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We said nothing for some time but we couldn’t have been more eloquent.
And I was almost thirty—a fearful and wonderful age, when life becomes dangerous for dreamers.
But separations cannot be of any significance to small boys of twelve who live for today, tomorrow, and—if they are very serious—the day after.
that acceptance of me, immediately devastated my heart.
You never replied directly to a question. I suppose that was a feminine quality;
And I reflected that a woman had to be jealous of something. If there wasn’t another woman, then it was a man’s work, or his hobby, or his best friend, or his favourite sweater, or his pet mongoose that made her resentful.
And self-pity, I realized, is a sign of failure, especially of failure in love.
But she was pleased—pleased that her flesh and blood, her own daughter, could mean so much to a man.
But what is love, how can I recognize it?’ And that was one question I couldn’t answer. How do we recognize it?
‘You’re a cynical chap, Sunil.’ ‘What does that mean?’ ‘It means you know too much about life.
I may stop loving you, Sushila, but I will never stop loving the days I loved you.
And looking at Sushila, I knew a smile could never change. She had always smiled that way.
didn’t wake you then because I wanted to see you wake up.’
‘You are too practical,’ I said. ‘If women were not practical, most marriages would be failures.’
I could not understand someone who was afraid to break away from an unhappy existence lest that existence should become unhappier.
A woman, I reasoned, would do anything for love provided it was not at the price of security; for a woman loves
security as much as a man loves independence.
And partly because she was lonely and sometimes a boy of twelve can sense loneliness better than an adult.
‘Ugly is just a word,’ I said. ‘Like beauty. They mean different things to
different people. What did the poet say?—“Beauty is truth, truth is beauty.” But if beauty and truth are the same thing, why have different words? There are no absolutes except birth and death.’
Her husband offered to have their old umbrella dyed blue; she gave him a scornful look, and loved him a little less than before.
Unlike the adults, the children didn’t have to pretend.
‘Of what use is a poppy in a cornfield? Of what use is a rainbow? Of what use are you, numbskull? Wretch! I, too, have a soul. I want the umbrella, because—because I want its beauty to be mine!’
‘You’re a sharp boy,’ he said. ‘You’ll come to a bad end.
‘There are so many trees in the forest,’ said Rakesh, What’s so special about this tree? Why do we like it so much?’ ‘We planted it ourselves,’ said Grandfather. That’s why it’s special.’ ‘Just one small seed,’ said Rakesh, and he touched the smooth bark of the tree that he had grown. He ran his hand along the trunk of the tree and put his finger to the tip of a leaf. ‘I wonder,’ he whispered. ‘Is this what it feels to be God?’
riendship is all about doing things together.
He could make you laugh. And anyone who can do that is easily forgiven for a great many faults.
We’ll meet again, Don’t know where Don’t know when, But we’ll meet again, Some sunny day…
