He Who Spits Paan At The Ceiling

Traffic In The Streets Of Bombay Is Chaotic At Best. Riding A Bicycle Is A Dangerous Occupation. However, There Are Hundreds Of Them On The Streets Competing With The Cars And Buses And Lorries Because It Is The Poor Man's Mode Of Transport.

Loss Is Essential, Loss Is Part And Parcel Of That Necessary Calamity Called Life. Mind You, I'm Not Complaining. Thanks To Some Inexplicable Universal Guiding Force, It Is Always The Worthless Things We Lose - Slough Off, Like A Moulting Snake. Losing And Losing Again, Is The Very Basis Of The Process, Til All We Are Left With Is The Bare Essence Of Human Existence.

But Nobody Ever Forgot Anything, Not Really, Though Sometimes They Pretended, When It Suited Them. Memories Were Permanent. Sorrowful Ones Remained Sad Even With The Passing Of Time, Yet Happy Ones Could Never Be Recreated - Not With The Same Joy. Remembering Bred Its Own Peculiar Sorrow. It Seemed So Unfair: That Time Should Render Both Sadness And Happiness Into A Source Of Pain.

What Folly Made Young People, Even Those In Middle Age, Think They Were Immortal? How Much Better, Their Lives, If They Could Remember The End. Carrying Your Death With You Every Day Would Make It Hard To Waste Time On Unkindness And Anger And Bitterness, On Anything Petty. That Was The Secret: Remembering Your Dying Time, In Order To Keep The Stupid And The Ugly Out Of Your Living Time.

There Was No Such Thing As Perfect Privacy, Life Was A Perpetual Concert-hall Recital With A Captive Audience.