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.
The chalks and slates fascinated them. They yearned to hold the white sticks in their hands, make little white squiggles like the other children, draw pictures of huts, cows, goats, and flowers. It was like magic, to make things appear out of nowhere.
The answers were not easy to come by, they lay in the garden of the past, which memory had dug up and replanted in plots of its own choosing.
But too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart, as my favourite poet has written.’ ‘Who’s that?’ ‘W. B. Yeats. And I think that sometimes normal behaviour has to be suppressed, in order to carry on.’ ‘I’m not sure,’ said Maneck. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to respond honestly instead of hiding it? Maybe if everyone in the country was angry or upset, it might change things, force the politicians to behave properly.
He kept looking for new experiences, and though he was very successful at everything he attempted, it did not bring him happiness. Remember this, success alone does not bring happiness. Nor does failure have to bring unhappiness.
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.