He Who Spits Paan At The Ceiling

If Time Were A Bolt Of Cloth,” Said Om, “i Would Cut Out All The Bad Parts. Snip Out The Scary Nights And Stitch Together The Good Parts, To Make Time Bearable. Then I Could Wear It Like A Coat, Always Live Happily.

Everyone Underestimates Their Own Life. Funny Thing Is, In The End, All Our Stories...they're The Same. In Fact, No Matter Where You Go In The World, There Is Only One Important Story: Of Youth, Loss And Yearning For Redemption. So We Tell The Same Story, Over And Over. Only The Details Are Different.

After All, Our Lives Are But A Sequence Of Accidents - A Clanking Chain Of Chance Events. A String Of Choices, Casual Or Deliberate, Which Add Up To That One Big Calamity We Call Life.

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.

Remembering Bred Its Own Peculiar Sorrow. It Seemed So Unfair: That Time Should Render Both Sadness And Happiness Into A Source Of Pain.