In the broad sense, as a processing of everything one hears or witnesses, all fiction is autobiographical – imagination ground through the mill of memory. It’s impossible to separate the two ingredients.
Rangarajan, your other patients are waiting. Thank you very much for your help.” “But it is no trouble – ” “Thank you, bye-bye,” said Coomy. For a moment, Mr. Rangarajan looked offended. But he recovered his poise, wished the professor a speedy recovery, and left. They pushed Nariman’s.
In case they don’t have strawberry, which one – chocolate or vanilla?
Daughter-in-law is just a word. Call her anything you like. The hand of good fortune is not fussy about words.
He wanted his noises to touch the others; friendly noises could melt hostility.
And the further they go, the more they’ll remember, they can take it from me.
The future was becoming past, everything vanished into the void, and reaching back to grasp for something, one came out clutching – what? A bit of string, scraps of cloth, shadows of the golden time. If one could only reverse it, turn the past into future, and catch it on the wing, on its journey across the always shifting line of the present...
Haunted by the unhappiness that appeared like an ugly creature to live in their home.
Perhaps it was a knack that humans had, for cleaning up their untidy existences – a hidden survival weapon, like antibodies in the bloodstream.
Where humans were concerned, the only emotion that made sense was wonder, at their ability to endure; and sorrow, for the hopelessness of it all.
But since the world is imperfect, we must put blinders on the senses.
But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.
You know, Maneck, the human face has limited space. My mother used to say, if you fill your face with laughing, there will be no room for crying.’ ‘What a nice saying,’ he answered.
Right now, Dinabai’s face, and Om’s, and mine are all occupied. Worrying about work and money, and where to sleep tonight. But that does not mean we are not sad. It may not show on the face, but it’s sitting inside here.’ He placed his hand over his heart. ‘In here, there is limitless room – happiness, kindness, sorrow, anger, friendship.
There is always hope – hope enough to balance our despair. Or we would be lost.
And then there were those who pretended their emotions were bigger and grander than anyone else’s. A little annoyance they acted out like a gigantic rage; where a smile or chuckle would do, they laughed hysterically. Either way, it was dishonest.
People forget how vulnerable they are despite their shirts and shoes and briefcases, how this hungry and cruel world could strip them, put them in the same position as my beggars.
Everyone underestimates their own life. Funny thing is, in the end, all our stories – your life, my life, old Husain’s life, they’re the same. In fact, no matter where you go in the world, there is only one important story: of youth, and loss, and yearning for redemption. So we tell the same story, over and over. Just the details are different.
Marriage is like death, only happens once.
Losing, and losing again, is the very basis of the life process, till all we are left with is the bare essence of human existence.
How was the rain in the city?” “Too much,” said Ishvar. “Streets were flooded many times. And here?” “Too little. The devil held his umbrella over us. Let’s hope he shuts it this year.