Maybe I should be more aggressive. So people say. Document Seven has been blank for awhile. I close it, then start a new one: Number Eight. I'm working in my father's study, work that involves staring into space. I've been writing for an hour, but I haven't produced a single word.

I glance over the book shelves. There's an eclectic mix of computer manuals, economics and history. I haul myself out of the chair and start randomly leafing through them. After a memoir of a Watergate conspirator, a guide to a graphics program, and a tome on the life of Jinnah, I come to the only work of fiction. It's a volume of short stories written by a family friend.

'Tales from the Imagination of Kamal Talvar' is its name. I read it when I was a boy. The last time I met the author must have been at the funeral. He was one of the more dignified mourners. So it goes, as Vonnegut said.

Kamal Talvar was a Science teacher. He's retired, now. During school holidays, he would turn his hand to writing fiction. His work was never accepted by any publishers or magazines. But he did find a small publishing house in Whitechapel that agreed to do a short run of his book, paid for by himself.

I got hold of my father's copy, many years ago, and read all 70 stories. Some were no longer than a page. It was not one of my great formative reads. In those days, I would pick up anything. I had forgotten about these stories until now.

I look over the titles. The first one I remember is called "Be Nice". The plot goes like this: In a distant land, some time in the past or the future, the people of a large city feel dissatisfied with life. To combat these feelings, several citizens form a new religion which has one rule: 'Everyone must always be nice to each other'.

They distribute pamphlets and give speeches around the city. Their faith attracts many new converts and soon a majority of citizens become followers.

The founders think of various punishments for those who disobey the one rule. These include seizing of property and assets, branding with a hot poker and flagellation—dependent on how badly the rule is broken.

The new forms of justice are meted out on the first miscreants. The faith gains even more popularity once this starts. It becomes the official religion of the city. More and more people are bankrupted, burned or whipped for not being nice. However, in general terms, the people feel spiritually fulfilled where, before, they were empty.

I'm lacking inspiration. The obvious solution is music. And the musician who inspires me more than any other is Jeff Buckley. I put on Grace and pick up the book, again. There are a few stories I have no memory of. I re-read one of these:

A man has one beautiful flower growing in his small front garden. It stands proud in its circular bed in the center of the lawn. As one season makes way for another, the petals seem to change color from red to scarlet to maroon. It is a wonderful, inspiring sight.

Its owner decides that the inside of his house is a bit dull. So, he uproots the flower and puts it on his window sill. Gradually, it blackens and starts to crumble. But the man is happy because he prefers having it in the house. He feels that it really belongs to him, more so than when it was outside. This gives him a genuine feeling of satisfaction, even though he's killed it.

Kamal Talvar was not widely liked among the Muslim families who formed my parents' social circle. I never actually heard anyone say a bad word against him, but there was an odd silence whenever his name was mentioned. My father got on well with him. He had a copy of Kamal's uncle's book, but I didn't see it anywhere else. Whenever he came to our house, there was a lot of hearty laughter.

I got the impression my mother didn't really approve of him, though. Mrs Talvar didn't go in for their Muslim wives' meetings. They had a son, a few years older than me. He was the first person I knew who went to a university up North.

Once, when I was a boy, all the children were attending a talk by some learned religious person in the house of a family friend. The adults who had brought their kids were also listening. It was boring. Early on, I had been told off for fidgeting.

The speaker got onto the topic of non-Muslims. Apparently, they were all going to hell and we were not to socialize with them. Kamal Talvar stood up and told the learned man that this kind of racism had no place in modern Islam. His ideas should not be permitted to taint young minds. He was a pathetic, small-minded individual.

Our lecturer ended his speech and demanded someone drop him at the nearest station. Our hostess, who had invited him to speak, was livid with Kamal Talvar.

This can't be healthy. I can feel the madness lurking at the back of my mind creeping forward. I need to write something before I go over the edge. I think of a plot in the style of Kamal's uncle:

Every year a small town holds a competition for the children in their community. This is a big event. People talk about what happened in the last one for months afterwards and what might happen in the next one months before. There is one big prize and several smaller ones. The lesser awards are for physical attributes. Town elders have decreed the perfect height, foot size, head dimension, etc. for boys/girls aged 15. Those kids who are closest to these measurements are given much acclaim and presented with trophies.

The main contest involves recitals. Participants have to learn, by heart, large sections of ancient books written in old dialects which no one understands. The one who can memorize—then regurgitate—the largest amount of unintelligible lore is held up as an example of virtue and goodness for others to follow. The winner and previous winners are paraded around the town, giving everyone a sense of pride in their community.

A photo of my father looks down from the wall. I have just read another story: A cruel despotic ruler presides over his people. He uses his army to randomly massacre his own subjects, destroy their crops and burn their homes. He showers riches on some citizens. Most pay homage to him, but a few do not involve themselves in the ceremonies and are even openly scornful. However, he does not punish these people and neither does he reward the others. His acts of destruction and the few ones of benevolence are totally haphazard.

Yet, a large section of the population continues to waste time and money on bizarre acts of worship. They concoct fantastic theories on how their behavior influences the ruler's actions and why some who criticize him still receive his favors. The truth is, though, that he is a drivelling fool. There is no rhyme or reason to how he governs the land.

I've had an idea. I think it's a good one. This might stretch to a novella...probably a short story. My usual themes: Why can't everyone just get on and who is Asim Rizki?

Anyway, I'm bound to have another block some time and pick up Tales from the Imagination of Kamal Talvar, again. When I do, I'll let you know.