You can learn a lot about a man by the way he shrugs his shoulder.
I lost interest in Jaipur Literature festival when they dropped Salman Rushdie because of political reasons. It is shame to secular India. He is the finest anglo Indian writer to date. One day he is sure to win Nobel. But Ben Okri Yesterday day came for the festival, I like his novels, especially The Famished Road. This is how The Famished Road begins: “In the beginning there was a river. The river became a road and the road branched out to the whole world. And because the road was once a river it was always hungry.” It is his tryst with magical realism. He says that turned to magic realism as he found that there is no reality in realism. I like what Ben Okri said about Jesus, “The greatest miracle Jesus did were his stories.”
Faith is a joy of ‘yes’ in the sadness of ‘no’.
– Paul Ricoeur
Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of our language.
Who writes what you write? Believe, it is not a stupid question. I write because I want to become somebody else, someone great, someone who understands beauty, someone who is in love with eternity. But in normal life I am just pathetic, silly, who gasps for air at the presence of two people. It makes me to believe that I am best when I am alone, and who doesn’t care to be best? What it is boring to best always by being alone. Is their any other way to escape your finitude, cobwebs of commonplace life?
Then I have no other option than to write, to hand over myself to something different and strange, to believe I am not altogether lost and wasted. I write because I want to love, even then I know can only fall in love and can’t love. Because fall in love does not mean to love. Thats my case, but there are other people who not only fall in love but just love without questions and complaints. They love when they love. For a while I let him, the lover live in me, instead of me. So that I can write a love poem.
So who writes what I write, Believe its not me!
The miracle is a new thinking
One late autumn night,
The disciple woke up crying.
So the master asked disciple,
Did you have a nightmare?
Did you have sad dream?
No. Said the disciple.
I had sweet dream.
Then why are you crying so sadly?
The disciple answered quietly,
while wiping his tears,
Because the dream I had can’t come true.