Everyone breathes in air, but it's a wise person who knows when to use that air to speak and when to exhale in silence.
A dream is a telegram from the hidden world...Only a fool or an illiterate person ignores it.
Each day has a color, a smell.
Expectations are like hidden rocks in your path , All they do is trip you up
There was an unexpected freedom in finding out that one wasn't as important as one had always assumed!
Each spice has a special day to it. For turmeric it is Sunday, when light drips fat and butter-colored into the bins to be soaked up glowing, when you pray to the nine planets for love and luck.
I am buoyant and expansive and uncontainable--but I always was so, only I never knew it!
That's how it is sometimes when we plunge into the depths of our lives. No one can accompany us, not even those who would give up their hearts for our happiness.
Or is this how humans survive, shrugging off history, immersing themselves in the moment?
The heart itself is beyond control. That is its power, and its weakness.
Love comes like lightning, and disappears the same way. If you are lucky, it strikes you right. If not, you'll spend your life yearning for a man you can't have.
Above us our palace waits, the only one I've ever needed. Its walls are space, its floor is sky, its center everywhere. We rise; the shapes cluster around us in welcome, dissolving and forming again like fireflies in a summer evening.
Once I heard my mother say that each of us lives in a separate universe, one we have dreamed into being. We love pople when their dream coincides with ours, the way two cutout designs laid one on top of the other might match. But dream worlds are not static like cutouts; sooner or later they change shape, leading to misunderstanding, loneliness and loss of love.
I moved here when I was 20 to go to college. After I moved here, I became much more aware of the importance of the culture and literature to my life. Sometimes when you're immersed in something, you just don't notice it very much. Moving away makes you appreciate your culture. Living here, I've thought more and more about India, and what being Indian-American means to me. And it's made me incorporate things from Indian literature into my own writing.
they say in the old tales that when a man and woman exchange looks the way we did, their spirits mingle. their gaze is a rope of gold binding each other. even if they never meet again, they carry a little of the other with them always. they can never forget, and they can never be wholly happy again
I guess there's a lot we hope for that never happens.
Girls have to be toughened so they can survive a world that presses harder on women.
But maybe as I get older, I begin to see beauty where I least expected it before.
Can't you ever be serious?' I said, mortified. 'It's difficult,' he said. 'There's so little in life that's worth it.
Everyone has a story. I don't believer anyone can go through life without encountering at least one amazing thing.
Because ultimately only the witness -- and not the actors -- knows the truth (Vyasa to Draupadi)
...this time I didn't launch into my usual tirade. Was it a memory of Krishna, the cool silence with which he countered disagreement, that stopped me? I saw something I hadn't realized before: words wasted energy.
Sometimes -- she knows this from her own life -- to get to the other side, you must travel through grief. No detours are possible.
I liked his voice, rich and unself-conscious even when he forgot words and hummed to fill in the gap. What I didn't understand, I imagined, and thus it became a love song.
the darkness is a cresting wave. It sweeps me up out of my body until I float among the stars, those tine bright pores on the sky's skin. If only I could pass through them, I would end up on the other side, the right side, shadowless, perfectly illuminated, beyond the worries of this mundane world
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