Anjali Quotes

If in this lifetime, I wont get to have you, I'll make sure that if I meet you in my next life I wont have to think twice on saying that "I waited a lifetime to say I love you...

Seeing the transformation in Aaron made me wonder how it would feel to have someone-even a not-so-nice guy like Aaron- look at me the way he looked at Anjali.

You thought I didn’t notice the way you two looked at each other? I may be old but I’m not blind. I remember that feeling. The spark, the electricity... ” I had to interject before I got the unabridged version of Anjali Does Mumbai.

I swear to Vishnu, if this doesn’t work, I’m going to stab you in the throat with a Pipette.

All pomp and show.” Anjali’s glare at the house would’ve exploded bricks if she’d had superhuman powers. “A fat cow needs a big barn.

A working-class girl who narrowly escaped assault filed a complaint,” Anjali wrote. “For her bravery and honesty, much of Jaffna thanked her with rumour.

The mysteries of universe are revealed to those who seek to know the truth of their own existence first.

Jack...why is there a dragon in our backyard?

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

I smile at the interviewer’s stern face to buy more time. This is why I hate interviews. I don’t see the point of them; you can’t really be honest. I can’t tell Mrs. Chainani that I left my producer job because all my colleagues were bitches. The job was too stressful and everyone was horrible. It certainly wasn’t glamorous. I’m not really passionate about the media. I’m not passionate about anything, really. I just need a job. Anything will do.

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.

Be proud of who you are, Anjali. To be different is to be marvelous.

This was one of the secret jokes about marriage. People turned out to be exactly the opposite of how they’d seemed at first; they then went on changing randomly, as though enacting a hypothesis of unceasing chaos.

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.

Life changes and it may not always be easy to accept but who ever said life was easy?

serum or essence into the skin. Let it fully absorb and

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—

…felt tired and exasperated at always being the person who, by dint of scruffiness, or youth, or not being known, must be addressed in this slightly hectoring way.

You only saw yourself truly when you met your siblings, was that true or merely half true? It was in any case an exasperating affair, this unavoidable recognition.

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.

For a while those trips kept her sane amid her anxiety about conforming to a world whose rules she didn’t understand, either because there weren’t any, or because they were too multi-layered, a cascading interdependent set of priorities.

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.

There are no microphones, no stage, no crowds, no priests, no clear signs of what has taken place here, except for all the survivors who know it did. You must understand: this is not the book for which Anjali died. You can find that book in your library. This is the one next to it on the shelf. I can promise you there will be another, and another. Whose stories will you believe? For how long will you listen? Tell me why you think you are here, and that will be as true as anything I can say.

You remind me of a horse.' Anjali paused. 'A horse?' 'That white horse with the pink feathers tied to its head. The one that you kids pay to ride.' Anjali shook her head. 'I don't do that. I feel bad for that poor horse.' Mohan smiled gently. 'Of course you do.' He paused. 'What I mean is, that horse has those gold-and-pink blinders next to his eyes so he doesn't see anything else around him. Doesn't get panicked. You have blinders on We walk the same path, but our experiences are so different.

We got out of our car in Agra to be faced with 150 people and instantly knew that we were their target. We were white (we still are) and wealthy (in comparison). And these people are masters at the art of distraction. You’ll spot the one approaching from the left, but not the imminent threat from the right. And if you say no they have ways of making you say yes. We were greeted with, “Give me money” by street urchins, “Give me 20 rupees,” by a man in a ‘locker room’ looking after our camera equipment, and graceful, exquisite and amused smiles by some of the most magnificently beautiful women in the world. Ladies with coconut oil in their hair, eyes the colour of artisan’s gold, and spirituality in their hearts. And everywhere we went we were greeted with the Añjali Mudrā gesture and the word Namaste, indicating 'I bow to the divine in you.

Style ऐसा करो की दुनिया देखती जाये और दोस्ती ऐसी करो की दुनिया जलती रह जाए। Neha Mam, Negi & Anjali My Best Friends लोगो का कहना है लड़कियों- लड़कियों की दोस्ती ज्यादा लम्बे समय तक नहीं रहती, वहीं आजकल उन्हें ऐसा लगता है कि दो लड़कियों या दो से अधिक लड़कियां आपस में दोस्त नहीं हो सकती हैं। लेकिन ऐसा कुछ नहीं है, दो लड़कियों या दो से अधिक लड़कियां दोस्त ही नहीं बल्कि बहुत अच्छी दोस्त होती हैं। हमारी दोस्ती एक ऐसा रिश्ता है, जिसमें चारो दोस्त आपस में एक-दूसरे की भावनाओं को समझते हैं। एक-दूसरे का सु: ख - दु: ख बाँटते हैं और एक-दूसरे का साथ देते हैं। मैं कहती हूँ कि ऐसी प्यारी दोस्ती महान होती है, और जिस के पास ऐसी दोस्ती है वो बहुत खुशनसीब इंसान है जैसे की मै! एक सच्चा दोस्त वह होता है जो अपने दोस्त को गलत रास्ते पर जाने से रोके। मेरे दोस्त भी कुछ ऐसे है जिन की तुलना किसी के साथ या फिर यू बोल सकते है मेरे पास शब्द नहीं है कि उनकी दोस्ती की व्याख्या कैसे करू………… वैसे ये एक इन्सान पर निर्भर करता है, वो कैसी दोस्ती कर रहा है या फिर करता है। चाहे वो दो लड़कियों या दो से अधिक लड़कियां या फिर लड़को की दोस्ती है कुछ लोग बहुत अजीब होते है, बड़े बड़े बातें करते है, बड़े - बड़े Lecture देते है, Society को बदलने की बातें करते हैं, दूसरों के आगे महान बनना चाहते है, जब वही बात अपने पे आती है, तब वो पढ़े लिखे लोग अनपढ़ क्यों हो जाते है? और कुछ लोग Time Pass करने या अपने मतलब के लिए दोस्ती करते हैं, ना जाने क्यों लोग ऐसा करते है? और ऐसे लोगो को आप क्या कहोगे........ मैं अपने दोस्तों को अपने दिल की बाते, दिल के अरमान बता देती हूँ लेकिन मेरे पास शब्द नहीं होते यह बताने के लिए की मेरे दोस्त मेरे लिए क्या है| मैं उन लोगो को महत्त्व देती हूँ जो अपने कैलेण्डर को देख कर मेरे लिए वक़्त निकालता है, लेकिन मैं उन अपने दोस्तों से बहुत प्यार करती हूँ जो मेरे लिए अपना कैलेण्डर नहीं देखते…….. दोस्तों आज हमने दोस्ती पर कविता लिखी है क्योंकि Friends मेरे जीवन में एक अहम स्थान रखते हैं यह ऐसा रिश्ता है जो मैंने खुद बनाया है

I’m really enjoying my solitude after feeling trapped by my family, friends and boyfriend. Just then I feel like making a resolution. A new year began six months ago but I feel like the time for change is now. No more whining about my pathetic life. I am going to change my life this very minute. Feeling as empowered as I felt when I read The Secret, I turn to reenter the hall. I know what I’ll do! Instead of listing all the things I’m going to do from this moment on, I’m going to list all the things I’m never going to do! I’ve always been unconventional (too unconventional if you ask my parents but I’ll save that account for later). I mentally begin to make my list of nevers. -I am never going to marry for money like Natasha just did. -I am never going to doubt my abilities again. -I am never going to… as I try to decide exactly what to resolve I spot an older lady wearing a bright red velvet churidar kurta. Yuck! I immediately know what my next resolution will be; I will never wear velvet. Even if it does become the most fashionable fabric ever (a highly unlikely phenomenon) I am quite enjoying my resolution making and am deciding what to resolve next when I notice Az and Raghav holding hands and smiling at each other. In that moment I know what my biggest resolve should be. -I will never have feelings for my best friend’s boyfriend. Or for any friend’s boyfriend, for that matter. That’s four resolutions down. Six more to go? Why not? It is 2012, after all. If the world really does end this year, at least I’ll go down knowing I completed ten resolutions. I don’t need to look too far to find my next resolution. Standing a few centimetres away, looking extremely uncomfortable as Rags and Az get more oblivious of his existence, is Deepak. -I will never stay in a relationship with someone I don’t love, I vow. Looking for inspiration for my next five resolutions, I try to observe everyone in the room. What catches my eye next is my cousin Mishka giggling uncontrollably while failing miserably at walking in a straight line. Why do people get completely trashed in public? It’s just so embarrassing and totally not worth it when you’re nursing a hangover the next day. I recoil as memories of a not so long ago night come rushing back to me. I still don’t know exactly what happened that night but the fragments that I do remember go something like this; dropping my Blackberry in the loo, picking it up and wiping it with my new Mango dress, falling flat on my face in the middle of the club twice, breaking my Nine West heels, kissing an ugly stranger (Az insists he was a drug dealer but I think she just says that to freak me out) at the bar and throwing up on the Bandra-Worli sea link from Az’s car. -I will never put myself in an embarrassing situation like that again. Ever. I usually vow to never drink so much when I’m lying in bed with a hangover the next day (just like 99% of the world) but this time I’m going to stick to my resolution. What should my next resolution be?

Chapter One Vivek Ranadivé “IT WAS REALLY RANDOM. I MEAN, MY FATHER HAD NEVER PLAYED BASKETBALL BEFORE.” 1. When Vivek Ranadivé decided to coach his daughter Anjali’s basketball team, he settled on two principles. The first was that he would never raise his voice. This was National Junior Basketball—the Little League of basketball. The team was made up mostly of twelve-year-olds, and twelve-year-olds, he knew from experience, did not respond well to shouting. He would conduct business on the basketball court, he decided, the same way he conducted business at his software firm. He would speak calmly and softly, and he would persuade the girls of the wisdom of his approach with appeals to reason and common sense. The second principle was more important. Ranadivé was puzzled by the way Americans play basketball. He is from Mumbai. He grew up with cricket and soccer. He would never forget the first time he saw a basketball game. He thought it was mindless. Team A would score and then immediately retreat to its own end of the court. Team B would pass the ball in from the sidelines and dribble it into Team A’s end, where Team A was patiently waiting. Then the process would reverse itself. A regulation basketball court is ninety-four feet long. Most of the time, a team would defend only about twenty-four feet of that, conceding the other seventy feet. Occasionally teams played a full-court press—that is, they contested their opponent’s attempt to advance the ball up the court. But they did it for only a few minutes at a time. It was as if there were a kind of conspiracy in the basketball world about the way the game ought to be played, Ranadivé thought, and that conspiracy had the effect of widening the gap between good teams and weak teams. Good teams, after all, had players who were tall and could dribble and shoot well; they could crisply execute their carefully prepared plays in their opponent’s end. Why, then, did weak teams play in a way that made it easy for good teams to do the very things that they were so good at? Ranadivé looked at his girls. Morgan and Julia were serious basketball players. But Nicky, Angela, Dani, Holly, Annika, and his own daughter, Anjali, had never played the game before. They weren’t all that tall. They couldn’t shoot. They weren’t particularly adept at dribbling. They were not the sort who played pickup games at the playground every evening. Ranadivé lives in Menlo Park, in the heart of California’s Silicon Valley. His team was made up of, as Ranadivé put it, “little blond girls.” These were the daughters of nerds and computer programmers. They worked on science projects and read long and complicated books and dreamed about growing up to be marine biologists. Ranadivé knew that if they played the conventional way—if they let their opponents dribble the ball up the court without opposition—they would almost certainly lose to the girls for whom basketball was a passion. Ranadivé had come to America as a seventeen-year-old with fifty dollars in his pocket. He was not one to accept losing easily. His second principle, then, was that his team would play a real full-court press—every game, all the time. The team ended up at the national championships. “It was really random,” Anjali Ranadivé said. “I mean, my father had never played basketball before.” 2. Suppose you were to total up all the wars over the past two hundred years that occurred between very large and very small countries. Let’s say that one side has to be at least ten times larger in population and armed might

I meet his eyes and he arches his eyebrows. He knows. He knows I don’t really like Deepak. He knows I’ve been intending to break up with him for the last two months. He knows I would rather be with him. He knows all my deepest darkest secrets. That psychic velvet voiced God! Okay, I’m being irrational. He just raised his eyebrows. It’s nothing. Maybe it’s a habit. He probably raises his eyebrows hourly.

Fat or thin. tall or short. we have a problem with almost everything, and maybe, that is why we should actually start "LIVING".

religion and spirituality are twins. but, very opposite ones. one kills, the other hails!

Seems to me you could use a little Anjali Mudra.

I came up with this bloody show. And who got to star in it? The money men had to go and pick a fucking cheater. You think I wouldn’t find out? Who do you think made the anonymous tip-off to Anjali fucking Bhatnagar? But your lawyers made her stall. I know Himanshu Aggarwal.

She knew there was greatness in not being one of the crowd.

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.

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.

Anjali felt her palms grow sweaty every time her manager Salma asked, “Can I offer some feedback?” “No!” She wanted to scream. “I’m already working as hard as I can!” Indeed, she was, and since joining the company, she’d received positive feedback from managers and direct reports alike. But she’d never had a manager who was also so up-front about areas where she could improve—and it was usually the logistical components of her job, which she rarely had time to stay on top of. Anjali viewed herself as an attentive, hands-on person who always put her customers first, and if she had to choose between taking a customer’s call and updating the company’s database, she’d pick the phone call 100 percent of the time. Talking to Salma made her feel like a kid again, like she couldn’t get it right. The next time Salma uttered that dreaded F-word—feedback—and started offering suggestions on how she could do things differently, Anjali couldn’t hold back. “I’m already working as hard as I can!” After a brief but painful pause, Salma smiled at her. “Anjali, no one wants you to work any harder. We want to figure out how we can make things easier for you.” Anjali had never thought about it like that—she assumed all of the feedback was a veiled warning that her job was in jeopardy. —

Just because someone moves on, it doesn't mean their new partner has replaced their old love. It's very hard to forget a true love. You learn to find place in your heart to love a new person but no one can take away the memories of a true love.

A breath comes in, a breath goes out That is the rhythm of life Between the living and the dead— The difference is of just one breath. Heed, listen, oh my soul To the cry of the distressed Lend a hand to the weary Answer his lament. Laugh, laugh, oh my soul Laugh so in this world That you blacken the face Of affliction and trouble. Live, live, oh my soul A life of such worth, As lofty as the sky As vital as the earth.

Books hold our culture, our past, other worlds, the antidote for sadness.

Home is not necessarily, where the heart is. It is also, where good food,people, and sanity resides. even if that accounts for a house, with no people in it.

You have been negotiating all my life.” So said Canadian college student Anjali Appadurai, as she stared down the assembled government negotiators at the 2011 United Nations climate conference in Durban, South Africa. She was not exaggerating. The world’s governments have been talking about preventing climate change for more than two decades; they began negotiating the year that Anjali, then twenty-one years old, was born.

You need money,” Anjali prods. “How much fuck-you money do you have?” Fuck-you money is the money you save for whenever you need to tell your boss or your partner where to go as you blow out the door.

The world is not your responsibility alone.

I am more than psychology,cinema, and poetry

You are worthy because you exist.

I wonder if this is how it feels like to be slowly dying — or is this simply the feeling of being caged and lonely. Of being alone.

Dear Anju, for whom love means that we must want the same thing, always. That we must be the same. She has not yet learned that ultimately each person—even Anjali and Basudha—is distinct, separate. That ultimately we are each alone.

Nicotinamide (vitamin B3) – 750mg once daily Omega-3 fatty acids Zinc – 200mg daily of zinc gluconate or 400–600mg daily of zinc sulphate Vitamin A – 300,000 IU daily for women; 400,000 IU for men

As a writer in pain, I can’t afford to yield an inch to guilt or regret for not writing.” — Anjali Enjeti (she/her) @AnjaliEnjeti

To Instagram, then; she needed visual candy: oh look, a new post from Rachel, a car-fie, a caption about the golden hour, a Louis Vuitton duffel in the background. God, she was so self-obsessed; had she aged even a day since they’d graduated? Had she done something to her lips, or was it just a filter? Anjali scrolled back through Rachel’s older posts, even though she had seen and summarily judged them all before, shifting in her seat, attempting to ignore the sensation in her bladder. Oh no—had she accidentally liked one? She tapped again. The heart disappeared, then reappeared. Had she tapped twice? Thrice? Was the Wi-Fi even working? Had she ever responded to that text from Rachel? She had to have, right? The things you did, the places your mind went, when you needed to pee. She swore her brain

Anjali, 19, studies at Gargi College, in Delhi. She and her younger sister were raised disguised as boys but without the freedom. They were always dressed in boys’ pants and shirts even as little girls. There were no frocks or dresses. A barber always cut their hair short. No hair clips or ribbons. No make-up, not even kajal. They were denied all signs of femaleness in clothes, hair, jewellery and they were kept at home as much as possible. Once, when Anjali returned home with nail polish on her nails from a friend’s house, her mother hit her and the nail polish was scraped off. These restrictions continue in college. Anjali feels suffocated and slipped me a note in a college classroom requesting me to intervene.

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.

His heart pounded into her palm like Morse code.

People are inherently good, her mother had told her once, they’re just not inherently good all of the time.

the feeling of interconnectedness between her family members, between the generations, the knowledge that she was a part of a larger story of the people she loved and their histories.

Origami signifies the kinds of transformation that refugees must make to start a new life. They must create something new, something beautiful, from a blank page.

Her identity had begun to be defined by the holes family members left behind. Perhaps she needed to move forward, not backward.

Mom, we’ve been wondering for almost twenty years why we couldn’t help Dad get better. I blamed him. You blamed yourself. But for him to live with this kind of agony for twenty years, and choose to stay with us for as long as he did, that’s the deepest kind of love, isn’t it? That’s true courage.

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Examples of complex carbohydrate are whole grains, vegetables, fruits, beans, lentils, and peas. They give you sustained energy and keep you full for longer; they are also good for your bowel movement. They are important for good sleep and brain function.

Truth Hurts, But prevent you from telling more lies.

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.

When I’m tired things are clear. It takes the edge off. I feel like a saint in a stained-glass window, everything coming to me in a halo, revelations.

(...) I become callous and think I don’t need her approval. That’s when she stops paying me attention, and I suffocate. It’s not that she stops talking, or stops cooking, nothing obvious. She doesn’t sound angry or depressed. I just stop existing. (...) In this way she never gets whatever it is she needs; she is always brought back to earth (...) to my inadequacies (...) I do it to her every time. And then I breathe again, and am comforted, and insensitive, as before.

Dear Anju, for whom love means that we must want the same thing, always. That we must be the same. She has not yet learned that ultimately each person - even Anjali and Basudha - is distinct, separate. That ultimately we are each alone.

Peewit is repeating all parrots, except for one.

Why are you are throwing them out, Uncle?’ Anjali said.

Anjali grew up flitting about with friends in the housing society, playing with her two older brothers when they were free, reading English novels. She did fine in school, though not spectacularly, and no one told her to put in more work. There was an understanding: her brothers were to one day become somebodies; she

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