In a faraway city where the palette was pure and bright, Ruth stirred in her sleep, and smiled

There are so many ways to exit towards the Light, but with my luck, I'd be the one electrocuted by Diwali lights. Or the one who cracks her head falling off a footstool. I'd still be a jester, leaving the audience with a stitch in their sides.

The Airlines lady who travels in the same compartment as us day after day, has bruises on her arms and face today and her eyes keep welling, but no one asks her why. Our eyes dart towards her, but we go back to travelling in too much proximity. Two inches from one another and expressionless.

To a lover, the beloved is ocean and mountain, fatigue and relief, poison and amrit - indeed, all of churning itself

On a slightly unconnected note, I am sorry to report that babies, as a collective species, are largely oblivious to my charms.

It is at night that we talk , for that is the only time when people belong to themselves. The outer sun goes out and lets us look at the inner sun

There are settling girls, and there are unsettling girls. The ones who seem to have it in them to be flyers are the ones who want to snuggle into settling. The ones who look as settled as old housedogs want to twist their way into flying. Necessarily, you must be defensive about being a settling sort of girl.

She wasn't my kind of woman and that's why, that night she was. This wine is the Blood of Christ. Brings the truth out of a woman sooner than any confession box does. Makes you trust a stranger with your life, your car keys, your best-guarded secret.

To know if a tale is worth its weight in gold, check if it reveals threefold. In your bloodstream. In the town square. In the turning of galaxies. If it does: Gold. If it makes you giddy just to think of the scope of the tale: Gold.

Whatever love laws have to be broken, the first few seconds suffice. After that everything is a matter of time and incident.