One evening in Calcutta, my father, somewhat drunk, called me and told me that I could come to him even if I murdered someone. I told him I really had no intention – it might seem otherwise sometimes – of doing anything like that but it was good to know that I could. He was really drunk, I couldn’t have said anything else.
What will happen after him? Where will I go if my heart were to turn evil someday? If I were to kill myself of a guilty soul, who won’t let me drown in the blue Danube? The Danube, so blue.