But that’s the way life is; felicity and expiation play together in the narrow lanes of life like bosom friends, inseparable. You find one, and the other is always around the corner.
Dharma is not about believing in God. It’s about making the right choices, doing the right things and leading the right life.
The best-laid plans can fail for the lack of proper execution.
Take it easy. Live life- one day at a time. It is only when we add the regrets of ‘yesterday’ and worries of the ‘future’ to the ‘present’ that we end up complicating things…
Tears can ruin the handiwork of the best beautician.
Destiny plays its cards in a way that no one can comprehend.
For me, every book is an individual with its own identity and has to be nurtured and taken care of, so that it may survive for a longer period.
There is a very thin line of demarcation dividing true love from unadulterated lust. What is love without the pleasures of the flesh and what is lust sans a fluttering heart?
We use the word ‘LOVE’ for camouflaging so many of our emotions. Why can’t we use different words to convey different feelings? Why use a word when we don’t sincerely mean it?
Every war has its martyrs — the unsung heroes who sometimes don’t even know the rationale behind the war they are fighting. They fight because they are trained to, kill because they are told to and die because they are destined to.
It’s a strange feeling when you realise that you have become a passive bystander, watching the quirks of your own fate with an icy indifference.
Nostalgia can be more painful than a surgeon’s knife.
The pain of an unpublished manuscript is akin to the trauma of bearing an unborn.
An idle mind is a devil’s workshop and I am prone to renting out my mind to the first bidder.
There is a very thin line of demarcation between bravery and foolhardiness.
A half-truth is even more dangerous than a lie. A lie, you can detect at some stage, but half a truth is sure to mislead you for long.
The time is ripe for young Indian authors writing in the English language.
Not very tall, not very dark but very…very handsome,’ was his way of describing himself.
Enough of medical ethics. Let Uncle Hippocrates rest in peace. It’s time to send an S.O.S to Uncle Omar Khayyam instead.
Being a doctor, you are not supposed to give vent to any signs of revulsion on encountering the most noxious of odours or the most gruesome of sights.