13.02.2026

I was writing to Alfonso. Always Alfonso. I was relating the adventures of the day. He was interested. There were others who were too, for who knows what reasons? Whatever love they had, they would not show it.

In one of the choices of life that make up your everyday existence, I made this choice. That I would choose life over books. Books that are so intoxicating, so stimulating. But that cannot give you love. The company that they give you is fine. But it is not the feel and the sight of that which is most beautiful and most human. It is because of this choice that I dedicated this day to doing and not to reading.

After waking up, I read newspapers and poetry in Hindi, Punjabi, Urdu, Spanish and French. I also read The New Scientist and articles on psychology. There was a very interesting article about the communication network between the organs in the body. Life is about communication. So we communicate. Some of us are understood. Some of us are not. But with me, there is one that makes the attempt to understand. It took an eternity to find them.

In the morning, I went to the Tower of London. There were a group of twenty of us. I have seen this place from afar so many times and now I was going to be inside. It was a fine day although the promise was of rain. As I went inside, I saw that they had launched a children’s trail with Beano comics, comics that I read as a kid. Some familiar faces to guide me in. We started off with the history of the White Tower and I learnt that William of Normandy was the son of a skinner’s daughter. So am I. Our caste in India is of the Untouchables, the leather workers. Inside, after what seemed like a long time inside the armoury and its extensions, I wandered off from the group and went to admire the Crown Jewels. After all, from an Indian perspective, they are ours. They are mine. I was looking at my things. Someone was looking after them for me. The pernicious state that could act as the steward for no one. I looked upon the Kohi Noor, the Mountain of Light. They took it from us, from the hands of a Punjabi child that they forced to bow before them. A stone of rare beauty.

Inside one of the buildings, there was the chapel of the Normans. It was one of the most beautiful places I have seen in my life. I was hypnotised by it. I enjoyed reading about the role of the Tower in the world war and also about the animals that they would keep there. In the imprisonment room, I spent a while reading the grafitti. The message that struck me most was that it is not adversity that overcomes men, but impatience. Watch and wait. That is the secret of wisdom. That is why we hold onto life. Reading the exhibit of how the state had crushed the spirit of resistance was invigorating. They could never kill our resistance. We were difference. And difference you can never crush. The man that was standing in this Tower was one of a long line of those who fought for independence, those willing to take on the biggest bully, the gangster that coerced with duress and evil.

Afterwards, I mooched around in the gift shop for a  moment, admiring the replica of a skull and trying to see all of this through the eyes of a tourist. They were awed by British sovereignty. And I? I was repelled by it.

The Lucien Freud exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery was next. I have never been overly a fan of his work and the supposed psychological depth of his brush. However, I am also always willing to give everyone a chance to prove themselves. Why not? This world that does not give me chances, I cannot become as corrupt as it. Because I am fair where they are not. What I made of the exhibition was that it was certainly passable and certainly striking. Looking at the green, grey and blue tints in the flesh of the sitters, at all of the pictures of his lovers and the intensity of his gaze with its distortions, did I feel anything? I could see the originality and the concentration on observation. Yet I could not see the connection. The mother of the artist had salvaged his brightly coloured doodles in crayon as a child and I spent a while contrasting the mature work with that of the boy. He had lost the feel for colour and gone for moody and sombre tones. But he had retained that simplicity of style.

Seeing the artist’s long row of lovers and then the failures of his romances was sombering. I wondered to myself why there were so many marriages and divorces. And then, his work, it could be seen as the dance of attraction and repulsion as things fell apart. One unfinished painting suggesting the death of the relationship.

At Charing Cross Library, there was an exhibition of Chinese Children’s costumes. There were wonderful fabrics and designs displayed on the balcony of the library. Brilliant colours which captured the identity of the peoples. One story I found absolutely fascinating was that of the Miao people, who wore history upon their textiles in the face of nomadism and the lack of a written language.

At the library, I also picked up a copy of The Motorcycle Diaries by Che Guevera that was on the sale pile. After all, what I am I but the Revolutionary? I also had a dream when I was a teenager of riding on a motorcycle all through Europe. But I did not do it. Because I had too many responsibilities and I was in a hurry to get things done. To work. But then, I come from a different background. I am not of the middle class. I am Indian. Yet I have the love of freedom too. And that is because I am Indian, because I am Punjabi. I read about fifty pages of the book while commuting to and fro from places. Che has a beautiful style. At heart, like The Tiger, he is a poet.

The last stop of the day was with friends. They were suffering politics. They were suffering the state. And yet, they got on with life. And this is the thing. The state will always be there to wreck everyone’s life. But we will still get on with things. We will still live. Even though the state is death. We sat in this coffee house. They had mocha, I had hot chocolate. And we talked and talked. We have missed each other. We talked about old times. We talked about things now. We talked about the future. As I looked into their faces, I thought to myself that a face is not a visual object. It is a fantastic projection. It is all the memories together that replay when you look at the face of someone. That is what constructs the face.

I spent time afterwards looking at the floral arrangements in Selfridge’s for Valentines. Always learning. There were Ikibana exhibitions because the floral shop is now owned by the Japanese. I also looked over at the watch designs. Always looking and looking, always trying to find something in this world. I spent time on the phone with the one that is mine. Listening to their voice, listening to their day.

When I got home, I joined the Central tickets website and booked an excursion to the theatre tomorrow for Valentine’s day, a play about Cyprus and death. A dark play. The reality is that life is dark. But we fill it with light. This world is death. But we want to live.

30.01.2025

‘So,’ he asked me, ‘What did you get up to today?’

Alfonso had been dreamily staring into the distance. It was no good asking him what he was thinking in that tailored, beautiful grey suit of his that accentuated his sleek good looks. When he was thinking, he was gone from this world. But, at last, he had finally arisen from his slumber and deigned to parley with a mere mortal, myself.

‘Well, today, when I have not been calling the one that is mine, I have been immersed in culture. I was at the Singh Twins exhibition at Kew Gardens poring over the digital drawings. Then, there was a catch up with friends followed by a stint in the Science Museum as I explored an exhibition on the Future of Food. I rushed from there like a madman and made it into the ‘Zootopia 2’ film. I love animation. I love art. The first film, I took my nephew to watch it and it was his first film in a cinema. I created that memory for him. As I walked out of the cinema, there was a band playing in Westfield Shopping Centre, a lady banging at some drums, a cool guy with a saxophone and another guy that was equally as cool playing the decks as a DJ.’

‘A fine mixture of art, film, music and science and the environment. You do keep yourself busy dabbling in all sorts of different things.’

‘We only have one life,’ I said. ‘I want to keep on learning things, exploring this great world of ours. I want to keep connected to science and culture and the future. I am greedy for life in a way that people have forgotten to be. Greedy for new experiences to keep on changing and reshaping this mind of mine.’

‘What do you have planned for the rest of this day?’

‘I will read the novel that the one that cares for me has given to me.’

‘A beautiful end to a beautiful day. One that shares literature with you. You are lucky.’

‘It took me much time to get this lucky.’

‘How do you reflect on this day in culture?’ Alfonso gave me the look of a schoolmaster. He was maddeningly patronising in his airs sometimes. But because he was a goodnatured fellow, I would let it pass.

‘As I have often told you, I often thank myself for making my life such a beautiful one. I have chosen this life of study, of keeping up with things, of always extending myself and my knowledge. I have chosen to be a voracious reader and looker and thinker. I have always grown this mind from the tiny seed that it once was into a mighty banyan tree.’

‘I see you deliberately pick an Eastern tree to make this metaphor.’

‘Yes, it is consciously done. I am proud of being Punjabi. I am proud of coming from Mother India.’

‘Are there any other reflections?’

‘I think on how it could have all been different. I could have been with one of those other ones that would have been sharing my day with me. And then life would have had a different colour and a different taste. Instead of the strawberries, perhaps cherries. Instead of the cola, perhaps lemonade. The caprice of the ones that we love. It shapes our destinies. And? Perhaps they would muse on these words of mine and think what it would have been if they had put their slender and smooth hands into mine, the hands of this warrior and this Tiger. These hands that would have held them for the rest of their life in love, adulation and protection.’

‘Happiness is always tinged with sorrow. What we are given is always touched by loss.’

‘It is because it is so that we appreciate what we have. When I was in the wilderness, I could smell the milk and honey of the fortunate. Now I am fortunate myself but I have not forgotten the hunger and thirst of the wilderness. And those that put me there with their enmity.’