knowledge was regarded as poison, ignorance as bliss.

As a result, the online dating companies grew and grew in wealth. Love was an industry. It had always been an industry. The Victorians would sell off their women to the highest bidder while canting about love in their triple decker romance novels. The royals had always looked at possessions for their matches.

To preserve their wealth, the dating companies needed their users to be always single. Or only to be in a relationship briefly. They decided to make it so that it was so. It was the grand conspiracy against love.

They took their cues from the world of work. They taught the people that everyone was expendable. You could just throw away someone when you had had enough. They taught the people that the most important thing in life was to be independent. So that the people could never tolerate being in a relationship or endure being connected to anyone. They taught the people to be selfish and grasping. So that they could never be in a genuine relationship with anyone and to give rather than to take, to give their whole heart without ego. They taught the people that there were only workers. Not lovers.

So there was no longer any love. I watched the bodies move in a loveless world. A sordid, practical world of money. I was all alone. Everyone was all alone. Just like the book, it was a lonely planet.

microfiction 1

11.10.2025

An unaccountable loss this, the ability to write purely imaginative work. Reality was pushing its sharp corners into my mind and my body. This life of suffering… How long was it that you could endure suffering for? It had been a sustained assault, a laboured siege, a ravenous feasting upon me that had taken place over years without end…

So what story could I write? That was different from my life? That was not an interminable quest? That was not a tragedy of heartbreak? A lament of loneliness and unbelonging? A fight against all that there was? A doomed resistance of difference in the face of the great evil of the One?

The public wanted a glimmer of light. That glimmer of light gave them hope. That was what sold. An orphan magician that defeats evil. A misfit that finds love. An underdog that achieves some kind of victory, whether real or imaginary. A problem that is resolved. Justice achieved.

Magic. Love. Victory. Justice. Where was any of this in my life? Where were they in my world?

And so, the need for a new story. Fiction is not the unreal. Fiction is not the false. It is an old chestnut that fiction is another reality. Perhaps more real. Perhaps braver than this reality. An alternative imagining of reality.

Perhaps I should imagine myself as a villain. I write myself into my characters. I could pretend to be the villain. But this would serve the false narrative in place. I am not the villain. I am the hero.

I live in the dystopia. What is this world if it is not dystopian? Perhaps I should invent a Utopia. Where talent is rewarded. Where genius is recognised. Where there is true equality, fairness and inclusion. But would the mind of this society and this reality be able to take it? Would they even be able to begin to comprehend it?

Perhaps this is the great barrier. Perhaps this is the cause of my pen’s impotence.

But tomorrow we pick up the pen again. And tomorrow, we imagine a new tomorrow. That is what the artist creates. From the swamp, the lotus is born. And from the breast of the slave and the faithful, there comes the rebel and the freedom fighter. Just like the devil comes out from the mind of god.