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?

the voice inside (microfiction)

22.12.2025

S: Against the voice outside, there is the voice inside.

A: How you talk to yourself?

S: Yes, the voice of power and the voice of daring.

A: What does the voice inside say?

S: The voice inside tells me that I am Love. The voice inside says to break the mouth of the law, the corruption of what counts as right and justice here. The voice inside tells me that I am a hero, that I am a genius, that I am the only real man in this country.

A: You are so proud of being a man. It is just a gender category.

S: It is one that I have chosen. And been chosen for. To stand for strength and courage. To stand for protection. The warrior.

A: They say that you are toxic.

S: Freedom says fuck you. Freedom says fuck you to the world. Fuck your cowardice, fuck your lack of ability and fuck your prejudice. They are happy for their fucking little non-men to have their unjust and false wars for the corruption that is the state. They are happy for these perverts to rape women abroad and to kill the innocent. I do not fight for the state. I fight for the people, for us. For the Oppressed.

A: Where is your war?

S: In everything that I do. How I love. How I write. What I think. What I do. It is the Revolution.

A: And the voice outside?

S: The voice outside is saying not to be a man. Not to have desire. That me and my people are nothing, to be cast aside and away. The voice outside is saying to be a slave and a non-man, like the slaves and the non-men here. The voice outside is saying to live a selfish and greedy life with no responsibilities and no values. The voice outside is saying let the rich fuck you and rule over you. To accept race as a marker of status and privilege and to eat this fucking bullshit because of my ethnicity. This voice is hate. It says to hate. To abandon love.

A: This voice says all these things?

S: The voice inside is more powerful than the voice outside. The voice inside is winning. Freedom says fuck you.

touch as waves of energy (microfiction)

24.11.2025

S: You know, there is this electric magnetic force in the fingers.

A: How so?

S: When someone runs their fingers ever so delicately across your skin, barely touching you, when they caress you with the lightest of touches, all the sparks in your body start flying.

A: Like a tickle?

S: It is a lover’s tickle. And it sends shivers all through you as the electric magnetic force multiplies in your body.

A: They often call love magnetism.

S: I see touch as waves of energy that emanate from the body of the loved one into the recesses of the self. As energy combines and reawakens within.

A: So what do you touch when you touch the lover?

S: You touch life itself. I feel the force of life within them. When I clasp them towards me, I feel life. When I kiss them on their soft neck, their full lips, their plump cheeks, I feel life itself. The thing itself. I have hungered for it.

A: Love is life?

S: Love is life. Love is death. There are highs and there are lows. Ecstatic highs and awful lows. But always, we hope to feel life itself. I bite at their cheeks. That is life. I gulp at their throat. That is life. I kiss their hair. That is also life.

A: You want to live so bad?

S: The dead hunger to live. I was all dead.

A: You? There is no man more active.

S: I was at the bottom of a well. And instead of helping me, they threw buckets of cold water over me. It was the well of death. The angel flew overhead. She did not even look at me…

A: You have clambered out of the well now. Drink the water and move on.

those that break hearts (microfiction)

21.11.2025

S: There is this Hindi film. I forget the entire story, but there is a break up between two couples. Because they are cheating with their friend’s partner. And then the ones that have been rejected, that have been cheated on, they form a couple of their own.

A: You and your films. Why remember this story?

S: When you are rejected, you feel pain. It is like a hammer at your brain. It chisels away at you. You feel sick. You are sick. It is a struggle to get through things. All your dreams come crashing down all around you. You do not want to live any more. You don’t want to live without them. That is what they had to go through.

A: And? It happens. It is life.

S: It is life. You can’t trust anyone. Because most are not capable of love.

A: It is a bit of a jump to say that you can’t trust anyone.

S: Every time, we say that. And then, after we trust them, they hurt us.

A: Forget the past. You just haven’t met a good person. Why this Indian film?

S: Because there are those that break hearts. Because, when they have been rejected and cheated on, this couple that tries to find solace in each other, they say that we will show them that we can live as well.

A: You want to show those that broke your heart that you can live as well?

S: You know, I had this daydream. That I would parade my partner in front of them, that I would show them. They were wrong. They are wrong. But it does not matter. They are living their lives and I am living my life. I do not talk to them. I do not interact with them. I am not going to talk to them. And I am not going to interact with them. They have shown me their real self. Whatever anyone thinks about them, I know how they treated me.

A: Everyone tells you that you are wrong to separate yourself from people like this.

S: It is all or nothing. Those that break your heart, they ask you to kill your love for them. They asked me to do something that was impossible and I had to do it. It is best to keep away from them. What will come of it otherwise? There is nothing. And I do not want nothing in my life. I want to live. And living means love.

holding hands (microfiction)

16.11.2025

S: When I got into the station, a young hooligan pushed the gates to get free entry. Then, when I came home from London, again at the same station, I watched someone push through those same gates to get out. The workers there did nothing to stop it both times.

A: I feel like this is not over yet.

S: When the bus was pulling out of the station, it had to stop. Some idiot had parked his car in the bus lane so that we couldn’t squeeze past.

A: Why focus on these things?

S: I’m trying to tell you about the people that I live with in my area. What I have to live with.

A: Forget about that. Talk about something different.

S: Why do people hold hands?

A: To connect?

S: But how did it originate? Why grab someone’s hands?

A: It is the primary way that we touch, through our fingers and hands.

S: That might be one explanation. How about this for a theory? If you hold hands, you can never lose anyone. You are attached to them.

A: What makes you think that?

S: Over the past three years, with the brutal treatment that I received from those that I loved, when you suddenly snap apart and there is nothing any more, when before you thought you would have them forever… You need to hold hands to stop that happening. You need to be attached to someone.

A: Isn’t attachment just connection?

S: Attachment conveys more of an idea of sticking together.

A: How about this for an objection? When you hold hands, you don’t just hold hands. You also caress the hand and the fingers.

S: And how about this for a reply? When you caress, you are looking at more places to attach yourself to, to connect to, to love.

A: Well, I hope for you, you find many places to love.

S: What is this journey in life but finding those many places to love? And then loving in those places?

the geometry of love (microfiction)

10.11.2025

S: It’s incredible when you think about it, isn’t it? The geometry of love.

A: Does love have a shape? And a geometry? That is news to me.

S: Of course it is. You are not a genius. It is an original thought from me.

A: And what is this original thought, Oh man of prodigious mind?

S: Look at the way in which we connect in love. The approach. That is the shape of love. You hug someone. When you do it, their body has to mirror yours. You open up your arms to approach them and to embrace them. When you kiss someone on the mouth, your lips approach the other in the same way, half open. Your lips mirror each other.

A: And sex?

S: I am not talking about the act and the execution. I am talking about the approach. The approach in sex is to kindle the flame on both sides. So that one flame is as hungry as the other. You look into their eyes. They look into yours. It is done through the look. The words. You say the words of seduction. They say the words of seduction. You stroke the flames. Blow for blow.

A: And then this idea of geometry?

S: Love can be theorised as mirror which reflects another mirror.

A: But then there is nothing. The mirror has no substance.

S: You are wrong. Then there is only light. That is what love is.

A: Does biology agree with you?

S: Let us turn to the act itself, which I did not introduce before. Did you know that the human animal which has procreative sex face to face is unusual in the animal kingdom? And it does so for some reason. Why not so it can see itself reflected in the eyes of its partner? Because that is one aspect of it. The mirror of the self. When you are looking in love into the eyes of the other, is it so you see yourself?

A: Speculation upon speculation.

S: No one understands love. But let us speculate. One day, when we comprehend the mirror neurons in the mind, I will be proven right, just like the Greeks were proven partially right about the atom. Without experiment and through simple observation and speculation.

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?

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.