the maximalist of doing (microfiction)

15.10.2025

He was known for work. But why was he known for work? Why did he work so much?

First of all, there was the empty ache in him. No one had come to fill that space. So he crammed it in with works. Time yawned open unforgivingly. The loss of her and the family that there would have been… There had to be some substitute, some forgetfulness in the work. When he was not working in culture for money, he taught, wrote, photographed, drew, painted, sang and acted. When he worked, he always had the desire to meet someone through that work. He did not. So he kept on looking and looking. So that was why he was the maximalist for doing.

Secondly, there was the relentless energy. No one had come to claim that energy. So he crammed it in with works. And still, despite that, he could never get tired. So that was why he was the maximalist of doing.

Also, the ambition. To be someone. That monstrous ego. To be everywhere, to be god upon this earth. To shape the world in his own imprint. Ambition was a monster that had straddled his back. The self belief: I am one that will live eternally in my name. Not just for himself, for his people this ego, the ego for the Oppressed that had been crushed into the ground for thousands of years. To be their champion, their light and guide.

Then, there was the background. A father who had always been working. A family who had always been working. His working culture background. A family and a culture that always kept busy and productive. That had worked as farmers and shoe makers. A background of hard, labourious work. So that was why he was the maximalist of doing.

And what about the commitment? The desire to change the world. The desire to contribute to society. The desire to be a productive member of this reality. To not just take but to give.

Do not forget the money. To have those savings. To always be ready to provide for a family. Money not for the self but for the family which never came.

And what did he get from the work? Did Sisyphus cry? When you move the rock up the mountain and never succeed, do you cry? Does the maximalist of doing ever cry? He did not cry. He could not. But he wanted to cry. His life was a punishment for some grave sin. He did not have the happiness of undoing, only its tragedy. Because the more he did, the more he was undone.

So that was why he was the maximalist for doing.

a dream of heartbreak (microfiction)

14.10.2025

The night before, he had watched a play. And unexpectedly within the performance, the players had begun talking about heartbreak. It was a complete departure from what had been taking place and an absolute surprise. It was an outpouring of mourning.

He had watched uncomfortably, trying to forget their words as they spoke. He had thought that he had succeeded. That he had diverted his attention.

In other words, he had fooled himself.

Because in the morning, he woke up from a dream of heartbreak. He could see her face, more clearly than in a photograph, the face in life. Someone was telling a story about her. Her face was sad. They were saying that she was to marry someone else.

The mourning was not over. It had been years and he was still mourning her. She was alive and he was mourning her. It was never going to end.

He could not cry. He could not let it out. So his stomach churned with nausea and his thoughts kept on returning to her. His dreams cried for him.

He wanted to be free of her. He wanted his freedom. If he couldn’t have love, could he at least have freedom? He wanted her out of his mind. That mind was his. If she could not be his, she was not wanted in his mind.

Recently a fantasy had begun to take hold. To drink himself to death. It would be so easy, complete oblivion. Like the Indian film ‘Devdas’. Which was surprising. Because he abhorred drinking. But it was just an alteration of the usual fantasies of extinction aroused by his romantic failure. He was going to be haunted by the ghosts of the living dead forever. And there was never going to be any consolation in his life.

the conspiracy against love (microfiction)

12.10.25

They wanted to liberate the people from love. But instead, they were liberating them from their humanity.

In this era, online interactions had replaced real life ones. It was no longer fashionable to date in the pool of people that you knew. The desire was for the stranger because the grass was always considered to be greener on the other side. And the stranger was appealing because prolonged human contact was no longer desirable in and of itself. Superficiality reigned, not deep knowledge of someone. That was what was undesirable. Knowledge was regarded as poison, ignorance as bliss.

As a result, the online dating companies grew and grew in wealth. Love was an industry. It had always been an industry. The Victorians would sell off their women to the highest bidder while canting about love in their triple decker romance novels. The royals had always looked at possessions for their matches.

To preserve their wealth, the dating companies needed their users to be always single. Or only to be in a relationship briefly. They decided to make it so that it was so. It was the grand conspiracy against love.

They took their cues from the world of work. They taught the people that everyone was expendable. You could just throw away someone when you had had enough. They taught the people that the most important thing in life was to be independent. So that the people could never tolerate being in a relationship or endure being connected to anyone. They taught the people to be selfish and grasping. So that they could never be in a genuine relationship with anyone and to give rather than to take, to give their whole heart without ego. They taught the people that there were only workers. Not lovers.

So there was no longer any love. I watched the bodies move in a loveless world. A sordid, practical world of money. I was all alone. Everyone was all alone. Just like the book, it was a lonely planet.

microfiction 1

11.10.2025

An unaccountable loss this, the ability to write purely imaginative work. Reality was pushing its sharp corners into my mind and my body. This life of suffering… How long was it that you could endure suffering for? It had been a sustained assault, a laboured siege, a ravenous feasting upon me that had taken place over years without end…

So what story could I write? That was different from my life? That was not an interminable quest? That was not a tragedy of heartbreak? A lament of loneliness and unbelonging? A fight against all that there was? A doomed resistance of difference in the face of the great evil of the One?

The public wanted a glimmer of light. That glimmer of light gave them hope. That was what sold. An orphan magician that defeats evil. A misfit that finds love. An underdog that achieves some kind of victory, whether real or imaginary. A problem that is resolved. Justice achieved.

Magic. Love. Victory. Justice. Where was any of this in my life? Where were they in my world?

And so, the need for a new story. Fiction is not the unreal. Fiction is not the false. It is an old chestnut that fiction is another reality. Perhaps more real. Perhaps braver than this reality. An alternative imagining of reality.

Perhaps I should imagine myself as a villain. I write myself into my characters. I could pretend to be the villain. But this would serve the false narrative in place. I am not the villain. I am the hero.

I live in the dystopia. What is this world if it is not dystopian? Perhaps I should invent a Utopia. Where talent is rewarded. Where genius is recognised. Where there is true equality, fairness and inclusion. But would the mind of this society and this reality be able to take it? Would they even be able to begin to comprehend it?

Perhaps this is the great barrier. Perhaps this is the cause of my pen’s impotence.

But tomorrow we pick up the pen again. And tomorrow, we imagine a new tomorrow. That is what the artist creates. From the swamp, the lotus is born. And from the breast of the slave and the faithful, there comes the rebel and the freedom fighter. Just like the devil comes out from the mind of god.

other people (microfiction)

07.10.2025

A: Why do you spend so much time expending your bile on other people?

Me: Because they are intolerable.

A: To you perhaps. You are highly strung. Admit it.

Me: Not at all. Do you know, when I came home from work and an evening somewhere, there was just one person in front of me on the street. Just one person. And despite that, this miscreant was walking in a zigzag across the street, in my way everywhere that I turned. They were glued to their smart phone. That is what people are.

A: What do you mean, that’s what people are?

Me: Inconsiderate. Deliberately in your way.

A: How was this person deliberately in your way? They were just going about their business unaware that you were in the background.

Me: Not at all. Anyone could have been trying to walk past them. They acted like the whole street was theirs. They didn’t have one single thought that there might be someone trying to walk past them.

A: The incapability to walk in a straight line is not a personal failing. They must have got out of your way when they realised that you were there.

Me: After getting in my way. The point is that these people will never let anyone past them. Even at their pathetic rate. Even with their meandering nonsense. That is why this world is like it is. These gatekeepers are everywhere. They won’t let you do anything.

A: You have achieved plenty despite them. They couldn’t keep you out of letters.

Me: I did it by myself. By enduring poverty. By having nothing. With no connections. By being a dependent. Despite their racism and prejudice, their hostility. Because of my genius.

A: I am not disagreeing. I know that they are full of hate. But don’t import their gatekeeping into everything.

Me: Why not? It is everywhere.

A: Let us change the topic. What did you do outside of work today?

Me: An acting workshop. Reading a book about reading. Reading The New Scientist. Shopping. Eating sushi for dinner. Contacting friends. Watching videos. Reading the news. I met a new person somewhere outside of work.

A: You meet new people every single day and nothing ever comes of it.

Me: That is London and its racism. That is this country.

A: Once again, we come onto the topic of other people.

Me: All there are are other people to make life sour.

A: What is your concept of other people?

Me: Despite hearing racism all around me, I have always believed we are all one. When you are all one, you are us. However, it has become apparent that they are not us. I live with the they. None of them are us. None of them are me. They are other people. They want to reject us. And because they reject us, they are them and I am me. They are other people.

A: Do you not believe that we are all one?

Me: It is them that have made the division between us. Not me. That is all that they can do. Divide and fragment. They do not know the meaning of harmony and unity. Their unity is to pit themselves against someone like me.

A: The whole world is not against you.

Me: Yes it is. I am what they want to vanquish and to rule. The ungovernable wild beast. The Tiger. But they cannot rule me. Because no one has ever ruled me. I do what I want. I have the resources of a millionaire. I have the brain of a genius. I have the body of a god. I have the energy of the sun. There is one that is born that cannot be caged. There is the bird that flies high in the blue. Freud said that the paranoic is not entirely without suspicion. They would kill freedom. They would kill anarchy. They would kill real independence and freedom and honour. They would kill me. They would kill my mother. They are murderers of thought and difference, of equality and diversity. But you cannot kill Oedipus. However much you try to protect yourself from Oedipus, it is him that will be King and that will have the Queen. You think that you can kill The Tiger. Come at him in a real fight, see what happens to you. You can’t outsmart Tiger. You can’t out talk Tiger. The man with the heart is the one that will always win. Because the man with the heart is the only real man on this earth. Not these little cowards with their lies and the shrivelled things inside their heads that pump their bastard blood through their bodies.

A: You take the idea that you are a god and a hero far too seriously.

Me: If you model yourself on a god you are a god. You have been called a god after the prayer of the people, after the prayer of your mother. They have asked god to come down upon earth to protect the Mother. There is no other aim in my life. Against the Mother, they are all standing. They want to destroy the Mother. They have seduced all into their evil. But the Mother, she is invincible. That is her name, ‘The Invincible’, Durga. Shakti is what they call her, power itself. And she is triumphant because she sits upon the tiger. I am The Tiger. I am her vehicle. She gave birth to me so I would prostrate myself before her and carry her through this world. So I speak the words of The Tiger. I speak the legend of The Tiger. For six thousand years, The Tiger has dwelt in Punjab. Now he is in London. This era will be like every other era. It will be the era of The Tiger. I am the past. I am the present. I am the future. There is only one way. That is the way of The Tiger. The warrior culture. There is an Indian film. I have changed the last line:

Death before dishonour.

Service before Self.

The Mother before everything.

the lie (microfiction)

06.10.2025

‘Imagine there is a lie,’ I said to Alfonso. ‘A great lie that you are told, that I am told, that we are all told. A lie we have all spent our whole lives trying to obtain.’

‘Is this a riddle?’ asked Alfonso, looking over at me from above the pages of his magazine. Again, it was just us at the end of the day. In the lonely night, he was the only one there for me. The only one to say the things of the heart to. My most intimate friend.

‘It is no riddle. The lie is connection.’

‘Absurd. You have friends. The obvious example is before you. You are connected.’

‘Real connection is romantic love. It is the highest order of connection. Romantic love is the highest form of connection, whatever form it takes.’

‘Some people have romantic love.’

‘Not people like me.’

Alfonso tutted at me. ‘It is the case,’ I continued. ‘They lied to me. They said to become something and you will find real connection. They are all fucking liars.’

In a patronising tone, Alfonso asked me how that made me feel.

‘I have learnt not to trust anyone. So now there is no trust in my life.’ Tut. ‘I have learnt that there is no connection with anyone. So now there is no connection in my life.’ Tut. ‘I have learnt that there is no warmth from anyone. So now there is no warmth in my life.’ Tut tut.

‘You are suggesting,’ Alfonso said, ‘in your wallow of self pity, that you are a meaningless, isolated atom that is removed from the whole of humanity. When all you do is build communities around yourself. You have literally hundreds of people that you know. If it is the case that no man is an island, you in particular are no island.’

‘They are all strangers.’

‘Because you can’t fuck them?’ Alfonso asked incredulously.

‘There is no need to downgrade the sexual act. That is real connection. The chemicals that it creates. Its alteration of the mind.’

‘You only feel lonely in the nights.’

‘We only talk together in the nights.’

‘You are not lonely.’

‘When I lie in my bed alone in the night time, I feel the loneliness of death.’

‘Love is heartbreak. Love is sorrow. Be thankful you don’t have to have your heart broken every minute.’

‘What do you think this world has done to me? Why do you think I am like this?’

We sat in silence, ruminating on things. It was past eleven in the night time. Soon would come the witching hour.

control (microfiction)

04.10.2025

‘You don’t have any self-control’. Alfonso commented.

‘On the contrary, I have the most in the world.’ I responded. He was always accusing me of something or the other. Everyone was always accusing me of something. That was all that I was to them. Someone to accuse. Well, I accused in my turn. I accused them.

‘In what way?’ Alfonso asked incredulously. ‘You have fallen in love with women that are not even your type just because of close proximity to them. Several times.’

‘Have you not read Proust’s magnum opus?’ I asked. ‘That is how they get you. Through the proximity. You are assured that you are safe. You are not.’

‘So how do you have any self-control?’

‘Because even though I loved them, I did not even touch them.’

‘That is not your self-control,’ Alfonso sneered at me. ‘They did not let you touch them.’

‘You should be around beauty all day and not get a taste of it,’ I said to him. ‘Then judge me.’

Alfonso snorted. ‘Let us chisel past that front. What original thoughts did you have today?’

‘There is an author who has written a new book about how we know what everyone knows, how common sense is created. It is the mark of a philistine and a mediocre Western mind that this book was written. Because their conceit is to always talk about a positive form of knowledge when it is not knowledge at all. Socrates knew that. Here, common knowledge. What everyone knows. In fact, common knowledge is just a form of ignorance. It is what the fool knows. The wise man is the one that knows. What is common knowledge? That you should pour wealth on yourself like excrement to be considered attractive and influential? That education is worthless? That hate sells? Why do you think that living piece of shit Trump and that specimen of rancid ear wax Farage are in the ascendency? Because they know what the scum think. And what the scum thinks is ignorance, lies and stupidity. That is all that they can accept. Not love, truth or justice.’

‘You are full of hate,’ Alfonso commented. ‘Even more hate than they are.’

‘This poison that is in me,’ I said. ‘It will kill the evil in this world.’

‘You will choke on it,’ Alfonso said. ‘You are the only one that will be hurt by it. Come, forget this. Something else.’

‘How about this for a thought? What is this garbage?’

‘What do you mean? Alfonso looked at me keenly.

‘This life. It is garbage. What is this garbage? Even religious people want to escape this life. The Hindu wants to escape the cycle of rebirth and reincarnation. The Christian, the Muslim and the Jew want to go to heaven. They want to die rather than to live.’

Alfonso shook his head at me. So what? It was the truth. Nobody wanted to live here. Look at this fucking garbage that they had made. Alfonso was asking me about original thoughts I was having in this fucking garbage. The stench of it was making me sick. The sight of its ugliness was denting my mind and my eyes. Its extent was polluting the whole of society. And Alfonso wanted an original thought from me that wasn’t cynical and jaded, weary of this fucking garbage. All there was was this fucking garbage. And when you pointed out the garbage, nobody listened and they tried to attack you. That was the triumph of the garbage.

ultimate happiness (microfiction)

30.09.2025

‘Where do you think ultimate happiness lies?’ Alfonso asked me. We were eating sushi together. It was a supermarket version. Although he had, I had never eaten sushi in a restaurant. I was taught to be careful with money. Sushi was expensive. It is difficult to drift from a culture of thrift. The supermarket stuff wasn’t absolutely appalling.

‘The answer is just three letters: SEX.’

‘Aah. A sensualist. Come on then. Why sex? I heard the capital letters in your tone.’ It was a purple shirt today. Very classy.

‘Because you are able to forget everything in the moment.’

‘Why then,’ Alfonso asked me, ‘if it is so pleasurable, that people won’t take every opportunity to have sex? Do they not want to be happy?’

‘I told you that I will not make any comments about women,’ I said to Alfonso. ‘And the answer to this question necessarily relies on me talking about women.’ After all, life teaches you to hold your tongue.

‘Necessarily?’

‘If you want to ask unhappy people why they are unhappy, you should ask them. My answer is that I am unhappy. Read between the lines.’

‘Food makes you happy though. I have seen it.’

‘Yes, I am also a glutton. That is another aspect of being a sensualist.’

‘And company makes you happy. Friends make you happy. Natural beauty makes you happy. Creativity makes you happy. Education makes you happy. Why then do you say sex is the ultimate happiness?’

‘Because sex will give you babies and a family. The other things might be well in their own way, but the only way to secure long term happiness is through sex. These people that don’t and won’t have sexual relationships are going to be even unhappier in the future.’

‘Don’t speak for other people. You don’t know their minds.’

‘Let’s change the topic. What is your ultimate happiness?’

Alfonso was always asking me things about what I thought. And then questioning them. What did he think?

‘Happiness is friendship. Having good friends for company.’

‘But I contrast friendship with a family. You cannot build something with a friend like a family.’

Alfonso sighed. ‘That is your problem. You have good friends. You have satisfying work. You have money. Your health is not absolutely in tatters. You are still young. You have so much going on in your life. And all you can think about is that family that you do not have. Why can’t you be like all the others and forget about having a family?’

‘It is the most important thing in our culture.’

‘Do what it takes to get it if you think it is so important.’

‘I told you. Family is the most important thing. I have to look after the ones that I have got. They are not expendable.’

‘So the family is destroying your family?’

‘What a world, eh?’ I grimaced. ‘No one can forgive you for being loyal. For disloyalty, they can forgive you everything. And then, all the other things you have to do…’

I trailed off. There was no point saying anything. Because having an opinion on this topic was dangerous. Dangerous and unproductive. There was no point to it.

headphones (microfiction)

29.09.2025

‘So I got home,’ I was telling Alfonso, ‘and just as I was heading towards the door, I took my headphones out which I use to drown out the sordid sounds of this sordid world. As soon as I did so, I heard the harassing, haranguing voice of an absolute idiot belting out some sorry tale at eleven o’clock in the night time without any consideration that he was walking in a residential area. In his voice, pure ignorance. I keep on telling you. I hate other people.’

‘They also hate you.’ Alfonso said, smiling.

‘I know they do. That is why I return their hate with interest,’ I told Alfonso. ‘But unlike them, I don’t hate them because of their skin colour or culture. I hate them because of their selfishness and their meanness. Their love of dishonour and atrocity and injustice. The lack of any love in their hearts except for themselves. They want to fuck themselves and they do fuck themselves. There was a reason that masturbation was a prime sin in the bible.’

‘Why can’t you forgive those that reject you?’

‘Why should I? The problem that my people have faced is rejection and devaluation. In India, we were Untouchables, the lowest caste. They devalued us. They could not see us as fellow humans. Here in England, they see you as an outsider and they devalue you correspondingly. They have rejected us. And by doing so, they become devalued. They become scum. They become vermin.’

‘Can’t you just see them as having a mental condition? As patients?’

‘No. You do not believe in evil and sin. I do. They are evil. They sin. They should be punished for their wrongs.’

‘You would punish them?’

‘Any time these cowards have dared to come up in my face, I have given them the answer. Even when they walk about in their hordes like sheep. I know the truth. I never back down. They think because there are more of them, they can do whatever they want. I don’t let them. I have never backed down from a fight from anyone. It doesn’t matter if it is an institution that is more powerful than me or a group of six or eight racists. I always go. I’m a warrior. They call me Tiger. I call myself Tiger. Tiger has teeth. Tiger is always ready to fight. Always. Only the coward does not fight.’

‘There are those that believe in peace.’

‘No one more than me. But when peace becomes dishonour, then it is the time to fight. And that time is now.’

‘For you, it is always now.’

‘It is always now.’

‘One day, you will be in serious trouble.’

‘Let us hope that that beautiful day comes soon. My mouth waters at the prospect. But until then, the hand of The Mother is upon my head. I am protected.’

‘What if I said there was no Mother?’

‘She is an ideal. An ideal exists in mental reality. The Mother is a representation of the perfect warrior, the life force. And the life force has decided that nothing will ever happen to me. Even in this world of enemies.’

praise (microfiction)

25.09.2025

‘You have perked up,’ commented Alfonso.

‘Over my wounds, he poured his praise. The recognition of my talent. As a writer. As a scholar. As a fighter for justice.’

‘The praise healed you? What is praise?’

‘This praise comes from the wise,’ I said. ‘It comes from those in the same game that I have played. They are masters at the game. They have dedicated their lives to the game. And now, they have themselves called me a master.’

‘What is the subject of this praise?’

‘The book which will proclaim my genius to the world.’ I said. I knew the true value of that book and how it would transform thought. I, the genius, I knew what the gift of my genius would mean. What it would mean for the People. And for the Revolution. Whoever had read it had gasped with admiration. There were four of us that knew the secret workings of this world from me now. The heart of the Revolution.

And this genius had meant a price. A heavy price. I stood completely alone in the world. Because genius stands completely alone. I was not a mortal man. I was not like them. I stood apart. Like a god. It was my destiny. This mind had been forged by six thousand years of India. This thought had been crafted by the ideal of The Tiger. How much had I done to become the one that solved the riddle of the Sphinx? No one else was capable of this ambition, this drive, this persistence, this discipline, this work, this born talent. That was why I was a genius. And they were not.

And what did this genius want? This genius had vowed revenge upon this society. Upon the law of the unjust. In my mind I kept on seeing myself in a boxing match with the law. We would circle each other. And I would sink the fatal blow. In my mind I kept on saying the phrase in Hindi, ‘I will break your face/mouth otherwise my name is not Love.’ [agar mainein tera mooh na todhdeya to mera naam mohabbat nahein hai].

On the walls of my heart, there were the photographs of the freedom fighters. In my dreams, there was the Revolution. And them? On the walls of their hearts were the bastards that had raped and pillaged the world and made it into a hell. Their leaders? Criminals. Nazis. Their love? Injustice. Selfishness and ego were their creed. They were my enemies.

And against my enemies, my millions of enemies, I had my voice. The voice of The Tiger. The roar of The Tiger. I am the Truth. I am Justice. I am god that has been born on the earth to rid it of sin. I am the one that loves Mother India and is beloved by her, the son that protects her honour.

The praise had confirmed the intent. I was going to do what it took to get this book published now. Now was the time to strike the hammer against the iron. The process had already started. The book had been accepted in all but formality.

There was one that stood against all. There was one that never bowed his head to anyone but The Mother. There was one that never fell. There was the one that was born to be the seer and the leader. Once there was one whose ego was invincible, whose stubborness was legendary and who was the ungovernable, wild beast, FREEDOM.

Jai Maa Kaali! Inquilaab zindabaad! Inquilaab saada zindabaad! [Hail the Dark Mother! Long Live the Revolution! May the Revolution Live Forever!]