Bhai Quotes

Once, long ago, Parminder had told Barry the story of Bhai Kanhaiya, the Sikh hero who had administered to the needs of those wounded in combat, whether friend or fo. When asked why he gave aid indiscriminately, Bahai Kanhaiya had replied that the light of God shone from every soul, and that he had been unable to distinguish between them.

To me, my husband was my son’s murderer. He was also my daughter’s molester. A parasite nibbling on the Holy Book, he was Lucifer, holding me by the throat and driving me to sin every night. He was Bhai’s destroyer, Amma Sain’s tormentor, Ma’s humbler and the people’s exploiter. He was the rapist of orphans and the fiend that fed on the weak. But over and above all this, he was known to be the man closest to Allah, the one who could reach Him and save us.

For us Deewan Bhai, whatever it takes

Promise me Deewan bhai, you will not let Safeena become another Bilal.

...People stop, stare. No one stop and stare if one of your own beggars drop dead in street. No just step over him like he is a stone, or a dog turd and go away quickly. But when they see a white man with golden hair lying on the street, everyone stop, everyone cry, "Hai - hai, - poor boy, call doctor, call ambulance. What has happen, Farrokh-bhai?"..." - Farrokh said to Baumgartner when he wanted to get rid of the reluctant, overly drugged homeless foreigner out of his restaurant. (Page 167)

You see, bhai, the effects of war are always personal, but in fact, war is the least personal thing there

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So what is it really like? What happens when people die?" Noor asks Alice Bhatti, who after finishing her shift has changed into a loose maxi and is lying down on a wheelie stretcher, her forearm covering her eyes. A half-torn poster on the wall behind the stretcher says : Bhai, your blood will bring a revolution. Someone has scrawled under it with a marker: And that revolution will bring more blood. Someone has added Insha'allah in an attempt to introduce divine intervention into the proceedings. Some more down-to-earth soul has tried to give this revolution a direction, and drawn an arrow underneath and scribbled, Bhai, the Blood Bank is in Block C.

What?’ I said, and increased the speed of his treadmill to four kilometres per hour. ‘Slower, bhai.’ ‘It’s fine. Your heart rate should go up. You weighed yourself? How much was it?’ ‘Ninety-five point five.’ ‘That’s too much, Saurabh.’ ‘I am working on it. One day I will have a six-pack like you. Actually, I do have one. It’s just hidden under some tissue.

...he wished he could take his words back. But words were like arrows. Once you let them go and they hit their target, you couldn't take the arrow back without leaving a hole behind.

This arrogant, conceited history strides with her head in the clouds and never looks down. She does not realize how she crushes millions of people beneath her feet. The common people. She doesn't understand that one may cut a mountain in two, but people? It's a hard task, Bhai, to cute one people in two. They bleed." A deep sigh coursed through the gathering. Master Fazal said, "History will keep on marching like this. The names of a few people will stick to her fabric. She will register those. there was Hitler, there was Mussolini, Churchill and Joseph Stalin, among others. this time the names maybe Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, Jinnah, Subhash Bose! But the names of the lakhs and crores who have lost their lives will be nowhere. They will be mere numbers in which all of us will be included!".

But later that night, as I brush my teeth in the bathroom, I overhear Baba and Thaya Jaan talking in the guest room next door. “ All this music all the time. You shouldn’t let Amina do so much singing and piano,” Thaya Jaan says. I stop brushing and strain to hear every word, trying to follow. “But, Bhai Jaan, she is so talented. Her music teachers say she is really quite gifted.” “Yes, but music is forbidden in Islam. It’s a waste of time and has no benefit. Instead of filling her head with music, she should focus on memorizing Quran.” The toothpaste suddenly tastes bitter. I spit it out and wait to hear what Baba will say. Surely he’ll say the things he’s always told me, like how music makes him feel closer to God and that my talent is a gift from Allah. But all Baba says is, “Yes, Bhai Jaan,” and then he stays quiet. I am numb. Is Thaya Jaan right? Am I doing something wrong?

The night before the Pune match, we had gone out for dinner—Viru, Zak and I. Out of the blue, Viru told me, ‘Laxman bhai, you had a great opportunity to make a triple hundred in the Kolkata Test, but unfortunately, you didn’t. Now you wait and watch, I will become the first Indian to score 300 in Test cricket.’ My jaw dropped and I stared at him in astonishment. This guy had played just four ODIs, wasn’t anywhere close to Test selection, and here he was, making the most outrageous of claims. For a second, I thought he was joking, but Viru was dead serious. To be honest, I didn’t know what to make of it.

Fiercely competitive TV channels covered the story of the breaking city as “Breaking News.” Nobody pointed out the irony. They unleashed their untrained, but excellent-looking, young reporters, who spread across the city like a rash, asking urgent, empty questions; they asked the poor what it was like to be poor, the hungry what it was like to be hungry, the homeless what it was like to be homeless. “Bhai Sahib, yeh bataaiye, aap ko kaisa lag raha hai…?” Tell me, brother, how does it feel to be…? The TV channels never ran out of sponsorship for their live telecasts of despair. They never ran out of despair.

Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast-stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures, rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. Now he rolled happily towards the sardonic voice. ‘Ohe, Salad baba, it's you, too good. What-ho, old Chumch.’ At which the other, a fastidious shadow falling headfirst in a grey suit with all the jacket buttons done up, arms by his sides, taking for granted the improbability of the bowler hat on his head, pulled a nickname-hater's face. ‘Hey, Spoono,’ Gibreel yelled, eliciting a second inverted wince, ‘Proper London, bhai! Here we come! Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Meteor or lightning or vengeance of God. Out of thin air, baby.

Do you like Justin?" Bhai finally asks. I shrug. "He's nice to me." I keep watching the TV. "Right, right. I guess I meant... Well, Rahul, do you... I meant, do you like..." Bhai's voice trails off, and something about the way he pauses makes my stomach queasy.

I’m disappointed, bhai. I didn’t think you’d be one of these closed-​minded people. Leave that for your mother.

But you must indulge your Manto bhai. Memories, my brothers, so many memories, they just drag me back to the past as I talk. I cannot resist them. If I could have, I wouldn’t have had to die like a stray dog in Pakistan.

Dilli, which was the chosen city of this world, Which the finest people on earth made their home, Has now been ravaged by time and left in ruins This devastated city is where I come from You’re laughing, Manto bhai?

The Christian conversion lobby was extremely upset with Chief Minister Narendra Modi and his Home Minister Amit Bhai Shah for enacting the “Gujarat Freedom of Religion Act, 2003” that effectively brought to a grinding halt the induced conversion of poor and innocent Dang tribals of North Gujarat by Christian Missionaries with deep pockets, who were patronized and harboured by successive Congress Govts. of Gujarat.

Lala Har Dayal, Virendranath Chattopadhyay, Senapati Bapat, V.V.S. Aiyar, M.P.T. Acharya, J.C. Mukherjee, Madan Lal Dhingra, Gyanchand Verma, Bhai Parmanand, Sardar Singh Rana and Madame Bhikaji Cama.

Chitrakoot ke ghat par bhai santan ki bheed Tulsidas chandan ghise, tilak det Raghuveer.

This life of ours—the act of being born—what is it but ishq? This is worldly love, ishq-e-majazi. And the closer we approach death, the path of divine love, ishq-e-haqiqi, opens up before us. You have to keep ishq-e-haqiqi only for the Lord. You no longer have Begum Falak Ara before you, nor Munirabai, nor Manto bhai’s Begu or Ismat, there’s only he, Alhamdulillah. But how many of us can actually tread that path? Maula Rumi did. Each of us is a moth, whirling around in the trap set by ishq-e-majazi. Have you noticed the irony, Manto bhai? Ishq-e-majazi is worldly love, it’s like loving a picture or a symbol; and ishq-e-haqiqi, which is only directed at Allah, is true love. What does this mean? We are all shadow puppets, spinning about in a symbolic forest of love.

This life of ours—the act of being born—what is it but ishq? This is worldly love, ishq-e-majazi. And the closer we approach death, the path of divine love, ishq-e-haqiqi, opens up before us. You have to keep ishq-e-haqiqi only for the Lord. You no longer have Begum Falak Ara before you, nor Munirabai, nor Manto bhai’s Begu or Ismat, there’s only he, Alhamdulillah. But how many of us can actually tread that path? Maula Rumi did. Each of us is a moth, whirling around in the trap set by ishq-e-majazi. Have you noticed the irony, Manto bhai? Ishq-e-majazi is worldly love, it’s like loving a picture or a symbol; and ishq-e-haqiqi, which is only directed at Allah, is true love. What does this mean? We are all shadow puppets, spinning about in a symbolic forest of love.

Na koi Pitaaji na koi Bhai. Aadmi ko Apne per khada hona hota hei. No Father and No Brother. Every Man has to stand up on his own feet.

Na koi Pitaaji na koi Bhai. Aadmi ko Apne per khada hona hota hei. No Father and No Bother. Every Man has to stand up on his own feet.

The night before the Pune match, we had gone out for dinner—Viru, Zak and I. Out of the blue, Viru told me, ‘Laxman bhai, you had a great opportunity to make a triple hundred in the Kolkata Test, but unfortunately, you didn’t. Now you wait and watch, I will become the first Indian to score 300 in Test cricket.

I take a shower, and then I head downstairs. Mom, Dad, and Bhai are in the living room drinking tea and laughing. My stomach flips, and I'm tempted to just forget about the whole thing and go to bed. But somehow I summon up the courage to keep going. "Hey, can I come in?" I hesitate in the entryway. "Of course." Dad pats the sofa next to him. "What is it, Rahul?" Somehow, this feels scarier than standing up to Brent on the football field. I take a deep breath as I settle into the sofa between Mom and Dad. "I want to tell you something," I say. "Okay," Mom says. "You can tell us anything." Bhai nods at me, and his eyes are bright. Encouraging. I nod back. "What is it, Rahul?" Mom gently rubs my back. Even though I want to keep my eyes fixed on my lap, I force myself to lift my head up. My eyes water, but the words come out of my mouth so simply. "I think I'm gay," I say. I look up at Mom, and I see her whole face soften. Like she's proud of me. She leans in and hugs me. "Thank you for telling us, Rahul." I hold her for a long time.

Khokar paane ka mazaa hi kuch aur hai Rokar muskuraane ka mazaa hi kuch aur hai, Haar toh zindagi ka ek hissa hai bhai… Haarne ke baad jeetne ka mazaa hi kuch aur hai.

Bujhi shama bhi jal sakti hai Toofaano se bhi kashti nikal sakti hai, Hokar maayus yun náa apne iraade badal Teri qismat hai bhai… kabhi bhi badal sakti hai.

Besides, what was the point of a home if the people who should care about you didn't show up for you?

...Shaheer realized that sometimes confidence wasn't always about making the big bold decisions or mouthing off to people. Sometimes confidence looked like the quiet strength it took to tell someone how much they meant to you.

Shaheer realized that sometimes confidence wasn't always about making the big bold decisions or mouthing off to people. Sometimes confidence looked like the quiet strength it took to tell someone how much they meant to you.

To be young again would be a blessing and a curse, I think. Young people are so silly. You think you know the whole world. You think you understand everything. The truth is that you read aloud the story of your life and don’t realize that it is in first person. Each and every one of you tells their own life story to the soul of the world, all the while thinking you are the only one with a story to tell.” “I’m not sure what you are trying to say, Hafeez Bhai.” “I am saying that you should read everyone else’s story with the same respect as you do your own.

I wrote about my love, my ishq, on bloodstained paper day after day, Manto bhai, my hand became numb, but still I wrote. I knew my ghazals would provide comfort to many people one day.

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This arrogant, conceited history strides with her head in the clouds and never looks down. She does not realize how she crushes millions of people beneath her feet. The common people. She doesn't understand that one may cut a mountain in two, but people? It's a hard task, Bhai, to cute one people in two. They bleed.

I prided myself on being level-headed, but MS took it to another level when he said, ‘Lachi bhai, what is the point of feeling dejected and depressed? All it will do is harm your performance even more. We must identify the areas where we are lacking, and address them. That is the only way forward.

This shaheed, who is less authentic than the asal shaheed, was majboor, only a bacha. He did not fight the real enemy but instead fought the gumrah bhai. He was absolved of any blame; he deserved pity but also respect. In the village imagination, the shaheed was not constructed as the willing soldier but as one who is helpless, infantilized, and unable to desert or reject this war. These tropes of infantilizing the soldier and of helplessness ran through the narratives of soldiers and the families of the dead, an imagining of the soldier that already existed in villages even outside the context of the current war and was actively pulled in to settle doubts and unease as they talked about the deaths of those who died in this war. 287/378

In fact, I was shortly to be chosen for my first tour to New Zealand. Again, I had Javed, now restored to captaincy, to thank. I was immediately anxious. I could not drive. I had neither money of my own nor even a bank account. I rang Javed and asked him how much it would cost me to go on the tour; he replied deadpan: "100,000 rupees." My heart sank. 'Javed bhai, my dad would never give me that amount of money,' I said gloomily. 'I'm sorry. I won't be able to come.' Javed burst out laughing. 'You idiot!' he said. 'You don't have to pay; you get paid.' I couldn't believe it. 'I get paid?' I said. 'To play for Pakistan? Unbelievable!