the intrusion of sorrow amidst celebration

07.04.2026

S: There we were, celebrating together. It was what was the most momentous time of the day, the cutting of the cake. And then, from the TV blaring in the next room, came the sound. The song about heartbreak from the film ‘Dil’ (Heart).

A: A mere coincidence.

S: I think not. The other day, by mere coincidence, the film was about heartbreak. Today, the song was about heartbreak.

A: There are many songs about heartbreak. It is just a coincidence.

S: How do you know? How do you know that heartbreak doesn’t just follow me around?

A: Why would it?

S: That is what you would say. You don’t live this life of pain and sorrow.

A: You can find happiness in this life. Right now you are with someone.

S: How can you be sure of love in a life like this? Everything is hard and complicated.

A: Do you think anything easy is worth it?

S: Possibly not.

A: Tell me about this song from this film.

S: The man thinks that the woman has betrayed him. He sings the song of pain. Before his eyes, there flash the key moments of his love with this woman. The moments when he believed that she loved him.

A: Is he trying to relive those moments?

S: Perhaps he is seeing them through pain.

A: What does it feel like to be betrayed by someone?

S: You do not know? It has never happened to you? It is pain upon pain. It is disbelief and shock. It is trauma. It is an open wound.

A: And this wound has crept into your happiness?

S: In this life, all around us there is darkness and pain. For a moment, you think that you have forgotten it. It does not forget you. The past haunts us.

being jilted

07.04.2026

A: We were talking yesterday of the experience of being jilted. You have told me about it happening to you. What does it feel like?

S: You are on a boat in the sea. You think you have love and support from the fellow passenger that you have with you. Suddenly, they are gone. You are abandoned. A part of yourself has died. You are left to continue the journey yourself. You are all alone. You are suffering.

A: And the bed?

S: You are fighting to get up every morning. It is a hard fight. You do not want to get up. There is no point in going on. The one you were with, that you wanted, that was the one that gave colour and meaning to this life. And all the while, you know that you did not do anything wrong. You did not deserve to be abandoned or rejected. It is the unfairness of the thing. It is the meaninglessness of the thing. You are aware now of how expendable you are. Of how harsh and cold and hostile and apathetic this world is. Love has been taken away from you. Someone that thought of you when you were not there is gone. You are not special to anyone. And, out there, something or someone has been thought more deserving of the love that you wanted so badly.

A: Those are the thoughts. The feelings?

S: Nausea. Your stomach is tearing itself apart. When you lie there in the bed, it is like you are living through a nightmare. I am all alone. I am all alone. I will never have love in my life. My love is doomed. In this whole world, there is not one person that will give me love. All that I asked for was love. Life is meaningless when you have to be alone. Nothing is worth it if you have to be alone. All this work that I did, it was for love. Everything has soured.

A: Is there more?

S: Do you want to talk about the mental problems that come afterwards? The medical illnesses? Do you want to talk about how it takes three or more years to get better afterwards? Let us not go into that. Consider the plight of Miss Havisham, the life dedicated to the pain of being jilted and abandoned.

A: And yet, the people here can move from one person to another without any remorse or regret.

S: Because everyone is expendable here. No one means anything. You are punished if you love someone and care for them. Love is suffering. Having a heart in this world is suffering. Being different, too different to be loved? That is suffering. People hate me because I am a cynic, a pessimist and a realist. I see man as a wolf to man. There is the reason. And yet, even though no one should be trusted, we trust. Even though no one loves, we expect love. Because what would life be otherwise? Suspicion, hate, nausea and disgust.

Eternal Beauty: Depression, Paranoid Schizophrenia and Being Jilted in Love

06.04.2026

Alfonso and myself had gone walking a few days ago. We had managed three parks between us, two of them new to my acquaintance. We had met up in the morning at Valentine’s Park in Ilford and then just spontaneously decided to spend the whole day together. The next park had been Seven Kings where we had met someone in the hospital in another spontaneous decision. They were in a sad state. Finally, we had gone down to Hatfield Forest in the evening which we had all to ourselves. It was the first time that I had been there and I saw deer, rabbits, nuthatches, blue tits, great tits, red kites, woodpeckers, swans, duck and geese. Nature seemed abundant there.

We had gone back to Alfonso’s place where he had cooked me a steak and ale pie with chips and vegetables. And then we had watched ‘Eternal Beauty’, a British film, also about a sad state. The story was that a woman had been jilted by the man that she loved which had caused her to become depressed and also to develop paranoid schizophrenia, with all of the bizarre symptoms that went with it.

Alfonso had remarked that this kind of thing did not happen nowadays. But I knew several people that it had happened to. Many of them were still suffering from being jilted in love.

‘Why is it,’ Alfonso asked me, after we watched the movie, late in the night, ‘that this depression happens to these jilted lovers?’

‘Imagine that you have been passed over for someone else by the person whose opinion you cared about most in the world,’ I said to Alfonso. ‘It destroys your ego and your sense of self-worth. It is one of the most violent psychological acts imaginable.’

‘Do you speak with experience?’

‘Yes, indeed. Knowing that someone rejected your very self. That is the most horrible part. They rejected you entirely, your entire identity. They found you lacking. They preferred someone over you.’

‘But then,’ asked Alfonso, ‘How can you be so confident when it has happened to you?’

‘Because it is my life. Life teaches you to resign yourself to things. I was rejected from Cambridge when I passed the interview. Because I was brown and Indian and an ethnic minority man. They rejected me because of my identity. They put me on the reserve list for top jobs after I graduated from university even though I passed the interviews. Because I was brown and Indian and an ethnic minority man. Relationships? Others chosen over me. Let us not stipulate the reasons as this is the cancel culture. I have lived through it all.’

‘How have you lived through it all?’

‘Because in ‘Eternal Beauty’, the heroine blames herself. The depressed blames themselves. I don’t blame myself. I didn’t do anything wrong. I did everything right. I blame other people. It is other people that are wrong. Not me. I tell myself that I am perfect. That I am good. That I am charming, funny, clever, handsome strong. It is their judgement that is in question, not mine. I don’t subject myself to their violence and the violence of their perception.’

‘Have you ever considered to yourself that you are unloveable? Because no one loves you? Because there is always someone chosen above you?’

‘What is the love of a tyrant and an oppressor? It is not worth having. I don’t want to be loved by the oppressor. Of course, I am loveable. Because I am love itself. I am loveable because I am difference. There are still those that love difference. I am loveable because I am India.’

‘But the reality is that you are not loved.’

‘That is not decided yet. I am still young. I still have life in me. This world is full of bodies and minds. It only takes one person to love you.’

‘Do you ever feel down?’

‘Of course. Just this morning, I lay in bed. I felt exhausted by sadness. There was no reason to get up. I wanted to be away from the world and its hostility, apathy and heartlessness. Away from other people. But then, I told myself that you cannot make anyone love you. You can’t reason any one into accepting difference, accepting me, the identity of The Tiger. The fact is that I love The Tiger. The fact is that The Mother loves The Tiger. I am a god. The Mother is a goddess. This love is heavenly and eternal. Mere mortals cannot conceive of this love or imitate it. Despite the lack of love in this world, despite being jilted and rejected over and over again, I am still here. I am still striving for love for our community of Tigers in this world. I never blame us for the rejections that we get, for how we have to suffer jilting. I never blame us for not being accepted. We are pure. We are strength. We are the truth. We are love. We are loveable people. I do not accept despair. And so, I got up.’

‘Why do you think the heroine of the film had paranoid schizophrenia?’

‘Every time, the world hurt her. When she was a beauty queen, they chose her sister over her as the beauty queen. Her would be husband chose someone over her. Her new boyfriend chose someone over her. Others were living the life that she wanted to live. Others were living her happiness and her dreams. Others had someone. She was all alone. She had no one. She did not have acceptance or love. That is hurt. That is hurt not to be part of the community. They are all against her. And so, is it not natural that she would develop paranoid schizophrenia? When the whole world is out there to hurt you and take away everything from you, love and work, beauty and self, then surely you would fear all, fear this world? It is a natural response to the hostilities of this life. To the attack of the personality and the ego.’

‘Why do you think that the audience roots for this heroine, feels her pain?’

‘Do they though? Or do they find humour and entertainment in her suffering? The audience loves the spectacle of suffering which they have created through their lack of love, through their intolerance and non-acceptance of difference. Yet there is a paradox in difference. They have to monitor difference. Because it could become accepted.’

‘You identify with the heroine?’

‘Do you know something about the heroine? Even though this world is what it is, she dares to love even though she knows it will result in the destruction of the self. Because she has the heart of The Tiger. She will love. She will love with everything. She will think of nothing but love. Because she is the lover.’

‘You say that you are the lover.’

‘I believe. Knowing what this world is, I still believe that it is love that is victory, strength and fate. I believe that it will be the reign of love.’

‘You believe that because you are full of love, that you are loveable. Maybe it is the case that because you are full of love, in this world of hate, that you are unloveable.’

‘I am in the game. We will see what happens in this game. At the moment, I have some love. I have wrenched it from a world that says have none. I have fought for it.’

‘Keep fighting for it. You are love.’

‘Love is war and war is love. The warrior is a lover and the lover is a warrior. In ‘Eternal Beauty’, the heroine rends the wallpaper from the walls. She tears at the structures that enclose her, that trap her soul. She has the claws of The Tiger. She is the lover and the warrior. Love has taught us to fight.’

the addictions of writing

02.04.2026

The sun was breaking out over the houses in my street. I had woken up and lain in bed, running my mind over the infinite business of this life. And then, the call from Alfonso had come. On occasion, he would sometimes wake up even earlier than me, however early I could manage to do so.

Alfonso asked me, ‘Why do you write so constantly?’ I imagined him there at home, perhaps sitting in front of a small and nutritious breakfast, perhaps with a newspaper beside him to be savoured at length.

‘It is an addiction.’

‘Why is it an addiction?’

I searched for an answer. What had that child that wanted to become a writer seen in it? I tried to reimagine myself as that young and voracious reader. Of course, the first addiction had been reading. I had devoured books constantly. The joy, the escape, the stimulation to the mind, the love of the good story. The love of the good story had been instilled in me through the stories that my grandfather gave me. Yes, in fact, everything went back to my grandfather, this educated, cultured, wonderful man that had nourished my love of narrative and wisdom. I wanted to be the storyteller, just like my grandfather. It was the family tradition. We are Indian. We follow the family traditions. I said so much to Alfonso.

‘You desperately want to become your grandfather. Can you not become your own person?’

‘There is this phrase ‘role model’. Am I not entitled to choose and follow my role model?’

‘Of course you are. If you find good, why would you not want it for yourself? All I am asking is, have you reconsidered your motivations for writing and for this addiction that you cannot control?’

‘It has not taken over my life, has it? The routine of writing a few times a day. It is not all that I do. I do many other things.’

‘It has gotten you into much trouble.’

‘My middle name is ‘Tiger’. If I were not to get into trouble, I would not be writing properly. The one that points out what is wrong with this world, he will always be in trouble. They cannot brook just criticism.’

‘You should relax your critical attitude.’

‘They that hurt me hurt the community. They that exclude and reject, they should be criticised. Their selfishness, greed, racism and intolerance should be criticised. The way that they have exploited the people and the world should be criticised. The way that they judge unjustly should be criticised. Their worship of money above all things should be criticised. Their rape of the planet should be criticised. This is why the writer is here. The writer is freedom. That cry for freedom, for The Revolution that has come from the lips of Punjab, that is why the writer is here. My grandfather was born in the time of Independence. I carry the torch of freedom. That is why the writer is here. That is why the writer is addicted to writing. Because writing is freedom. The expression of our self. The writer wants to be the grandfather, the storyteller of freedom.’

Was it enough for Alfonso? It was enough for myself. There is a reason in all things. And the best reason. Because, alongside freedom, there was love. Love for the storyteller. Love for my grandfather. He had given me love. And I? I had given him love back. That was why I was the writer. Love is something that you can never have too much of. It is love that is the addiction.

nothing in particular

01.04.2026

Already, it was April. The year was passing quickly. Everything was so fast nowadays. You would blink and you would miss it, that was the pace of life nowadays. We were talking about nothing in particular. Alfonso was lounging about, although he always lounged about with a certain style. He was wearing a cream suit with a pale green shirt and the top buttons were undone. I had been telling him that there were those that would listen avidly when I relayed our conversations about life and things. They were always eager for the next installment for their own unknown reasons.

Alfonso had just recommended a hotel to me for a trip that I was set on doing abroad. It was a special place and I had special plans there.

Alfonso drawled, ‘Why do you want so much to escape London? I thought that you loved London’.

I thought for a moment. I was remembering what life had been like before London, when I would only enter the city to visit my grandparents. ‘Life in London is very beautiful. But there is a world outside. There are many places outside of London. After all, it is not the world.’

‘After all, it is not the world.’ Alfonso mused. ‘But has not London become the world now? Is not the whole world like London, touched by London, a part of London?’

‘In many senses,’ I said, having considered it, ‘you are right. There is very little difference between places in the world and they are all touched by London and the West. But still, there remains that little bit of difference. And it is our duty to learn that difference and to extend it and extend it. Because there cannot be the rule of the one. There has to be difference. And I am difference.’

‘Difference is a word that you use often,’ Alfonso said with a touch of grandeur. ‘Does anyone really know what difference is? You like to say that difference is yourself. But how much are you difference and how much are you something of the same? You would have yourself as an original and the world as a copy.’

‘What is this world but a tired copy?’ I asked Alfonso. ‘Do you not tire of the grey? Do you think that a real original can exist in this world of the fascimile, of the fake?’

‘Somehow,’ archly said Alfonso, ‘you survive as an original.’

‘It comes at a price,’ I returned. ‘There is much suffering in being original.’

‘You are not a penniless starving artist in a garret,’ spoke Alfonso. ‘In fact, you have more than enough. Your belly is full.’

‘It is not what I am worth that I am rewarded with.’

‘Take what you can get.’

‘This heart craves honour.’

‘This honour that you want,’ said Alfonso, ‘it is only possible on the battlefield or if you change the world.’

‘The world is there to be changed. She is there for the turning.’

‘That is your mistake.’ Alfonso looked at me keenly. ‘What is it that fills you with this optimism, this belief in your own power to transform reality?’

‘You know my beliefs,’ I said. ‘I believe in destiny. I believe that I am destiny. I believe that I am god born upon this world. That I will answer the prayers of the people for justice and transformation, for good over evil, for love and belonging and happiness. I believe that the tears of the people should be wiped away. That there will be real diversity and inclusion in this world. I believe that the warrior will bring real peace and joy to the people. I believe that the hero has enough strength in him, that I have enough strength in me. I believe that one that wants something bad enough, that works bad enough for it, that this limitless energy and aspiration that is in me, it will come to fruition.’

‘But at the same time, you are a pessimist, cynic and a realist. You believe that man is a wolf to man.’

‘There is a difference between knowing how things are and a deluded hope. There is a difference, also, between a can-do attitude and absolute negativity. There are those that have fought before me. They have given us our hard-won rights. And it is up to us to keep fighting for them, to fight and fight and fight.’

‘You have always lost every battle.’

‘But that is not to say that I am not right. This whole world is against me. Nobody is pleased with me. Because I do not accept the rule of the majority. I do not accept dishonour. I am the greatest and the best. I am the splendour and the pride of Punjab. I am The Tiger. Why should they always have what they want? Why should they be the ones that decide? I am the one that will have what I want. I am the one that will have what I decide. Who has been able to stop me? I am the poet. I am the artist. I am the photographer. I am the writer. I am the historian. I am the journalist. I am the truth. I am justice. I am right. I am strength. I am resolve. I am revenge. I am The Tiger.’

Alfonso sighed. He believed that I always ended on a boast. But why not? There were others singing my praises but still I sang my own. What I believed was inside me, which was god, that had to be recognised in this world. There was so much good that came from me, that transformed the reality around me. I had not lost every battle. I had won many. There were so many that I had touched, that I had given to. I was aware of my own power. And, I was the culture. I was the learning of Punjab, of India. I was six thousand years. I was greatness. If it did not come out, who would know what we were? Who would know the reality of the god?

the writer does not know what the reader reads

31.03.2026

S: The writer does not know what the reader reads.

A: How so?

S: The fact is, that the reader hardly ever shares what they experience of the text. I am lucky. I am in research and write academic non-fiction. Therefore, I eventually hear what others have made of my work. And it is always positive. Because I work hard and I am extraordinarily intelligent.

A: The usual modesty.

S: Other people have said it. I merely echo their sentiments. You are allowed to be justifiably proud of your accomplishments. Because I am intelligent, I know my place in the world of thought. My best friend goes around telling his family and friends that I am an original thinker. I get good reviews for what I write. If I said it were the case and others didn’t agree with me, then that would be out of place. I’m not going to hide my genius under a bush. It is what other people want to be. I am it.

A: To get back to the topic and not your infernal vanity, why does it fascinate you so much what other people think about what you write.

S: There are those that hate it. They are not worth considering. There will always be haters. What is more interesting is those that read regularly. They are fascinated by what I write. They have been there for years and years reading. But what are they finding in this writing? Things have changed so much. Yet these people are reading and reading and reading. They want to be flooded by these words of mine. What emotions do they feel? What thoughts do they have? What is the identity of the author that they have built up in their minds?

A: You will never know. Because they will never tell you.

S: A villain to some, a hero to many. The author can only say what is in his heart. He stays true to his own heart. This is not a performance. This is life. Whatever reaction it arouses, envy, disdain, fear, contempt, adulation, praise. The author lives in a world that he considers vile, in a sickening climate of hate and conformity that he is too good for, in a world that he is much too good for but denies him his worth. Even though this world tells him to stop writing, that there is nothing for him, he writes. He is a writer. The writer is one that will defy this world and all of its rules, that will defy all for the sake of his voice. I am the real writer. I am what brings freedom into this world, the expression of the self. I am the one that retrieves the lost sense from this world, the lost self from this world. Whatever any reader thinks, I am the hero of this tale. The reader hears the voice of the hero and sees the deeds of the hero.

all before eight thirty in the morning

31.03.2026

A: You like listing things that you have done. Go ahead.

S: I’ll tell you what I did in the morning before 8.30 am.

A: Let’s see how much you were capable of.

S: On the train, I did language learning in German, Spanish, French, Hindi, Urdu and Punjabi. Reading poetry, dialogues and news stories. I also read the Metro newspaper, particularly on the Iran war which is affecting my friends. Then, I did the quick crossword and the anagrams on the puzzle page. Finally, I read a poem on the way up the escalator at Holborn, a woman’s poem about the body and its relationship to various metals.

A: Then?

S: First I bought a chicken and mushroom slice from Sainsbury’s, then I walked over to Ole and Steen and bought a £2 offer, which was a berry and pistachio treat. I got in to work then ate that with some tea in milk. Which was followed by working on my fashion photography and charity work by uploading some photographs to my social media after messaging my girlfriend.

A: More and more.

S: There is still more. Then, I wrote letters. I told my mentors in my academic discipline about the book review that I got for my first book and also thanked the academic that had taken his time to write such a glowing review.

A: I hesitate to ask. But is there more?

S: I haven’t even included everything. But there is more. Then I did some writing. And now, I am about to do some reading. Stendhal’s ‘The Red and the Black’. It is about love and power.

A: The work day has not even begun.

S: All hours of the day are work. Even play. Because I work to make that play happen and often the play is itself work. If we were not busy, then we would be dead. And then there would be quiet. That is the difference between the quick and the dead.

the time after work

30.03.2026

A: How was your evening?

S: Rushed. Everything is always rushed. There is a lot to do and no time to do it.

A: Have you not heard that phrase? If there is something to do, get a busy person to do it.

S: It is true.

A: So what were you up to?

S: I went to the gym where I did heavy weights, got some Rosemary and Mint oil for my hair at Superdrug as well as some Rosemary and Mint conditioner, did some window shopping in M & S, had dinner with my parents, wrote pen pal letters to two friends and applied for a management job. Messaged my girlfriend and two friends, including one who I’m discussing Shakespeare quotes with at the moment. Then, I played Scrabble, anagrams, a crossword and a jigsaw online. The last thing was writing.

A: Is that all you did out of work today?

S: No, I also listened to my Hindi music and visited the Oxfam bookshop.

A: You like to keep active and connected.

S: I wonder what it is all for. I am living life at a ferocious pace. It is all rush, rush, rush. I’m trying to fit many lives into one life. And still, there is never enough that is done. I have so many different writing projects, so many ideas in this head, so many secret knowledges that have not seen the light of day.

A: You often say that Faust got into heaven because he strove for it.

S: All of these things. Someone will look back at this one day. Wondering why this life was so busy and unrewarded. All that attempt at self-improvement which really comes to nothing in this cold and hostile world. All that genius that was wasted when I could have been extending the boundaries of human knowledge, when I could have been focusing on writing exclusively and on thinking and thinking.

A: Can you not relax?

S: Who would do all of my things for me then? How would I have a life outside of work and study and volunteering? It all has to be crammed together. Just cramming and cramming and cramming with no rest. The desire to have a good work and life balance, to have a gym routine, to fit in everyone that I know into things. The desire to keep this brain stimulated.

A: This energy that you have, it is like you are on cocaine.

S: Whatever it is, it is what my brain naturally produces. All on about six hours sleep every night.

Farthing Downs and Happy Valley – 27.03.2026

39,000 steps/17.31 miles (equivalent to 66.6 circuits of a soccer pitch)

Birds seen: parakeets, crows, possibly a raven, blue tits, pigeons, goldfinch, starlings

Highlights

The Flint Game

Strewn about all over this area, there were pieces of flint. We are hypothesising that the area might have been a major hub for prehistoric man. We were talking about the craftsmanship required to make the flints into weapons and then, suddenly, I had the idea that we should each of us have a go at doing it.

So my friend and I picked up two pieces of flint, one piece smaller and one piece larger and we placed the smaller piece onto a piece of flint that was embedded in the ground. Then, we struck at the corners and edges of the smaller piece of flint with the bigger. Unlike in cinema, there were no sparks. We were both wearing our glasses as eye protection. My friend went first and he struck out a piece quite quickly. I put it into my pocket and felt it. It was incredibly sharp. I did my piece next. It took a few goes to get going as I wasn’t firmly onto the embedded flint bed but then a satisfying sharp tooth came off. We had both reconnected with our prehistoric past. I kept both the pieces and now they are on my bookshelf in my bedroom. A reminder of what? Our ancestry? The trip? Friendship?

The Chaldon Doom Painting

After getting slightly lost, we entered Chaldon Church which was a pretty construction to do the art part of our walk. We were going to see the Chaldon Doom painting. This had been created by a monk that fancied himself as an artist and was about the sins, a bit like Hieronymous Bosch’s masterpiece, ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’.

As we entered, we came across two friends, R. and A. One was a young woman with dyed blonde hair who was the very picture of silence. The other was a stout man with black hair that chatted to us amiably about the mural because he was a local. His first words to me was that we are all a part of god so that we are all gods, a statement fit for a church. He had watched a video on YouTube about it and chatted to my friend about what he knew while I studiously read the labelled diagram of the mural and read the extended curator label about it.

The mural was reddish and quite ugly, although interesting to look at at the same time. The church was not particularly impressive but it was a novel experience to go to look at art and actually find a stranger that you could talk to about it. It never happens in London.

The View from Farthing Down

At the top of Farthing Down, there was this stone compass which pointed out all of the things on the wonderful view that you could get from this vantage point. We were looking at the mast for Crystal Palace, at Canary Wharf and also trying to see what else we could get our eyes onto. After you struggle up a hill, the view is the reward. And the rest and the sense of accomplishment that goes with it.

The Hive Garden in Coulsdon South Library

Noticing that there was a library around when we got into Coulsdon South, we decided to go in and check out the Ordinance Survey maps for our walk. Then, when we circled back to it to get on track onto our walk and were walking past, I noticed a charming little garden to its side. It was a delightful little construction, with little statuettes of fairies strewn about for the children. There was a wonderful yellow bench and it was wondderfully organised. Such a pleasant place for reading in the summer. We only spent a few minutes there but it was a lovely experience.

The Beauty of the Woods

We walked past decaying logs overlaid with green, green moss, past Yew trees and also delightful looking fungal growths on the ground. It was much warmer in the woods than in the outside world and also there was no rain like there was in the exposed elements. It was the usual but always relaxing and soothing immersion in nature. The birdsong was particularly beautiful, incredibly loud too. Like a concert that nature had put on for us specially.

Coffee in the morning

When we were drinking in Caffe Nero, we had a conversation with the Irish barrista. It turned out that the owner of the cafe was actually a Londoner and that he had only gone to Milan for university.

The Museum in the Pub

When we stopped for a drink at about two o’clock, the table where we sat in the pub had a framed document from the king at the end of the war, thanking the schoolchildren for their share in the hardship and struggles of the war. It told the children that they were worthy members of the sacrifices and the grit of the nation. This was an insight into that momentous time and the lives of the schoolchildren who lived then.

the days of great sadness

25.03.2026

We had just finished some ice cream topped with chocolate buds, chocolate sweets and then both chocolate and raspberry sauce. Alfonso shone with the shine of a satiated stomach. I was telling him about Dhurandar 2 (The Brave Hero 2), which I had watched last night.

‘The film finished at about quarter past midnight.’

‘What time did you get home?’

‘Almost one. I went to sleep at about half past one in the morning.’

‘Why do you watch these action films? It is just violence and revenge.’

‘You are wrong. They are about honour. They are about protecting the family. They are about the duty of being a man and a hero, about attaining your revenge. They are about sacrifice and true grit. They are about energy and power. They are the films that relay our culture, the warrior culture. The hero is Punjabi. It is always about us. We are the superheroes of India and this world.’

‘Well I hope you indulged your bloodlust. You are going about London doing everything there is to do in this city. I hope you are happy.’

‘I have met my girlfriend many times recently. But despite this happiness, these are the days of absolute sadness. The days of great sadness. We look at his world. This wretched world. The real peace and happiness would be in death. This struggle that has gone on forever, this struggle for status and honour, for a just reward, for true diversity and equality, for the community, this endless striving. Then and finally then, it would be over. It is the days of death. We remember the ones that have died, our most beloved.’

‘And what philosophy is there to counter sadness?’

‘There is nothing that can counter sadness. There is nothing that can counter the suffering that The Oppressed have to face in this world. We fight our hardest against a cowardly and dishonourable foe. The whole world is our enemy.’

‘One man cannot fight the entire world.’

‘From birth, you contend with the fairness of the allocation of resources. Milk, love, food, money, recognition, power and status. If I had ever been content with the share that I received, that we have received, then I would lay down my arms. Then I would forget my sadness, our sadness. But this resource allocation has always been unfair. It is unfair. And therefore, The Tiger bares his teeth. He shows his claws. In the essence of The Tiger there is this great gaping wound, sadness.’

‘You who have chased every happiness, you have everything noble and great in this world, everything, how can you be sad? You are the most fortunate. You are the one they envy. Hindu philosophy says sadness and happiness are unreal. Emotion is a cloud.

‘Humne apnein shakaal ke dorh dikhai gaheen aini ke gum mein

Chahein hai humnein uske tudkhrein ekh mudat sein’.

‘We have seen the run of our shape in the sadness of the mirror

We have wanted its shards for an age’.