Anjali Name Quotes

A boy who cares more for the freedom to direct his own gaze than for the master’s anger is a rare creature indeed.

They are just so many stories patched together, so many forgotten days encased in bone and meat.

We didn’t know yet that for us there was no such thing as just sadness, that our grief had a life of its own, an invisible mouth like a black hole that drew us inexorably closer.

I pity people,” she says. “Your lives are so filled with misery. Even for one such as you it is inescapable. Sometimes this world appears to be designed for suffering. Sometimes—

You’ve brought home more money than we know what to do with,” she said. “What’s the point in making all this money if we can’t spend it? Get up.

Her words shift within her like nervous birds. They long to go winging, and one loud noise will send the whole flock exploding outward, past the paltry gate of her tongue, into the world from whence they cannot be reclaimed.

He was surrounded by the green of the seawater, and the water was full of a sound that made him feel as though he could start crying and never stop, as though his blood were turning to brine, as though the world were nothing but shades of gray.

Anjali is Guyanese, and her braid looks like a thick rope that lays heavy against her back, curly baby hairs tamed by coconut oil. Michaela is Haitian and likes to mimic her parents’ French accents on the school bus (Take zee twash out! she says, as we clutch our sides in laughter), and Naz’s family is from the Ivory Coast—I mean, we’re practically cousins, she says to Michaela. Our teachers snap at Sophie to STOP TALKING NOW, but call her Mae’s name. Sophie, who is Filipino, clamps a hand over her big-ass mouth, which is never closed—she loves to gossip and flirt with the boys we call “Spanish”—while Mae, who is Chinese and polite to teachers, at least to their faces, jolts from the bookshelf where she’s stealthily shuffling novels from their alphabetical spots, in order to disrupt our English class two periods later.

OUR TEACHERS CALL ON NADIRA but stare at Anjali. Our teachers tell Michaela to Come to the board and answer number three and make sure you show your work, please, even though they hand the whiteboard marker to Naz. We stand when our names are called, and our teachers halt, confused. Oh, I’m sorry, I— No, not you, I didn’t mean you, I— Across the classroom, we catch each other’s gazes. Nadira is Pakistani and wears a headscarf, which drapes elegantly beneath her neck, except for when she’s playing handball and she knots the fabric, tight, under her chin.

It’s like milking a cow. The table gets antsy if it goes too long without feeding people. And we’ll have to touch it anyway, to clean it.” Anjali lifted the lid of a dish. A savory smell, heavy on cabbage, filled the room. “Want to start with the sausages or the potatoes?” “Sausages, definitely,” said Marc. “Okay . . .” She lifted more lids and poked around with a fork. “You can have blutwurst, zervelatwurst, bockwurst, plockwurst, leberwurst, knackwurst, and, of course, bratwurst. And what’s this? Weisswurst, I think.” “Some of each, please,” said Marc. Anjali handed him a plate piled with wursts. “What about you, Elizabeth?” “Um, I’m not crazy about sausage—maybe just some potatoes?” “Okay,” said Anjali. “Kartoffelbällchen, kartoffeltopf, kartoffelkroketten, kartoffelbrei, kartoffelknödel, kartoffelkrusteln, kartoffelnocken, kartoffelpuffer, kartoffelklösse, or kartoffelschnitz? Or maybe some schmorkartoffeln? Or just plain fries?” “I don’t know—surprise me.” “Here. Überbackene käsekartoffeln, my favorite. It has cheese.” “Thanks.” It was delicious and very rich—tender potato slices, with a creamy cheese sauce. “How do you know all those names?” I asked. “I looked them up. I wanted to know what we were eating.” Anjali peered under more lids. “You know Anjali—she loves to look things up. Any spätzle?” asked Marc. “What’s spätzle?” “Sort of a cross between homemade pasta and dumplings,” said Anjali. “Oh, here’s hasenpfeffer! I love hasenpfeffer!” “What’s hasenpfeffer?” “Stewed rabbit with black pepper.” She dished herself a plate. “Mmmm! Don’t tell my parents—we’re vegetarians at home.

I had thoughts like that the whole day, very rational thoughts, like my brain was trying to throw weight on the other side of a scale against all the madness that was happening around me.