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…

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.