So we tell the same story, over and over. Just the details are different

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.

Time had changed the magical to mundane

The carnage upon the chessboard of life, left wounded humans in its wake

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

...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.

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.