Tag: writing

The Ophiolite

14.02.2025

A: So what did you do on this Valentine’s Day?

S: I went to watch a theatre play, The Ophiolite. It was at this theatre which seemed to have quite a few Greek plays on. Probably someone Greek on the team out there.

A: Would you do Indian plays if you had a theatre?

S: Most probably. Who else does them in London? The sad truth of the world is that you have to do things for yourself that no one else would do. That is the state of humanity. You would like to do everything for everyone. But in fact, you are only allowed to and only can do things for yourself. You would like to be included with everyone. But you can never really be included anywhere else but in the small world that you came from.

A: But you have those from outside your world, your friends, the one that is yours. How can you say this?

S: We are talking about theatre. We are talking about representation. We are talking about the wider world. Not the world of intimacy.

A: You write plays. You are always writing dialogues.

S: Is it a dialogue? Or is it a conversation with the self?

A: What did you make of this play, The Ophiolite?

S: I sat there with a belly full of Turkish kebabs. Hearing them talking about the Turks.

A: Come, I will ask again. What did you make of this play?

S: Greek culture is like Indian culture. We are the ancient cultures that exist into the present.

A: The Greeks do not think that they are Indian.

S: They are our children. We are the most ancient culture.

A: I’m sure the Chinese would beg to differ.

S: We Punjabis, we are the fathers of this world. We are the ones that invented the mathematics that would shape the world. We invented the university and every form and structure of learning that followed.

A: Come to the play.

S: It is about the family. It is about The Mother. It is about the Orphan. It is about Cyprus. It is about love across cultures. It is about how Britain tries to shape the children that come from a marriage across cultures. It is about family and its delusions, its grasp of total purity. It is about the clash of cultures, about the seismic tectonic clash of cultures. It is about mourning. It is about inheritance. It is about Antigone. It is not about Oedipus. It is about Elektra. It is about dying. It is about the law. It is about deceit and it’s relationship with love. It is about fairness. It is about colonialism. It is about postcolonialism, although there is no postcolonialism and only colonialism. It is about romanticism and truth. It is a metacommentary on the theatre tradition from Ancient Greece to Chekov. It is about the nature of understanding and misunderstanding. Above all, the play is about anger.

A: You are the angry. You are the one that rages. You are The Tiger. Only you could understand this play.

S: Only the honour culture understands this play. Because it is fundamentally about honour. Honouring the dead. And honouring the father.

A: If this is about your culture, then why do you say that the Greeks do not think they are Indian?

S: Ask the Greeks why they think so.

A: What did you make of this play?

S: It was the unfolding of passion. It was deep. It was the expression of rage and separation. It was the contest of power between the entities in the play. The younger against the older. The young as the hope for the future. The tense relationship between tradition and modernity, belonging and individualism. The meaning of the nature of freedom in a colonial context. And the law’s orchestration of this freedom and the future.

A: You see much.

S: I am India. We are the Eye of the World. We are the Voice of the World. And we are the Heart of the World.

A: You are performing. You would talk about a play within a play, like Shakespeare.

S: Shakespeare was not as inventive as I am. Because my life is the most engrossing drama that has ever been concocted. Pieces of interest make up this metalwork that is my existence.

A: What do you look at when you watch this play?

S: I watch the drama of the face as the expressions dance upon it. I watch the dance of the bodies and the hands and the legs. I watch the postures adopted. The actions taken. It was all energetic. The acting was electric.

A: Was it natural?

S: The intensity was unnatural. That is why it was conflict and drama. This electricity would confound the world.

A: You too have this intensity within you. You are far from natural. And you play with words which none can stand.

S: He that is the poet would play. He that is the fire would erupt.

A: And in the ending of this play, what was there?

S: Hope. And love.

A: A good ending?

S: I would question whether there was ever hope.

A: You have told me that you are an optimist.

S: I am a realist and a cynic.

A: You would question if there was love?

S: I am the lover and the poet. I am love. I am the god of love. How could I deny my own existence?

A: Well, it is well then that you watched a play about love on Valentine’s Day.

S: They often write of love. They often act of love. But the question is, do they love? And of that, there is no certainty.

https://www.theatrotechnis.com/whatson/the-ophiolite

A Day in Culture – The Tower of London, Lucien Freud, Chinese Children’s Costumes, Suffering Friends and The Motorcyle Diaries

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.

samurai and the indian hamlet – a day in culture

04.02.2026

I was writing to A. It was always a letter to A. A. was the best of my friends. I was telling them what The Tiger had done today.

It began in the morning with shaving after a week. Then, after a hearty and healthy breakfast, I rushed down to the British Museum for the Samurai exhibition. The space was spectacular. The weaponry, the costumes, the video along a massive wall. The mission was to show that the warrior culture is also an artistic and cultural endeavour. There were splendid Japanese woodblocks and even video games concerning the heroic exploits of the warriors and the ruling class.

This decadent culture looks to the time of the Samurai as an inspiration. A society with honour and with bravery that makes the corruption of the present pale into the insignificance that it is. And where do the Samurai come from? It is not Japan. They come from India and Buddhism. The Samurai are the brothers of India.

I rushed through the Hawaii exhibition afterwards. It was marred by a concentration on the relationships between that country and Great Britain. However, there were some glorious costumes on display, feather necklaces and feather cloaks radiant with the beauty of colour. The grimacing statuettes were splendid in their own way, truly characterful representations of humanoid figures.

The Oxfam bookshop next to the British Museum followed. I am saving a visit there tomorrow at lunchtime to pick up what I spotted if it is still there – fate will decide.

The Outernet was the next distraction before I wolfed down a reduced price M & S gala pork pie for lunch in about ten minutes. I watched a number of videos:

Biophilia by Sebastien Labrunie – about the Mother Tree.

Superradiance by Memo Akten and Katie Hofstadter – About embodiment in the planet

Pools by Maggie West and Scott Pagano – about water absorbing into sand in brilliant colours

Cacophony of Stillness by Jesse Woolston – the expression of natural phenomena in new and challenging ways

Transcendence by Robert Newman – geometry and the depths of the natural world

I played on the Roland piano. There were some really accomplished pianists that played before me and after me. I played something very simple and got one of the accomplished guys to film me. It will go up on my Instagram soon, maybe tomorrow morning.

A jaunt in Liberty next. I have never been there before. The textiles and fabrics were amazing. They reminded me of when I would go into the Indian shops with my mum around Green street and she would buy the Indian fabrics to make her own clothes. I will definitely at some point in my life go there and get a shirt made in one of the fabric designs.

Next stop, Tate Britain. First it was the Lee Miller exhibition. I had watched the film first and this was what was informing my viewings of the photographs. I liked her modelling photographs much more than her photographs as a photographer. There was some video footage of her posing as a statue which drives a poet mad and also her messing around stroking a phallic piece of sculpture and laughing about it, so the exhibition veered into a type of pornography, an impression that was reinforced by the number of nudes of her that were being exhibited. I had studied this period of photography before and it reminded me of my many years of research.

I was somewhat envious of her life. The great difference between being a glamorous woman and being an average man (albeit a handsome one that was a genius and a god). I had never had and never would have the opportunities that she had for love or for a life of high society. She had hung around Picasso and Man Ray, the latter when she was not even famous. The life that I had wanted had never come – being friends or even lovers with artists and writers. She’d had it all.

Desultory walk through the Turner and Constable exhibition looking at the differences between them and their rivalry. I’ve never liked either of them. However, it can’t be denied that they had some spectacular and striking pieces. As I was walking through the gallery, I had the same thought that I always have in these places. The people there will never talk to you. You can’t find any friends or lovers there, any fellow lovers of art. What a degraded time that we live in.

On the way home, I shopped in Tesco and got some reduced price Black Cherry conserve, two whole jars of it. I also had a call with a friend in a country that is going through atrocities and upheaval at the moment.

At home, it was chicken curry and rice followed by hot chocolate cake and custard. Then a phone call with the one that is mine before I watched the Hindi film Dhurandhar that has raked in so much money at the worldwide box office. It was an Indian version of Hamlet where the hero goes into the enemy’s country in the name of justice and revenge. It was a tightly constructed film. Where do I sit on the controversy? India claims that the Pakistani state creates terrorists that attack India. Who knows the truth of these matters? I don’t have the information or the intelligence. Like me, the average person does not. Are Indian people, film makers and the state falsely claiming that the Pakistani state is covertly fighting them? Is this racism? The state is all about racism. That is the precondition for the modern day state, us and them. It is the state that is disgusting and corrupt. Any state. I am an anarchist. I stand for real freedom. I stand for love rather than hate. I watch the film. I don’t let the fiction influence my understanding. All states are corrupt and predicated on hate and terrorism and violence.

Finally, a long shower and then, as always, the writing to A. We are companions of the night.

the persistence of the readers

31.01.2026

S: There was this guy after them. The way that he spoke, the way that he looked at them. They knew it, what it was. Because you can’t fake emotion like that. But it ended with silence and separation. However, then, this guy was a writer. So they are all reading his words.

A: A story that you heard from someone somewhere?

S: Perhaps. Perhaps a story. Perhaps I heard it.

A: Why would someone read from across the distance?

S: Do you think that the guy was completely obtuse? The guy knew that they liked him.

A: Was that not wishful thinking?

S: Then explain why they sit there reading his words. What would be the point of it? Because the story is not over. Because you can’t just kill feelings. But they will be gone soon enough. Separation kills everything. You keep on getting further and further apart from each other.

A: This is a strange story.

S: They were strange people. You know, there is a type of person. When you are close to them, emotionally and in proximity, they do not even see you there. You are not a person to them. But when you are gone, then they suddenly achieve the realisation that you are a person.

A: He has done well to get shot of them. They can only appreciate what they have not got. That is not a good trait.

S: Of course not. But you can’t just cure immaturity and lack of experience. You know, in this society, everyone is expendable. But everyone is not expendable in Punjabi society. They are all jewels, the most precious thing of yours. Here, you can throw anyone away and throw anyone over. Because they believe that they will meet someone just as good or better. There are plenty of opportunities. That is why no one really matters and there is no love in this society. But where I’m from? You would die for the ones that you love. And gladly. You would do anything to keep them. The cultural contrast is too much.

A: But you let the ones that you loved go.

S: You can’t force them to love you back. Their love shrank from expression. There was nothing to be done about it. Now I am with someone that reciprocates feeling.

A: You knew that they liked you.

S: You cannot force yourself on someone. If it was meant to be, it would have happened. They had long enough. Whatever their regrets or joys that they are not with The Tiger, they are not with The Tiger. They read his words. They think of what he is doing. For no reason. No result.

A: And what did The Tiger do today?

S: The Tiger communicated with the one that is his because they can communicate. The Tiger shopped in two bookstores after work. The Tiger went to the gym and worked through his anger and frustration with heavy weights. The Tiger shopped at Lidl. The Tiger finished the novel that the one that is his gave him as a present on his commute. The Tiger drew on his tablet with his stylus. The Tiger wrote. In the day, the Tiger read ‘The Brain on Art’, psychology articles, and the news and poetry in Punjabi, Hindi, Urdu, Spanish and French. Before he caught the train, The Tiger saw a quick film at the Outernet. The Tiger ate a free dinner at Kentucky Fried Chicken. The Tiger keeps busy. He wants to do something with his life. He cannot be with those that do nothing.

a day in culture

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.’

the strategy of victim blaming

26.01.2025

S: You know when they killed those people that stood up to ICE, the fascists blamed the victims and not the perpetrators. Even when they looked at the video evidence which was absolutely fucking clear that they were innocent victims, they still blamed the victims.

A: Why do you think they do that?

S: Because bullies and fascists are fucking scum. Their ideology makes them blind and deaf. And there’s more.

A: What?

S: They blame the victim because they are unjust. Because they have to justify their inhumanity and violence to themselves. It is not just ICE and Trump, is it? All these racist vermin justify their racism and exploitation of anyone that is perceived as different from them.

A: Example?

S: Do you know how much experience I have and how many qualifications? And yet, at interviews it is just rejection after rejection from these people, these racists. And who do they blame? Me. They pretend that I am not doing something right. When, in fact, even if I pass their stupid fucking interview, they still won’t give me the thing. They have a reserve list and then you never hear back from them. Because they make a point of never choosing me because I’m brown. You hear the victim blamers saying that I am overqualified too – that I am literally too good for any job. It is the truth. I am better than any opportunity that is offered to me. But it is still fucking ridiculous the shit that comes out of their mouths.

A: What is the point of this victim blaming strategy?

S: What else is it? They want the victim to feel inferior. That he is not doing something right. That he should change his behaviour. When it is them, these racists that should change their behaviour. They want to pretend that their racism is the natural way of things and that they have a meritocracy. They want to pretend that they are just when they are unjust. They don’t want things to change. They want to be monsters forever. That is why they are fucking vermin. This shit has been going on for hundreds and hundreds of years. Do they change? Fuck no. All that there is in the world of the racist is injustice. And yet this is what goes on, this injustice.

A: Can the monster ever become beautiful?

S: The monster thinks that he is beautiful and that anyone different from the monster is ugliness personified. The monster stinks of shit and thinks that he smells of roses. The monster speaks corruption and thinks that honey and gold flows from his mouth. The monster is appalling. He thinks that he is god. But he is not god. I am god. I am The Tiger. I have been blessed by The Mother. I am truth and I am justice. I am the prayer of the people. I am a genius. I am a hero. Them? They are villains. They are not fit for me. It is not the other way around. Who the fuck are they? Nothings. Non-men. Incapable and corrupt. You see what is around ourselves. Pure mediocrity and incompetence.

oh fleeting moments

25.01.2026

S: There is this Hindi film, ‘Border’. The sequel is just out now. It stars my favourite actor. And it has this song in it, ‘Oh Fleeting Moments’ (Ae Jaate Hue Lamhon). The lover is singing to his beloved. He hopes to halt time. Because he has only a few moments with the one that he loves before he goes to war.

A: It is always the war with you.

S: I have told you the philosophy of the warrior. It is the philosophy of love. War and love go hand in hand. They are not opposed to each other. They are one and the same.

A: Why talk about this song?

S: I remembered today the gone. The ones that had the highest place in this heart. But what a fool I was, that I did not understand false friendship.

A: If they were false, why remember them?

S: It is not so simple to forget. If only it were. But the point is that if I could have frozen the moments when I felt connected to them, would I do so? If we could dwell forever in the happiness of a moment, would we appreciate it?

A: What do you mean?

S: The song ‘Fleeting Moments’ relies on a contrast. It is the happiness of the moment that is going to give way to the horrors of war. You only appreciate the happy moments because of the atrocity that there is when there are not the happy moments with the beloved.

A: I tell you once again to forget these false friends of yours. They do not remember you. They forget and move on instantly. You were and are nothing to them. So make them nothing to you too. Reciprocate the feeling.

S: They are stone. They are ice. I am the fire. They might have been false. I was true.

A: How true were you? You played the part too. You didn’t reveal your real feelings.

S: They knew what I felt. It is in the eyes.

A: How can you still be grieving? You have someone.

S: It is called loss for a reason. You never recover from it. The ones that you care for, they are not expendable.

A: They are not dead.

S: There was no connection. It was false. It was an illusion. You cannot chase an illusion. Something breaks down because they want it to be broken. The ones that are closest to you, you can never let them go and they will never let you go either. Instead, what do these do? At best, they are reading my words. Through a great distance.

life outside of work

17.01.2025

A: What is your life outside of work?

S: Wouldn’t you like to know. You are what you do. Should I tell you my identity?

A: Precisely. This is why I ask.

S: What do you want to know? When?

A: Today.

S: After work, I called up the one I am with on the phone. That was the first thing. I talked about my day and asked them about theirs.

A: You called them first of all? And then?

S: I moseyed my way down to High Street Kensington for the Japan House exhibition. Where I wandered in the exhibition about a hundred Japanese craftsmen. Watching a video about the creation of ceramics and woodwork, reading displays about the philosophy of Japanese craftsmanship, pondering over the unique qualities of the artwork on display, messaging my friends and the one I am with with photographs of what I was seeing.

A: An interesting excursion. Anything for afters?

S: I browsed in the Marks and Spencer’s foodhall, which is one of my favourite regular shops, if not my absolute favourite. I love the food there. Then, I had a free dinner in MacDonald’s, a fillet-o-fish or whatever it is called with some fries. On the commute home, I finished reading ‘The Golden Road’ by William Dalrymple, about Ancient India and how it has shaped contemporary knowledge. When I had done with that, I listened to Hindi film music on my smartphone.

A: When you got home?

S: I ate some fancy Lindt chocolate. Then messaged the one who is mine, doodled on my tablet with a stylus and wrote to my penpal in New Zealand after watching some videos.

A: So. Phone calls, viewing art, reading, photographing, shopping, eating, studying, listening to music, watching videos, writing, writing, writing.

S: I got up to 23, 000 steps today too. Despite that, I got up from my seat on the Tube so that an old lady could sit down. A good deed outside of work to help others. Even though I’ve been on my feet and rushed off my feet all day.

A: And now?

S: It is about 23.28. It is time to try and get to sleep. Have you found out who I am yet?

the bravery the pride the manhood of tiger

13.01.2026

S: In the film ‘Jaat’, Sunny Deol, my favourite actor, a fellow Punjabi, he says that ‘I am one who knows the value of life, yet still I put my life into danger’. That is the philosophy of the hero.

A: You have quoted this line before.

S: Yesterday, like so many times, I put it into practice. The one that wants to be a hero does not fly from danger. He runs into it.

A: What happened?

S: There was an argument on the train when I boarded it. About six young men involved. As usual, the non-men on the train were not intervening. I was on the phone to the one that is mine. I stopped the phone call and walked over to break it up. I did break it up. One group walked off. One of the young men expended his ire on me.

A: Did you have to do this?

S: I have been raised to be a hero. I come from a Sikh background. We have been raised to be brave and to serve the community. They look to us for help.

A: Now you will boast?

S: I did the work. I was the only man on the train.

A: You are so proud of being a man. It will get you into trouble.

S: It is the coward and the non-man that is scared. Not The Tiger. I am proud to be a man. I am proud to be Punjabi. I am proud to be brave. I am proud to be The Tiger. It is not just my name. It is who I am. I have never been scared of anyone.

A: They call you toxic.

S: The coward has many names. But no heart and no conscience. It is the man that does the work. It is the man that protects the community.

A: Life is not about proving your bravery.

S: Who says? That is exactly what it is. The one that is the strongest, it is his duty to look after the weak. No matter how contemptible many of them are.

the fog

10.01.2025

S: Do you know what difference it makes to have someone in your life?

A: What?

S: I came out of the station after meeting them. And there it was, this big fucking fog. You couldn’t see anything. You could barely recognise where you were. You were disorientated.

A: That’s what it’s like to be with someone?

S: I haven’t got to it yet. You’re interrupting. The big fucking fog is what it was like when I was going all over London for three years trying to meet someone. I’m never going to forget how those people treated me.

A: Let’s not talk about that. Come, talk about nicer things.

S: I want to talk about the fog. Deadly cold. An obstruction of vision and the journey. It saps away at you, at your will and your heart. You don’t want to go on. And, you know, it is this fog that we have to live through. Dante wrote of this dark forest in his work. It comes at around our age. When you have nothing and no one to turn to.

A: What is the way out of the fog?

S: Who knows? One day, the fog was gone. I was with someone. I don’t know how and why it happened. There were no games like these immature people play. Finally, someone just accepted me for my own self. Even though there were issues, they forgave the issues for me. Instead of making excuses to say no, they made excuses to say yes. Instead of denying me of any chance, they kept on giving me chances.

A: What do you say to those in the fog?

S: That fog is caused by people that are not worth your time or your feelings. That is what that fog is. It is a dead end. Forget about the fog and the people that caused that fog. Go with someone where there is no fog.