Indian Authors Quotes

No, no, my friend. You are kind, and you mean well, but you can never understand these things as I do. You've never been oppressed.

S. Alice Callahan

You put cow dung on my face?’ ‘Every day religiously until you were three. Why else do you think your skin is so clear?

A community that engages readers and culturally enabled people to connect, support and harness intellectual and cultural capabilities.

Bombay, you will be told, is the only city India has, in the sense that the word city is understood in the West. Other Indian metropolises like Calcutta, Madras and Delhi are like oversized villages. It is true that Bombay has many more high-rise buildings than any other Indian city: when you approach it by the sea it looks like a miniature New York. It has other things to justify its city status: it is congested, it has traffic jams at all hours of the day, it is highly polluted and many parts of it stink.

Khushwant Singh

I'm sorry that I hurt you.""You didn't hurt me." There was a long pause on the phone. Then she said,"You are going to hurt from this longer than I ever will. It's true that I didn't know what kind of Indian you were. But what hurts me most is to know what kind of man.

The real reason for Father Braganza's laughter was the history of Amrapur. It was a quaint town, nestled amidst barren mountains. The Hindus and Muslims living there were perpetually warring with each other, reacting violently at the slightest provocation. It had started a long time ago, this squabble, and had escalated into a terrible war. Some people say it started centuries ago, but many believe it started when the country gave one final, fierce shrug to rid itself of British rule. The shrug quickly became a relentless shuddering, and countless people were uprooted and flung into the air. Many didn't survive. Perhaps the mountains of Amrapur absorbed the deracinating wave. People weren't cruelly plucked from the town. They remained there, festering, becoming irate and harbouring murderous desires. And while the country was desperately trying to heal its near-mortal wounds and move on, Amrapur's dormant volcano erupted. Momentary and overlooked, but devastating. Leaders emerged on both sides and, driven by greed, they fed off the town's ignored bloodshed. They created ravines out of cracks, fostered hatred and grew richer. The Bhoite family, the erstwhile rulers of the ancient town, adopted the legacy of their British rulers---divide and conquer.

Khusrau darya prem ka, ulti wa ki dhaar, Jo utra so doob gaya, jo dooba so paar. English Translation. Oh Khusrau, the river of love Runs in strange directions. One who jumps into it drowns, And one who drowns, gets across.

Farsi Couplet: Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast, Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast. English Translation: If there is a paradise on earth, It is this, it is this, it is this

Farsi Couplet:Naala-e zanjeer-e Majnun arghanoon-e aashiqanastZauq-e aan andaza-e gosh-e ulul-albaab neestEnglish Translation:The creaking of the chain of Majnun is the orchestra of the lovers,To appreciate its music is quite beyond the ears of the wise.

The internet in general and social networking sites in particular are making people more reclusive than social.

Sharanya Haridas

I prefer people to consider me by who I am and what I do and not by how I look!

Gayathri Jayakumar

There is no man who is enterprising and keeps well up with the times but confesses that the women of to-day are in every respect, except political liberty, equal to the men.

S. Alice Callahan

The time is ripe for young Indian authors writing in the English language.

Your obsession with being in control of your mind makes you so stiff all the times; that is why our egos are growing, and our sense of humor is shrinking.

Jasz Gill

A poem in the heart is worthmore than a million dollarsin the bank account.

You touched my heart...ever so softlyand I realizedtears had never been...merely saltand the rainOh the Rain!had never been merely water.

sometimes i am not sure.if i am writing the poemor the poemis writing me.

I live there...Far above the song-filled clouds,where the dewdrops touch my skin so bareI live there.

i can’t always tell what’s betterlong drivesin the star-spangled desertsor long walksalong winding tea gardens.

I am a baby, I am a child, I am the innocent wonder in my eyes I am a glimpse, I am a sign, of someone I can be, someone I might I am not one, I am not two, but I am a million things entwined I am a piece, I am a slice, strung together by the yarns of time.

I live there...where the birds are infiniteeverywherewhere they fleeit's a place your eyes can wanderbut never seeWhere everyone accepts me,Without any pretenseIt's a place your mind can picturebut never really comprehend.

Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.

when i speak to youi speak as thoughi am offering a rosein your hand.

the ocean mist engulfs me, like a lifetime’s friendship honored.

the sapphire depthof my own love...startlesand warmsand wounds my soul.

some poems frothand foam and rise...out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eyeI am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.

May the nights always be aglowwith the bliss of the daywith unharmed hands and feetand kissed cheeks.

Love me...with all the abandonof a sudden wild rain.

funny how our heartswere designed to loveso fiercely.but break ever so gently.

fierce lovers.and battle warriorsboth comefrom the same place. there is bound to be,some bloodshed.

when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.

savorwith methe lushnessof a lingering sleep...and last night’sdream.

i am permanentlytannedin the summer of poetry.

violent storms. and beautiful smiles. both have electricity. both are equally destructive in nature.

Humans by nature are promiscuous. Loyalty is an aberration!

Sanjai Velayudhan

you wereand always will bethat first ever touchto have fertilizedthe groundbeneath my life’s treesthat first ever roseto have fragrancedthe rest of my memories.

for those memories are nowjust like these little kittensI hold in my handsthose can be kissedand treasuredbut not held too tightly.

you are here.the moontides are here.and that’s all that matters.

You are the ocean to my eyes.

The Almost Forgotten Human Language is ‘Feeling.

Jasz Gill

A rain like melting pillows…a rain so beautifulI could neverhave let go ofif not certainthat someday...it would find its wayinto my poem.

Tea is just an excuse.i am drinking this sunset, this evening.and you.

Cliché: "The MBA changed my life."What it really means: "A fantastic career, a great social life and a healthy bank balance...three of the things I had before I started the program.

In the business world, there is no gray. Either you are black, or you are white-washed.

Breezy daysdeserve the unionof two old friends.

There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.

love canembellish its beginningsing its blossomingand engrave its eternitiesbut can never explain its loss.

most of the timesit’s the hardest to saywhat I love moreyouor your memory.

When you left you left behind a fieldof silent flowers under a sky full of unstirred clouds...you left a million butterfliesmid-silky flutters You left like midnight rain against my dreaming ears Oh and how you left leaving my coffee scentless and my couch comfortless leaving upon my fingers the melting snow of you you left behind a calendar full of empty days and seasons full of aimless wanders leaving me alone with an armful of sunsets your reflection behind in every puddle your whispersupon every curtain your fragranceinside every petal you left your echoes in between the silence of my eyes Oh and how you leftleaving my sands footless and my shores songless leaving me with windows full of moistened moonlight nights and nightsof only a half-warmed soul and when you left... you left behind a lifetime of moments untouched the light of a million starsunshed and when you left you somehowleft my poem...unfinished. (Published in Taj Mahal Review Vol.11Number 1 June 2012)

i would rather havefeelings without wordsthan words without feelings.

wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.

some words bring warmthjust bybeing next to each other.

what ismore beautifultears, in someone’s eyesfor meor in my eyesfor them.

sometimes i wake upin the middleof the nightand findpoetry splatteredall over my bed.

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

how these words, wait to diein the arms of all the poetry..yet to be written.

everything that is scatteredcomes together in wordseverything that is lostcomes back in poetry.

They think the recipe for a 'home-maker' is- a woman who isn't smart enough, lacks skills and above all isn't ambitious enough! Well she is every bit as smart as the woman who puts on a suit to go to work in a man's world to prove- times have changed! She is every bit as intelligent!

Mrinalini Mitra

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