A Man Is Truly A Man When

Nothing Ever Fits The Palm So Perfectly, Or Feels So Right, Or Inspires So Much Protective Instinct As The Hand Of A Child

The Truth Is That The Man I Am Was Born In Those Moments, As I Stood Near The Flood Sticks With My Face Lifted To The Chrismal Rain. Shantaram. The Better Man That, Slowly, And Much Too Late, I Began To Be.

Sooner Or Later, Fate Puts Us Together With All The People, One By One, Who Show Us What We Could, And Shouldn’t, Let Ourselves Become. Sooner Or Later We Meet The Drunkard, The Waster, The Betrayer, The Ruthless Mind, And The Hate-filled Heart. But Fate Loads The Dice, Of Course, Because We Usually Find Ourselves Loving Or Pitying Almost All Of Those People. And It’s Impossible To Despise Someone You Honestly Pity, And To Shun Someone You Truly Love.

Nobody Who Has Done Business In Any Country With An Indian Would Doubt The Shrewdness Of Indians, But What Indian People Bring To The World Is Something Special And Unique, Which Is The Capacity For A Loving Interaction.

I Think That It Is A Part Of Growing Up, Learning To Control Our Suffering. I Think That When We Grow Up, And Learn That Happiness Is Rare, And Passes Quickly, We Become Disillusioned And Hurt. And How Much We Suffer Is A Mark Of How Much We Have Been Hurt By This Realisation. Suffering, You See, Is A Kind Of Anger. We Rage Against The Unfairness, The Injustice Of Our Sad And Sorry Lot.