fighting fate (microfiction)

12.11.2025

S: Today I was in haste to get somewhere with someone. But when I arrived at the line, everything was down. There were people swearing down their phones, people with anger and annoyance on their faces, people rushing off in a huff…

A: Sounds hellish.

S: It was. All because one or two trespassers had come on the line. So they shut down all the services. One train was cancelled. One train had a failure to launch… I had to leave it. I had to cancel my plans. All there was was frustration.

A: And what were you thinking about that?

S: In life, there is always some kind of obstruction. It might not happen to you. It probably doesn’t happen to other people. But it does happen to me. Over and over again. I can never win.

A: Reason?

S: You could call it bad luck. You could call it fate.

A: And what happens when the lightning of bad luck strikes at your head?

S: It shows you that you can never plan anything in life. Because something will come in the way to disrupt all your plans. It shows you that every time you try to arrange happiness in life, all that comes is sadness and frustration. Desires are never met. Wishes remain unfulfilled. The bad luck…

A: Give me an example.

S: Just before Covid, I got this wonderful opportunity. I got trained up for it. Then? Covid and it got shut down.

A: Another one? Maybe that was just an exception.

S: At my Cambridge interview, I passed it and I got pooled. They didn’t contact me again. I passed a prestigious job interview after graduation where over one thousand people had applied for that post. They pooled me, they reserved me in first place. They didn’t contact me again. They pooled me for the PGCE when I passed the interview for a funded place. They didn’t contact me again. Even during my PhD, they pooled me for working in a prestigious art gallery. I passed all these interviews.

A: Bad luck or racism?

S: Both. It is the same with everything. I won’t go into my personal life. This is what I am up against. The curse. How they keep us down. Just one other person will destroy your life. You wonder why I am negative. What they did to me was absolutely appalling.

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.

the first madness of a first love (microfiction)

29.08.2025

‘Her hair.’

‘That’s what you remember?’ asked Alfonso. He had been asking me about the first woman that I loved. He asked with some surprise.

‘She had strawberry blonde hair. Like gold with a touch of red.’

‘Is that all you remember about her?’

‘The Victorians would keep lockets of hair of their loved ones who had passed away. It is enough.’

‘Anything else.’

‘She had a twin sister who I also met.’

I did not say any more. Alfonso did not probe the issue. I would probably never see her again and I did not know what she was doing now.

‘All that happens in life,’ I was telling Alfonso, ‘is that you meet people that you think you have connected with. But all there is is disconnection.’

‘That is not true,’ said Alfonso. ‘You have many friends. Including myself.’

‘I am talking about romantic connection.’

‘It is not true for everyone.’

‘It is true for me.’

‘You should give up your despair in life. You are mistaken if you think that you can’t live without love. Everything is possible in this life. You can adapt to any situation.’

‘It is not a question of what I can do. I can do anything and everything. I never doubt myself. What is there that is too difficult for me to do? I am a genius. It is about want. About hunger. About masculine needs, emotion and sense all together.’

‘To achieve your wants is not the definition of happiness. You will always want more. Let us change the topic. There is no point counting what you do not have. The more you think about it, the worse it will be for you. Think of something else. Come, a new subject.’

‘Do you know why we worship the mother?’

‘Go on.’

‘We are warriors. For a war, soldiers have to be produced. We look to the mother to produce them.’

‘That is quite simplistic.’

‘But true nonetheless. Look at Western feminism. When the World War came, they needed the women to be workers. They needed workers for the war effort. That was what changed the status of women from before. Now, all they can be seen as in a capitalistic economy is as workers. It has become unusual to be solely a housewife. It is war that decides the fate of men and women.’

‘Is there nothing else in the warrior’s worship of the mother?’

‘I’ve said it several times before. The mother gives protection. That is why she is worshipped. She fulfils the role that the warrior wishes to fulfill. He wants to become her.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The mother is the life force. She gives birth.’

‘So what would you say to these people that criticise the warriors for thinking of women as mothers? For daring to talk about the biology of women?’

‘No comment.’

‘Caution?’

‘Disengagement from the culturally insensitive and those blinded by their own assumptions and prejudices.’

Alfonso snorted at me. I remained silent. We did not need to explain ourselves to them. Because they persisted in being them rather than us. And because they were them, they could fuck off.

…

Visual Diary 29.08.2025

the saddest thing in the world (microfiction)

13.08.2025

‘What is the saddest thing in the world?’ Alfonso asked me. He looked sublime. The hot pink blazer, the perfect blue jeans. His handsome, handsome face and those piercing eyes. It was sad that I was only interested in the opposite sex. Because otherwise, he would have done very nicely.

‘Love.’

Alfonso stared at me with surprise. ‘You cannot be serious.’

‘It is a deadly serious answer. Love is what makes you sad. Do you not agree?’

Alfonso just looked at me. Then he changed tack. ‘Let us forget about your personal situations. Let me ask you instead when was the last time that you really wanted to cry? Don’t tell me that you can’t cry. We all know that now. But when did you last want to cry?’

‘I was on the tube. I was coming home. Then I read a passage in a novel that I was reading about how some youngsters stumble about when they have to tell a brother that her sister is dead. It reminded me of a situation that happened in my life. I had come home from wherever I was and I sat down to dinner. My grandmother had gone to a doctor’s appointment with my parents earlier in the day. I asked what had happened. My parents told me that nothing had happened. I then told them off for having such long faces if nothing had happened. I told them to be happy that there was nothing wrong with grandma. After dinner, when I had quite finished, my mother told me the truth. My grandmother was going to die from lung cancer.’

‘They hid it from you? Why?’

‘So that I did not spoil my dinner.’

‘They lied!’

‘My mother did it out of love for me. So that I could eat my dinner.’

‘And so you wanted to cry because what happened in the novel happened to you? Why didn’t you cry?’

‘I could have. I wanted to. Badly. But then I sneezed. And then I lost the will to cry.’

‘Saved by a sneeze.’ Alfonso sneered at me. He was prone to do it. ‘Would you have really blubbed in front of the other passengers on the tube?’

‘What would they care? Do you think it would even register on their radar? This brown man crying? Have you watched that movie? No one would even care if you died on the tube. Your corpse would probably ride on it for three days before anyone noticed and even then the only thing that would give it away would be the emerging stench.’

‘Do people tell you that you are cynical?’

‘Yes. They have asked me to change. But if my life cannot change, why would the way that I cope with it change? Don’t expect any happiness in life. Don’t expect any recognition or reward for fighting for the truth and knowledge, for dignity for your people and Mother India. Don’t expect love. Don’t expect anything that you deserve for being the best. Expect instead indignity, marginalisation, unfairness, stupidity, ignorance.’

‘One day, make yourself cry,’ said Alfonso. ‘But aside from that, be happy. You have a heart still. That is better than most.’ He looked at me. I sensed pity. What good does pity ever do anyone?

Jiggling the Jelly (microfiction)

06.08.2025

After a promise to write in the night, I sat there at my desk in my boxer shorts scratching away idly at my inner thigh as I endured a severe writer’s blank. I tried the usual methods to break the blank. A feverish search in my vocabulary of words. Reflection on an experiences that would inspire something. Themes.

Nothing worked.

There were certain things it was now best to avoid. That was not helping. Because it was those things that were on my mind the most. The unfinished business…

Suddenly I felt tired so I grabbed the laptop and lay on my bed. And, immediately when I done so, all the words and ideas came flooding in.

Curious. Had it been the change of scene? But why? I am comfortable at my desk and habituated to writing there. Then I realised. I had laid down. Which had changed the orientation of my brain.

I had jiggled the jelly.

That was what had sparked off the creativity. All I needed to do was to change the orientation of the mass inside my head. Maybe if I leant to the left, that would mean that I would produce poetry or soemthing like it. Then, the right might produce prose and non-fiction. Maybe if I leant my head back while it was straight, I could produce some good erotica.

So simple. All I had to do was to introduce different movements into my routine.

I tested it out. I lay down and tilted my head to the left. Failure. I started thinking of they, all the moments. They were on my mind frequently.

I tried the other side. It was worse. I started thinking of the big C word. My career. And out of work time too. I shuddered.

Why was the writing impulse so elusive today?

But if it was the jiggling of the jelly…

‘Eureka!’ I cried. The solution was so simple. I slapped myself on both cheeks and on my forehead. That would move it.

I pummelled away at my face with my open palm. Unfortunately, however, you can not get much writing done when you don’t have any free hands. The jelly was jiggered and not jiggled. And in all the experimentation, I had forgotten the idea I had when I laid on the bed. There was not going to be any story tonight.

My discerning, demanding readers would be most displeased.