My life is a like the hair of a woman who asks for a beedi from every passer-by—it’s too messy to imagine getting straighten.
It’s like my grandfather’s yardstick—no matter how feeble I’m at times, it always lifts me up by showing a ray of light.
It’s like those coins my aunt throws in rivers every January—I do get disappointed with it, but I don’t give up.
My life is like an old house that bewilders every onlooker—only the perfect monochrome that encircles its windows is visible—but no one knows what’s going inside.
My life is like a game of poker—I might put my faith in my destiny, but I could always lose if I don’t make the right move.
My life is the painting I’d drawn in the fifth grade—when I look at it now, I think of the places I could spend a few more minutes and invest a few more strokes—yet deep inside, I know I can never perfect it.
My life is a seashore that a vagabond doesn’t expect to reach—it’s a large stream of unforeseen blessings and unforgettable moments of hope.
It’s like the back of my father’s hands—it’s the most beautiful thing that I can ever live praising.
I have no blood in my veins. I have ink.