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434 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2002
The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.Flipping through the pages, my heart leapt many times; those waves bearing the ring of countenance were from still stream but the ones with ripples of accusation roared thunder. Accusation? Accusation hurled towards whom? The fictional characters delicately brought to life by the stinging brush of the author or the guilty, manipulative, egocentric, conceited character of mine? Did my fingers pause typing these words defining myself? They did. And it also confirmed my worst fears: I am no angel and the pristine white enveloping me is a well-fabricated dwelling that I carry with temporary aplomb, aware somewhere deep inside that some of its bricks are turning cancerous by my vices.
A letter is like a perfume. You don’t apply a whole bottle. Just one dab will fill your senses. Words are the same – a few are sufficient.All days would remain the same if not for an act of kindness or a sliver of smile. Mistry knew it better than many of us. Hence, he did not leave a single chapter in this magnificent book where the beauty of innocence did not bathe us anew or the splendor of solidarity did not shake our shackles. His observations kissed the earthy tones of daily life and enlivened their cells to shine a little. He mixed the odours of past and present and softly pressed the nozzle to fill the future room with a foreign aroma that became our own on touching our skins. He maneuvered with utmost care, almost gracefully imitating Nariman’s movements, not ruffling our senses acutely but with a gentle thrust, like shaking a medicine bottle to get the mix right and placed a few shards of mirror on our palms: they did not cut, they did not intimidate, they simply showed our reflection.
Amazing, how a photo shows you things that your eyes forgot to see.