5
" A madman came to me and accused me of killing god. Killing god!
I told him gently that god cannot be killed. He came closer to me, hurling accusations, and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I then told him that the god he
spoke of was in the bottle that he had just emptied, that he had drank down his god, that his god was now inside him.
He was so struck by my words that his lips started to quiver, and his face changed its colour. He moved aside on the pavement and started to prod his uvula to induce vomiting. When he looked at the contents of his regurgitation, he was surprised to see that there was no god, not in the smallest morsels. As his saliva hung from his mouth, he started screaming: “It’s I who have killed god; woe be upon me,” and left the pavement in tears. "
― Ashish Khetarpal , The Watchdog and Other Stories
7
" Give of your love but let not others take it from you.”
“What is this kind of love?”
“It’s like filling a river and not caring who drinks from it because when need be you’ll fill it again.”
“And what if I wish to drink from someone else’s river?”
“Nazanin-am, my sweetest, we’re all like small rivers and streams, starting at a higher plane from behind the mountains of our desires to be with somebody, and we start alone. A stream, a river, aspires to become something more, and so it must bend, not only its way as it cuts into the land, but also its stature. Only then can it hope to join something bigger, grander. But forget not, azizam, not all rivers reach the ocean. The venerable might of the Indus River–the cradle of our civilization and the catafalque of our neighbours–no longer carries itself to the ocean at the Port of Karachi; the river no longer feeds as it once used to, all because it has fed too many, for too long; it has run dry from overuse. It can no longer take in any more lovers. Before anything else, it must first fill itself again. There’s always some water lying at the depths of the driest land, in the earth’s mantle. This water must come to the surface. The philosophy of all life, as an old Red Indian said, starts with water. "
― Ashish Khetarpal , The Watchdog and Other Stories
8
" Happiness, true happiness, comes when one is done making efforts. No matter how beautiful the canvas is, the wall does not develop hands to hold it. It only strengthens itself to welcome the canvas. This love between the wall and the canvas is bridged with the help of a small but strong nail. Changing too many canvases, too many nails will only weaken the spirit of the wall to receive more of them. It’s the same in human relationships. If a canvas wishes to be taken down, let it be with gladness. Otherwise, that spot will be doomed to remain forever empty, like uprooting not just the plant, and with care, but the entire layer of soil underneath it. Let the hands of life bring a canvas to you. Don’t try to be happy. And stop giving of yourself to others but to yourself alone. You have given too much, Niloofar…You have given too much. "
― Ashish Khetarpal , The Watchdog and Other Stories
