Betel Nut Quotes

Mr. Klamp laid down the law. No tardiness, no talking above 40 decibels, no untied shoelaces, no visible undergarments, no eating, no chewing gum, no chewing tobacco, no chewing betel nuts, no chewing coca leaves, no chewing out students (unless Mr. Klamp was doing the chewing out), no chewing out teachers (unless ditto), no unnecessary displays of temper (unless ditto), no unnecessary displays of affection (no exceptions), no pets over one ounce or under one ton, and no singing, except in Bulgarian. I began to think Mr Klamp wouldn't be so bad...

There were some hours to spare before his ship sailed, and having deposited his luggage, including a locked leather despatch-case, on board, he lunched at the Cafe Tewfik near the quay. There was a garden in front of it with palm trees and trellises gaily clad in bougainvillias: a low wooden rail separated it from the street, and Morris had a table close to this. As he ate he watched the polychromatic pageant of Eastern life passing by: there were Egyptian officials in broad-cloth frock coats and red fezzes; barefooted splay-toed fellahin in blue gabardines; veiled women in white making stealthy eyes at passers-by; half-naked gutter-snipe, one with a sprig of scarlet hibiscus behind his ear; travellers from India with solar tepees and an air of aloof British Superiority; dishevelled sons of the Prophet in green turbans, a stately sheik in a white burnous; French painted ladies of a professional class with lace-rimmed parasols and provocative glances; a wild-eyed dervish in an accordion-pleated skirt, chewing betel-nut and slightly foaming at the mouth. A Greek boot-black with box adorned with brass plaques tapped his brushes on it to encourage customers, an Egyptian girl squatted in the gutter beside a gramophone, steamers passing into the Canal hooted on their syrens. ("Monkeys")

One thing about a tiny island like Singapore is that every man, woman, and monkey in it originated from somewhere else. Whether your distant ancestors sailed from China, India, the Malay archipelago or the United Kingdom, your decision to stay is the only thing that makes you Singaporean. Your presence counts more than your origins. At least, that’s how it was supposed to be. Beneath an upper crust of white colonial administrators, the rest of us were muddled together like a savoury stew under mashed potatoes.

A compleat suppression of every species of stimulating indulgence, if attainable at all, must be a work of peculiar difficulty, since it has to encounter not only the force of habit, but propensities in human nature. In every age & nation, some exhilarating or exciting substance seems to have been sought for, as a relief from the languor of idleness, or the fatigues of labor. In the rudest state of Society, whether in hot or cold climates, a passion for ardent spirits is in a manner universal. In the progress of refinement, beverages less intoxicating, but still of an exhilarating quality, have been more or less common. And where all these sources of excitement have been unknown or been totally prohibited by a religious faith, substitutes have been found in opium, in the nut of the betel, the root of the Ginseng, or the leaf of the Tobo. plant.

Laubach had an experience while praying on Signal Hill behind his home in Lanao, where he was ministering to the Moros people. Experiencing total failure at the hands of a people who had no place for the gospel, he cried to the Father, “What can I do for hateful people like these: murderers, thieves, dirty filthy betel nut chewers—our enemies?” God answered him. My lips began to move and it seemed to me that God was speaking. “My child,” my lips said, “you have failed because you do not really love these Moros. You feel superior to them because you are white. If you can forget you are an American and think only how I love them, they will respond.

In the protracted deliberation, the chewing of betelnut puncutate a spell like an enchanted ritual- the splitting of the nut, the application of the powder, the wrapping of the betel leaf, the placing of the wrapping and rhythmic pounding in the bamboo mortar, scooping in, and the final nipping of the tobacco- that take what seem like an inordinate lengh of time. Toward the end, the whole charade is intertwined with muttering, dozing-off, and outright snoring. Closed eyes and gaping mouths during the round of chewing is a commonplace in such a forum of resolute endurance.

Recipes of Sita People have to be fed during a war. And so the kitchens of Lanka were busy. Those who were going to the war had to be fed; those who were returning from the war had to be fed. Food had to inspire, comfort and stir passions. The smell of rice boiling, vegetables frying and fish roasting filled the city streets, mingling with the smell of blood, rotting flesh and burning towers. The aromas reached Sita’s grove. ‘Don’t you like that smell?’ asked Trijata noticing Sita’s expression as she inhaled the vapours. Trijata, Vibhishana’s daughter, had become a friend. ‘If I was cooking, I would change the proportion of the spices,’ Sita said. She gave her suggestions to Trijata, who promptly conveyed them to the royal kitchen. Mandodari followed these instructions and soon a different aroma wafted out of the kitchen. So enticing was the resulting aroma that other rakshasa cooks came to the Ashoka grove and asked Sita for cooking tips. Without tasting the food, just by smelling what had been prepared, like a skilled cook, Sita gave her suggestions. ‘Add more salt.’ ‘Replace mustard with pepper.’ ‘Mix ginger with tamarind.’ ‘Less cloves, more coconut milk.’ These suggestions were promptly executed, and before long Lanka was full of the most delightful aromas and flavours, so delightful that sons and brothers and husbands and fathers wanted to stay back and relish more food. They wanted to burp, then sleep, then wake up and eat again. They wanted to chew areca nuts wrapped in betel leaves and enjoy the company of their wives on swings. No war, no fighting, just conversations over food. Ravana noticed the lethargy in his men, their reluctance to fight. They were not afraid. They were not drunk. They were just too happy to go to war. Furious, he ordered the kitchens to be closed. ‘Starve the soldiers. Hungry men are angry men. In anger they will kill the monkeys. The only food they can eat is monkey flesh.

The body and the soul! The body was born and will die. But for the soul there is no death. It is like the betel nut. When the nut is ripe it does not stick to the shell. But when it is green it is difficult to separate from the shell. After realizing God, one does not identify anymore with the body. Then one knows the body and the soul are two different things.—Ramakrishna

INGREDIENTS: 1 clean jam jar with airtight lid 2 cups rose petals, red or pink, washed, dried and shredded (be careful to use only rose petals that have not been sprayed with insecticides) 1 cup white sugar (or rock sugar) ½ teaspoon cardamom seeds, crushed (optional) DIRECTIONS: Layer the bottom of the jar with some shredded dried petals. Add a layer of sugar. Repeat the process until you’ve used up all the petals and sugar. At this point, you can add the crushed cardamom seeds if desired. Close the jar tightly with a lid. Place the jar in sunlight for 7 to 10 days. Every day, use a clean spoon to stir the contents, which will start to become moist. On the last day, stir and store the jar in the refrigerator. It should last up to a year. Enjoy on toast, ice cream, in milk or even just out of the jar! Some folks add it to paan, a popular Indian snack and breath freshener made with betel leaves and stuffed with areca nuts, lime paste, cardamom, coconut, fennel and other spices. A PERFUME PRIMER Perfume.

Mrs MacPherson looked very proud of her son. It made me think about the different lessons people try to pass on to children about money. And about who controls that money.

Married women throw themselves at me. When you’re a wealthy man in an important position, they let you do it–they expect you to do it. I’m automatically attracted to beautiful women and I meant no offence. In fact, the way I see it, if I didn’t flirt with you, I would be insulting you.

Yeah…that’s nice. Thanks, Zareen Apa.” Mrs. Shadab Rizvi’s smile broadened flashing all of her stained teeth dyed red from years of chewing areca nuts and tobacco wrapped in betel leaves.

Manikam’s wife’s voice was very sweet; she sang at every funeral ceremony. Tea, betel leaves and areca nuts would be her wage for singing at funerals. She used to sing for all Chieftains, Landlords, Village minors, bigwigs and now for Kalluchaye ; God ! How did she know all these funeral elegies!