It's one thing to be banal, stupid, and idiotic on the inside. It's another to have it captured in writing.

My writing became more and more minimalist. In the end, I couldn't write at all. For seven or eight years, I hardly wrote. But then I had a revelation. What if I did the opposite? What if, when a sentence or a scene was bad, I expanded it, and poured in more and more? After I started to do that, I became free in my writing.

When I look back at that freedom of childhood, which is in a way infinite, and at all the joy and the intense happiness, now lost, I sometimes think that childhood is where the real meaning of life is located, and that we, adults, are its servants - that that's our purpose.

To be called one thing, is oftentimes to be another.

Speaking in broken Telugu is one thing, and dubbing is another.

Ideas are one thing and what happens is another.