Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Quotes
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Expectations are like hidden rocks in your path , All they do is trip you up
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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.
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Your childhood hunger is the one that never leaves you.
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How can I forgive if you are not ready to give up that which caused you to stumble?
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Everytime i have turned the page he re-enters my life as awkward as postscript
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Fennel, which is the spice for Wednesdays, the day of averages, of middle-aged people. . . . Fennel . . . smelling of changes to come.
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After the fire, when I'd tried to express my gratitude for their kindness to our customers, they'd been awkward, uncomfortable. My father had had to explain to me that giving thanks is not a common practice in India. 'Then how do you know if people appreciated what you did?' I'd asked. 'Do you really need to know?' my father had asked back.
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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.
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I tried to hold on to this compassion, sensing its preciousness, but even as I reached to grasp it, it dissipated into wisps. No revelation can endure unless it is bolstered by a calm pure mind- and I'm afraid I didn't possess that.
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...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.
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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.
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I walk out of the room, lurching under the weight of the lesson I've learned less than one hour into wifehood: How quickly the sweetest love turns rancid when it isn't returned. When the one you love loves someone else.
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A dream is a telegram from the hidden world...Only a fool or an illiterate person ignores it.
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But maybe as I get older, I begin to see beauty where I least expected it before.
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Looking back, I could not point to one special time and say, There! That's what is amazing. We can change completely and not recognize it. We think terrible events have made us into stone. But love slips in like a chisel - and suddenly it is an ax, breaking us into pieces from the inside.
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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.
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Or is this how humans survive, shrugging off history, immersing themselves in the moment?
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Chili, spice of red Thursday, which is the day of reckoning. Day which invites us to pick up the sack of our existence and shake it inside out. Day of suicide, day of murder.
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In life, it's best not to take anything for free - unless it's from someone who wishes you well.
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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.
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The heart itself is beyond control. That is its power, and its weakness.
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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.
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Monday is the day of silence, day of the whole white mung bean, which is sacred to the moon.
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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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Sometimes -- she knows this from her own life -- to get to the other side, you must travel through grief. No detours are possible.
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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
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A problem becomes a problem only if you believe it to be so. And often others see you as you see yourself.
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The dream is not a drug but a way. Listen to where it can take you.
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...don't create snakes out of ropes. You have enough to worry about.
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Because ultimately only the witness -- and not the actors -- knows the truth (Vyasa to Draupadi)
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