Indian Authors Quotes - Page 2

Poems can getsleepless tooand becomethe loneliest thingin the universe.

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.

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

it was the kind of moonthat I would want to send back to my ancestorsand gift to my descendantsso they know that I too,have been bruised...by beauty.

i want to stay curled and cosiedand chocolated....foreverin my mother’s arms.

Modernity is kind of a tradition and tradition itself is not a rulebook. It's a dialogue and a dialectical process— just as tradition affects us, we too affect tradition and culture, and we change it.

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

all my lifei have looked for poemsto elope with.

Uniform of a soldier and uniform of a student both are equally needed for the nation.

I breathe in...the silenceof my own heartaching with tendernesswith memories..Of home.

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

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

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

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.

Push away the past, that vessel in which all emotions curdle to regret.

poetrymelts my bones.enters my blood.and changesits composition.

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

Once in a while i am struckall over again... by just how blue the sky appears .. on wind-played autumn mornings, blue enoughto bruise a heart.

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

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

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

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

If I began to drawmyself away from youwe’d still be liketwo mixed colors of paintimpossible to separate.

Would you like to come in?" I said. My hands were sweaty. Inside my chest an ocean heaved and crashed and heaved again."I would," he said. I saw his Adam's apple jerk as he swallowed. "Thank you."I was distracted by that thank you. We had moved past the language of formality long ago. It was strange to relearn it with each other.

a single poemthe thing that can keep melight on my feet,when my soul isheavy with sorrow.

some words bring warmthjust bybeing next to each other.

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

i am infinitely yearningbrimmingand overflowingin wordsi discoverit’s another wayfor meto be in tears.

whatever you dobe gentle with yourself.you don’t just livein this worldor your homeor your skin.you also livein someone’s eyes.

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

your handtouching mine.this is howgalaxiescollide.

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

Wordsare powerfulforces of nature.they are destruction.they are nourishment. they are flesh. they are water.they are flowers and bone.they burn. they cleansethey erase. they etch. they can eitherleave youfeelinghomelessor brimmingwith home.

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

The Almost Forgotten Human Language is ‘Feeling.

Not words. nor laughter. but rather someonewho will fall in lovewith your silence.

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.

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

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.

May youalways haveopenbreezy spacesin your mind.

all the wordsall the poems know my warm, soft spots.

i writebecauseit is the only wayi can reach you.

You are that one breath. that puts all the remaining breaths. back into my body.

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

But, my dear friend Wildfire," said Carl Peterson laying his hand on the Indian's shoulder, "this is not a policy to live by." "Then let it be a policy to die by," defiantly spoke the Indian. "If we cannot be free, let us die. What is life to a caged bird, threatened with death on all sides?

What you are trying to let go of...is already gone.

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.

when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.

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

a silent night. - the most eloquent poem i have ever read.

When it's possible for you to dream, it's not impossible to achieve.

Whatever you get out of poetry - take it. take it. take it. Words are better off felt than understood.

When it comes to lovedo not eversettle for anythingless than magical.

Breezy daysdeserve the unionof two old friends.

You askif I will write a poemI could,I supposewrite the mostsplendiferousone of allbut notrightnownot whenyour handsare brewingwarmcinnamon teaacross my skinnot when I’mtrying to imaginewhat might happenif you beganfloweringkissesuponmeMy dear,how canI writea poemwhen I’m alreadyinside one?

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)