World can be a bewildering place,and dreams and ambitions are often paths to the most pernicious of traps

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

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.

What an unreliable thing is time--when I want it to fly, the hours stick to me like glue. And what a changeable thing, too. Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl's hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair. .... But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.

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.

He who spits paan at the ceiling only blinds himself.