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.

There was no such thing as perfect privacy, life was a perpetual concert-hall recital with a captive audience.

Black money is so much a part of our white economy, a tumour in the centre of the brain - try to remove it and you kill the patient.

Distance was a dangerous thing, she knew. Distance changed people.

If there was an abundance of misery in the world, there was also sufficient joy, yes - as long as one knew where to look for it.

...the face has limited space. My mother used to say, if you fill your face with laughing, there will be no more room for crying.

Hahnji, mister, you must be patient. Before you can name that corner, our future must become past.