christmas day (microfiction)

25.12.2025

A: Now it is over. Did you enjoy Christmas day? And what did you get up to?

S: I spent most of the day with my friend after phoning the Lady for an hour in the morning, learning languages and completing another module of my management course. We had an excellent Christmas lunch of beef wellingtons and spicy pepperoni and pepper pizza. With some beautiful Marks and Spencer’s chocolates. We talked and played Scrabble. Some family time for dinner where I had tandoori chicken, wholemeal pitta breads, a freshly cut salad and a yoghurt and mint sauce. Dessert was a chocolate yule cake which had chocolate sauce on the outside and cream inside. Afterwards, I watched Mrs Robinson with my friend for the first time at his place and then we called one of our other mates together before I called the Lady again on the walk home.

A: What did you make of Mrs. Robinson?

S: She is infinitely seductive. An experienced older lady that knows what she wants. A powerful woman that revolts against the trap that is marriage.

A: You were seduced?

S: Was Mrs. Robinson trying to seduce me?

A: That is for you to tell.

S: Or not as the case may be. A fine film.

A: How do you reflect upon this day?

S: It was fun. Some work and a lot of pleasure. I managed languages learning and reading up on psychology as well. But my thoughts are with those that were alone today.

A: Any other thoughts before retiring for the night?

S: I have decided upon my New Year’s Resolution. To make sure I do either the exercise bike or running on the treadmill more regularly. And to read more. Always, there is more reading to do. If a writer does not read, how can he write?

how does it feel for the moth to ravish the flame? (microfiction)

04.12.2025

S: How does it feel for the moth to ravish the flame? Do you know?

A: In plain English?

S: I don’t speak in plain English. I speak in beautiful English.

A: Forget the quibbles. You know what I am saying.

S: There are those that read that do not like the truth unadorned.

A: So? Who are they?

S: I am speaking of a destructive love. A love in which the self is wrecked.

A: Is life and the self a boat that can be wrecked?

S: You have never felt the pain?

A: We live in the degraded present. We live in a world where even love is pain.

S: When you have loved a stone, all you do is to collide against it.

A: Did you break?

S: Almost. It didn’t quite happen.

A: Why don’t you break? How are you still standing?

S: I did not let the darkness engulf me. I am the sun.

A: The sun can become eclipsed by the moon.

S: Moon cannot overcome me. There is one that is undefeated and invincible. She has given me her powers. The Mother, Durga. The Queen Mother.

A: How so?

S: I feel the protection of the ideals of Mother India. The ideals that is the one that is the warrior queen. The one that protects and loves.

A: To almost break then. How did that feel?

S: The one that is alive that has lived through death is the moth that has ravished the flame. Burnt himself alive. And yet, everything did not turn into ash. The mouth and the stomach was full of ashes. But this heart, this heart of a Punjabi, this heart of The Tiger, this heart is full of energy and life. We boast that we have the biggest hearts in the world. And so we are not wrecked. We restore ourselves. When the flame will not embrace us then there flies out of the world Solace. And whether or not we can keep Solace through the long and lonely night, just to look into her eyes and touch her gives the moth the desire to fly again once more into the flame that is love.

the breath of destiny (microfiction)

26.11.2025

S: When I take a pause, I feel destiny. She is breathing down my neck.

A: How can you believe in destiny? It is an outdated notion.

S: I have been raised to fulfil a destiny. To protect The Mother. I am named after it. It is the teaching in the culture. It is us, the warrior culture.

A: How much do you do for this destiny?

S: I work in education. I teach. I write to promote diversity. I volunteer at charities. I do all that I can while earning a living. I protect my birth mother. I protected my grandmother. It is never enough. When I was young, I swore that I would change this world. I have done my utmost with the opportunities that I was given, which are not many.

A: Do you believe that you have changed the world for the better?

S: Yes, I believe.

A: Regrets?

S: That there is not the war. And that I have not died a glorious death in the war.

A: Will there ever be a war?

S: I believe in the Revolution. Whatever anyone else thinks about it, no matter how vicious this world is, I believe in the Revolution. And I am always ready to fight. I am spoiling for a fight. Warrior destiny is the war. To create that spark that will burn the world. I am not alone. There are others.

A: How can you be a warrior if there is no war?

S: The war is all around us. The war for us. Look and you shall see. Take the scales off of your eyes. There is a system that the slaves to the state have made. It is the system of slavery because they cannot think beyond slavery. And I am no slave. I won’t bow my head to anyone but The Mother. There is no one fit to rule above me. That is what you call self-belief and self-respect. Only I am fit to govern myself. That is what this war is. Me against this world that would have me in chains and licking their boots. I am not a sycophant and a boot licker. It is better to live with nothing than to be someone’s slave. I live the life of a king. That is why I am the man of destiny.

the kardashian factor (microfiction)

13.11.2025

S: Writing really is a loser’s game.

A: Why do you say so?

S: What do you actually get from it?

A: Satisfaction. That you have completed the craft. Expression of the self.

S: You cannot eat those. They do not assuage your hunger.

A: You are touching other people and their minds and hearts.

S: Some hate. With absolute viciousness. They choose not to understand. How many do you think read what I write? How many do you think understand The Tiger?

A: What brings on this negativity? You are complete negativity. How do you do anything with this negativity?

S: I read an headline about Kim Kardashian. That she has a five billion pound business.

A: So what?

S: Here I am, having slogged away at writing for about twenty years or so. And I am still writing for free or for peanuts.

A: You are the one that chose to be socially responsible and to talk about serious issues. You could have written fluff to make money. They would have rewarded you for that.

S: Christ knew. The choice is between Mammon and god.

A: You are not religious. Even now, you could sell your pen. You would do well in whatever you wrote. You have the styles.

S: Sell myself? To the highest bidder? Impossible.

A: Well then, do not compare yourself to Kardashian. You do not have to have any message to be successful financially. In fact, they prefer you not to have any message to be successful.

S: Be content with nothing. That is this society all over. Be content with nothing. When the ones that have and get, you look at their contribution and what is even there? Out of nothing, they have made billions.

A: People want to be her. They do not want to be you. That is the secret of success. In fact, you are actually better looking than her and your life is actually full of more interest. But the problem is that Indian culture does not sell. It is not big in the public imagination. And you? You have dared to be different. You have done this to yourself. You should have tried to fit in.

S: I can’t fit into this. What this is, nobody should try to fit into it.

A: Yet they do. And therefore, you lose.

S: That, we will see. It depends on what you think winning means.

if death came (microfiction)

11.11.2025

A: You do not want to die.

S: There is a Hindi song. You have the desire to live. You have the wish for death. Everyone wants to die. No one wants to die. While I live, I eat healthy food, exercise and look after myself. I haven’t lost my discipline. And discipline is oriented towards long life. Yet in the moment of sadness and separation, we stare longingly at death. Our mouths water…

A: That’s enough of that. But if you did die, what then?

S: Who would care?

A: Irrespective of that, what about your ideas?

S: I notice the things that no one notices. They have lain there for over a hundred years. Maybe somebody would notice. Maybe there would be one that comes that could be as wise as me.

A: And what if it is just you? Only you that can see these things? Why have they lain dormant a hundred years or more until you have come?

S: You do not believe me when I say I am a genius. Someone like me only comes once every hundred or two hundred years. Do you know how much I have studied? I haven’t just studied the three undergraduate degrees. I have done university courses in every subject in the humanities. On top of that, I have the natural cunning of a Punjabi villager. I see. Probably, if I die, what I have discovered will remain undiscovered forever.

A: If you really are that important, if you really are a genius, why then do you not work and work and work? And write and write and write?

S: For these people? For these fucking people? You cannot be serious. They would starve me. They would put me in the corner and turn their backs to me. They have made life hard, a life of suffering. Work for them? Them? With their pettiness and frivolity? Their lack of any kind of understanding? The lack of any kind of meritocracy or value?

A: Do not become Achilles. He was the greatest. Yet he would not fight if he was not awarded the spoils.

S: I am ego. Ego must be fed. The Tiger is hungry, ravenous. For what is his. But I will give what I give when the time is ripe. I will not kill myself for it. For these people? No. For my people. For the Revolution.

the readers (microfiction)

07.11.2025

A: Do you still keep that website?

S: I only write fiction nowadays.

A: Yet you have retained your readers?

S: They still read. Some are very loyal. In a world where loyalty is rare. Where time is precious and limited.

A: Do you think they wonder what you are up to nowadays? Outside of fiction?

S: I am sure I am a curiosity. A warrior from the old world. A so-called ‘toxic male’.

A: Did you not tell me that, in person, one told you that you led an uneventful life? That you did not do anything?

S: Apparently I do nothing and nothing happens. And yet the readers are riveted to my writing for some reason. Funny that. I am all over London everywhere and yet I am always doing nothing.

A: What did you do today?

S: I am not saying. I am denying anyone that reads for the vicarious feeling of pleasure in my life.

A: What do you think these readers make of you?

S: I am everything to all people. Friend. Inspiration. Argumentative. Childish. Mature. Egotistical. Humble. For some, an absolute enemy.

A: Every writer faces some kind of hostility, agreed. But what is it that you are trying to convey through your fiction?

S: In his mind, the writer has the idea of one who is in accord with him. Perfect sympathy. The beautiful reader. The ideal reader. The one that loves him. Perhaps, she reads.

A: That is what you have in your mind. Others dream of money and fame. Immortality.

S: I dream of love. I write for love. I work for love.

A: And yet, love is precisely what you don’t have.

S: The forms of love are various. Some come. Some don’t. In love, I am a beggar.

A: The philosophy of India is that the one who has the least is the greatest. Don’t forget that.

a dream of sadness

07.11.2025

S. was woken up in the morning from a dream of sadness by the alarm clock.

He was at the context where everything had happened with the one that had broken his heart. And it was a lunch time. He had gone to a shopping mall outside with another friend. It wasn’t any friend. It was a friend with a tragic past whose mother had died as a child. His company was sadness. Someone who had been separated from a woman, a mother.

The shopping had been torturous. His friend had walked in front. S. was following him. But he couldn’t follow him. S. was so sad that he had lain there face down on the ground in front of everyone. S. wanted to give up. It had consumed a lot of time. So S. had to take a taxi back. He was running late.

The taxi driver, an Indian woman (S. was Indian) had charged him an extortionate amount of money on arrival back to the place where the breaker of his heart was. Twenty five pounds. And, on arrival at the place where the breaker of his heart was, because he had to go back, he saw the Indian women’s children there. She was the mother.

He had to pay. He fumbled around in his little plastic seethrough bag of things. He kept on looking but couldn’t find the card. The Indian mother’s daughter was approaching him, looking for a tip, demanding more money.

Suddenly two bouncers appeared. They were accusing S. of trying to get away without paying the Indian mother. And then, S. found the card. Finally, he could pay the mother.

That was when the alarm bell rang and S. woke up.

In his dreams, the sadness of heartbreak was being processed. And his duty to the Mother was being processed. His debt to the Mother. She was being processed in his dreams, the women in his life and in the realm of his ideas, India’s ideas. The words he couldn’t say out loud, the things he couldn’t say out loud in a world of judgement, enmity and hostility. His past. Who could understand? Only an Indian in England.

the stealer of sweets (microfiction)

02.11.2025

In that shared space, S. had a cupboard. And in the cupboard, along with his other food, S. used to keep chocolate. No longer, because there is a stealer of sweets at large.

They began by lifting packets of chocolate. S. thought it was just an exception to the general trust that he could extend to the group. So he had kept on storing his treasures there. But the thief was resolute and shameless. So S. hid the chocolate somewhere else, under lock and key.

But then, after a while, when S. thought that the thief would no longer root around in a place where there was nothing, he had put a few packets of sweets there for himself. A quick energy boost to get him through the busy day. The thief had returned.

At first, the thief was careful. They took what could not be noticed. But, after a while, the thief became brazen. And they would take all of the sweets and leave the packet entirely empty. A message.

What was the motivation of this thief? Why were they stealing the sweets in such a targeted way?

Was it just the case that they could see something there, knew there would be something there and it was an easy heist? Was it just shameless greed?

Or was it more the case that they were communicating something? Was it a personal rivalry? Payback for some mistake? Did this thief even know whose cupboard they were stealing from?

One day, the thief left something. A giant furry strawberry. Or was it the thief at all?

The thief chews S.’s sweets in their mouth. They feel happiness. S. has fed everyone there with sweet treats on many occasions. He is happy to share. But S. does not want to share with this thief. Because generosity is a choice and not a compulsion. And this thief is forcing things.

S. wonders whether the thief thinks of their thefts at all. Whether they are happy just to take and not give a second thought. Is the thief different from this world that just takes at all without giving?

Complaint (microfiction)

01.11.2025

‘Shikayat’ (from “Gangubai Kathiawadi” soundtrack)

I was writing to A. About a song.

In this song, there is complete understanding. The understanding of a woman. The story is that there is a man who is upset with her. And she understands that he is upset with her because he loves her.

He does not look at her.

He does not think about her.

She passes by him. He does not stop her.

He complains about her.

She even says that he hates her.

But yet, she still believes in his loyalty. She believes that they are not separated. That he complains is that he loves her.

The song plays with the concept of ‘roothna’ or ‘ruthna’, being sulky or sullen. It is ‘when someone close to you gets UPSET, OFFENDED or SLIGHTLY ANGRY and STOPS TALKING/COMMUNICATING for some period’. https://www.quora.com/What-is-the-English-word-for-the-Hindi-word-ruthna

“Ruthna” implies a temporary emotional withdrawal often intended to prompt reconciliation; “to sulk” and “to pout” capture the behavioral aspect, while “to be offended” or “to take offense” capture the feeling. (Ibid.)

So, in the song, she understands that he complains because he loves her. And she loves him too. The complaint is evidence of their love. It brings them together instead of breaking them apart.

Obsessively, I listened to this song. In it was the mystery of love. Of an Indian man’s love. I have not watched the film. However, the form of the song is important. It is a qawwali. This was originally a song form in Sufi Islam designed to be hypnotic and to inspire religious ecstasy and love. Hindi films use the form to convey earthly love. The divinity of love is being expressed in ‘Shikayat’ (Complaint).

How different, I thought, the Hindi film is from life. The understanding of this song, does it happen in real life? Real life is full of misunderstanding and confusion. As we know it, real life is full of misguided assumptions, tangle and confusion, mind games that meander and go nowhere.

The song has inspired me to watch the film. Perhaps in the film, there is the reconciliation of the lovers. A happy love story for a change. Instead of another witnessing of the death of love. And the death of the lover. Who is reviled for being in love.

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.