Chai Quotes

I could not stop wasting time. It was crazy. I wanted to do something with my life, but instead I went to sleep, or sung in the shower, or sat and stared at the wall. I couldn't even tell you about anything that I saw. I didn't talk to anybody. The cicadas kept dying outside, and as I dreamed, my mouth grew thick and venomous with silence.

Though there had been moments of beauty in it Mariam knew that life for most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clangor of her laugh, to sit with her once more for a pot of chai and leftover halwa under a starlit sky. She mourned that she would never see Aziza grow up, would not see the beautiful young woman that she would one day become, would not get to paint her hands with henna and toss noqul candy at her wedding. She would never play with Aziza's children. She would have liked that very much , to be old and play with Aziza's children. Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad , Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings.

we need to eradicate the naan muncher and chai gulper from our feeds

Xu cười đã bảo rồi, người tỉnh không khóc như trẻ nít vậy đâu. Người tỉnh càng mất nhiều càng chai lì, càng thản nhiên.

Love and passion are well and good while they last, but in the end what mattes is whether you like the person you are with. Friendship and companionship matter more. They are the things that last. And if in the end we learn to be friends, I will be content.

The best thing we could have done for Afghanistan was to get out of our Humvees and drink more green chai. We should have focused less on finding the enemy, and more on finding our friends.

आज हक़ीक़त से बढ़ के कोई फ़रियाद मांग ले, आज छत पे चड़के आसमां से चाँद मांग ले

मैं अक्सर सोचा करता हूँ , जाने कितना प्यार लगा होगा इतनी नफ़रत के लिये

I think I'll try the cinnamon-spice chai latte," she said, giving me a stern look that said, I will not be ashamed of my beverage selection.

His pale eyes were a perfect and cloudy gray, like my favorite autumn days, perfect for dirty chai lattes and chunky scarves.

Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea. They talk about their “morning ritual” and how they “dress for writing” and the cabin in Big Sur where they go to “be alone”—blah blah blah. No one tells the truth about writing a book. Authors pretend their stories were always shiny and perfect and just waiting to be written. The truth is, writing is this: hard and boring and occasionally great but usually not. Even I have lied about writing. I have told people that writing this book has been like brushing away dirt from a fossil. What a load of shit. It has been like hacking away at a freezer with a screwdriver. I wrote this book after my kids went to sleep. I wrote this book on subways and on airplanes and in between setups while I shot a television show. I wrote this book from scribbled thoughts I kept in the Notes app on my iPhone and conversations I had with myself in my own head before I went to sleep. I wrote it ugly and in pieces.

क्यों बेमतलब सी बातों मे तुम मतलब ढूँढा करते हो, कुछ बेमतलब सी बातों को बेमतलब ही रहने दो

Desperate people lose the thing that makes them human beings. They lose their heart. Anger and hate fill them so that they act like animals.

Every unhappy person thinks her unhappiness is unique.

The chaiwallah brought sabz chai, Kashmiri-style. It was pink and milky, sprinkled with cardamom and brimming with crushed pistachios and almonds. A romantic tea, I always thought.

The stories we tell each other, and the stories we tell ourselves. The stories we reveal, and those we hide. The stories we tell our children. These are the temples we build, they must not be erased.

It was very cally and vonny, with one bulb in the ceiling with fly-dirt like obscuring its bit of light, and there were early rabbiters slurping away at chai and horrible-looking sausages and slices of kleb which they like wolfed, going wolf wolf wolf and then creeching for more.

The past defines us as much as the present. By never knowing my past, I was never sure of who I was. Because mine was missing, I never felt whole.

The vision one holds of one's life is so limited, reduced in scope to a moment, so that each person can make choices only within that narrowed reality.

Am Israel chai, the people of Israel are still alive, and they will exist, and they will always exist - no matter how many times they try to destroy us. We will always stay here.

The word itself creates an empty sensation. Try saying it now. "Why?" Notice how your tongue touches nothing when you form the word with your mouth. Feel the gap, the space inside your mouth, that it creates. The air. It is a place that needs filling. It is missing an answer.

But tales like this must not be taken as truth. You must remind yourself that it is hard to tell where truth ends and a lie begins. So listen all you like, but disbelieve all you hear... You are in the city of lies.

Watch it...people who keep things inside them develop all sorts of disease...all that emotional gunk's got to find an outlet. Angry people develop cysts; stubborn people get arthritis; resentful people die of cancer.

I was someone hungry for stories; more specifically, I was someone who craved after facts...I was, you see, at the start of this tale, a person with history. I had no story of my own. Lacking this, I developed a curiosity about other people's lives.

Fate, no doubt, had a hand in it.

steaming of cup of mint chai.

ALWAYS FULL OF QUESTIONS...How many times must I tell you, better to listen than to talk. But you're always talking...asking useless things...whatever for?" "Because I want to know.

Can these foods [low-fat, vitamin-enriched, etc] even be called "healthy"? Perhaps we should think about it this way: If you cut a batch of pharmaceutical-grade cocaine with chai, you could say with some degree of honesty that it is "healthier," "less addictive," and "now with chai!" But would you say it's "good for you"?

Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea.

I notice there’s a fourth cup, one she didn’t gesture to. “And what’s that one?” “That’s a chai latte,” Parker says. “For me.” “And what if chai lattes are my signature drink?” I deadpan. Without any hesitation, Parker pushes the cup my way. “Then it’s yours.

We can fight fire with water provided we can get it there soon enough. But often we act when it's too late. The result is splattered in the pages of our history: bloodbaths, uprisings, revolutions, you name. And on it goes. We learn so slowly. After so many centuries, we're still a people who eat fire and drink water.' 'Why bother,then?' 'Because we have to believe that one day we'll learn.

Absurdly, I placed an order for a Venti Chai Latte while Judge Lambert famously told The Defendant that someday soon a current of electricity would pass through his body until he was pronounced dead by the warden, and that he should, even more absurdly, take care of himself.

Hipster (n.): Yes, you ride a fixed-gear bike and drink single-origin chai from a local specially abled artist’s hand-thrown ceramic mug. Your bi-friend only listens to cassettes, and you just love vintage flats, and your rescue dog is named Cobain. Please just wear your hat and glasses and turned-up pants and defy categorizing. Remember: you will one day be driving a Volvo with toys thrown willy-nilly and Burger King wrappers on the floor, listening to Sade and digging it unironically. Even the freshest kale can go brown and wilt. Cave futurum.

Hơn sáu vạn giáo sư, bác sỹ, sinh viên, thanh niên lẽ ra có thể dành những năm đẹp nhất của cuộc đời mình để cống hiến cho xã hội những gì mà họ thành thạo nhất. Vậy mà, để được chế độ thừa nhận, họ đã phải xuống biển, lên rừng, bàn tay chai sần đi và kiến thức chuyên môn thì mai một.

He was holding a tray. On the tray were two glasses of milky Indian chai. ‘Chota hazari, sahib,’ said Ladoo. Bed tea. ‘What a nice gesture,’ I said returning to Olivia. ‘Mrs Puri has sent us up some tea.’ ‘I wish she had sent it up two hours later,’ said Olivia from beneath her sheets.

One of the many online arguments I've had about the importance if language, how language can hurt, has been about tea. Chai tea means tea tea. The number of times you see this on a menu makes you wonder why people can't be bothered to do their research. Like naan bread too. Bread bread.

i smile. things taken for granted have a way of catching you offguard when you least expect it, and then you're taken by what the portuguese calls saudade, a sense of longing for something, someone not there anymore.

Mình điên, hoặc thế giới này điên, chỉ có thể là một trong hai. Mình không biết rốt cuộc là bên nào điên. Miệng chai và nắp chai không vừa nhau. Cũng có thể trách cái chai, mà cũng có thể trách cái nắp. Nhưng dù thế nào cũng không thể thay đổi được sự thực miệng chai và nắp chai không vừa..." (Aomame)

Manila is a city of extremes. The poor are very poor and the rich very rich. They live side by side. The rich live in sprawling houses in residential subdivisions with fancy names like Green Meadows, White Plains, Corinthian Plaza, Bel Air, San Lorenzo, Magallanes and the very exclusive Forbes Park, a leafy enclave that was home to the famous Manila Polo Club. The poor are not far from sight. They live in little pockets on the periphery of these affluent subdivisions. A constant reminder to the rich that there is another side to life.

Karena itu aku tidak mau seperti mereka yang sudah jelas-jelas ditolak olehmu tapi masih saja menyatakan cinta. Apakah itu tidak bodoh namanya? – Fanny

Sometimes you just need to embrace your inner dorkiness, weirdness, and craziness.

Violence should not be met with the silence of the oppressed.

A sudden memory: drinking chai tea with

For Indians, chai resolves most things, consoles for the things it can't.

I practically held his damn chai for him while he stuck the knife in my back.

If I was going to get caught I might as well do it with the taste of chai on my lips.

Basically I wanted a world made up of books, chai, hills and rains

my own ears, I sound like an overinvolved mother. Is that how Nimmi sees me? I reach for my cup and drain my chai. Malik is twenty, a grown man. But in him I still see the eager, enterprising boy he used to be.

on page 149 of 476 on From Beirut to Jerusalem : " Kumohon pada setiap burung yang lewat untuk mengatakan kerinduan dan rasa cintaku kepadamu, untuk kemudian kembali membawa berita tentang orang-orang yang kucintai

I always used to get a dirty chai at this hole-in-the-wall coffee shop and walk from Union Square all the way down to Washington Square Park, and if I was lucky, there would be a really good food truck there selling fajitas.

My parents' silences about many things alarmed me. They made me aware of invisible lines that I couldn't see that they drew between themselves and the rest of the world. I never knew when that line might be drawn to exclude me.

I could not stop wasting time. It was crazy. I wanted to do something with my life, but instead I went to sleep, or sung in the shower, or sat and stared at the wall. I couldn’t even tell you about anything that I saw. I didn’t talk to anybody. The cicadas kept dying outside, and as I dreamed, my mouth grew thick and venomous with silence.

He's gone," Sara said. "I can feel it. This time for good." Natalie hugged her, and she started to sob. Then Harry shattered the silence with a pained yell, hurling his thermos into the woods. With tears in his eyes, he said, "I want a drink." I hugged him fiercely. "It'll have to be one of my special chais, Harry. Have I made you a dirty one yet?" "I want mine filthy," he said. We trudged back to the museum together, and toasted Coby with dirty vanilla chai lattes.

Jo called her preferred coffee shop the next morning, the one where Emma picked up her latte every day. She added an iced chai to her standing order. It was something she did sometimes, after late-night shoots or before a long day. A little pick-me-up for Emma.

There is very little that is natural left in people when they stray from the cities. Day hiking in Gore-Tex with a bag of trail mix and a cell phone in a fanny pack and a bottle of iced chai tea clipped to your belt isn’t actually natural, it’s tourism, or worse, voyeurism.

When the Japanese invaded, informers said mother was an important member of the resistance. She was taken in, badly tortured and never confessed. Her life was spared because the Japanese interrogators could not believe a woman could have held such a key role. When her children were grown-up, mother would tell us, ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. The first time, you’re scared you’ll give away your friends. But there comes a point when you pass out. Once that happens, you cannot feel pain anymore. Once you have learnt that, you can beat your torturers.

From my low perch, I watch the world as it passes by on these dirty side streets. There are no westerners in this corner of the city. Just locals going about their business. Weighing out brightly colored spices, walking back from the fish market, stopping at the paan shop, socializing over tea. Old men in lungis and flip-flops walking hand in hand and dirty-faced children who are all bright smiles and wild eyes. I am comfortable here. Sitting on this board, in this tiny chai stall, hidden away from the recognizable world. For the moment, I have disappeared.

It is written, ‘This world is like a vestibule before the world-to-come; prepare thyself in the vestibule, that thou mayest enter into the hall.’ The meaning is clear: The vestibule is this world, and the hall is the world-to-come. Listen. In gematriya, the words ‘this world’ come out one hundred sixty-three, and the words ‘the world-to-come’ come out one hundred fifty-four. The difference between ‘this world’ and ‘the world-to-come’ comes out to nine. Nine is half of eighteen. Eighteen is chai, life. In this world there is only half of chai. We are only half alive in this world! Only half alive!

I can never drink chai anyone else makes. You've ruined me for substandard chai." Ashna smiled. Most people did murder tea. They didn't understand how spices interacted with leaves and basically just threw stuff together and called it a blend. Some even had the gall to call it "tea" when there was no tea in it.

Quote from Chai ❤️‘a review: “I owe an older version of myself some semblance of a past—not a past to outrun but to turn around and embrace. I owe them memories of some kind of happiness, of deep-bone contentment. Like the characters in this book, I don’t want to find myself at the finish line, realizing that I’ve never run the race.

I considered pushing Chai a little more just to see what would happen. There were all sorts of ways to play with the idea of a werewolf therapist being James Bond. Live and Let Cry. No wait, would Live and Let It All Out be better? Live and Let Chai? Full Moonraker. The Spy Who Emotionally Displaced Needs onto Me. Dr. Noooooarrrhgggh!

Her store was small but cozy. Pastel vases presented fresh pink peonies on the windowsills while Teresa Tang sang through the speakers. My lifelong love affair with tea had begun here at a very young age. I'd had my formal introduction to rooibos, matcha, chai, maté, and pu'erh, all seducing me with their floral, fruity, earthy scents.

I surveyed my surroundings. The hill was covered with sweet-smelling wildflowers and dancing butterflies awash in warm, glowing light—the power of Freya, goddess and ruler of Vanaheim, washing over the realm. On the hilltop, Freya’s handpicked warriors lounged on blankets, laughing and sipping chai. I scowled. Peace, butterflies, chai: this world was awful.

The dead are lucky. They do not have to live with memories of what has been.

If I were a woman, I would vow the rest of my life to you in appreciation and swear to never marry anyone else.

You carry all the ingredients to turn your existence into joy, mix them.

When you enter the home of God, you should get rid of all worldly distractions—that’s the message of the Khajuraho temples.

Io sapevo suonare la tromba. È sorprendente come sia inutile, suonare una tromba, quando c'hai una guerra intorno. E addosso.

Duties can be taught but not the responsibilities.

Quote from Chai ❤️‘s review of They Both Die At The End by Adam Silvera “I owe an older version of myself some semblance of a past—not a past to outrun but to turn around and embrace. I owe them memories of some kind of happiness, of deep-bone contentment. Like the characters in this book, I don’t want to find myself at the finish line, realizing that I’ve never run the race.

Als ich drei Tassen Chai vor meine Eltern auf den Tisch stelle, sie um ein Gespräch bitte, mache ich mir keine Illusionen. Trotzdem bin ich ruhig, als ich mich ihnen gegenüber niederlasse, meine Stimme zittert nicht und ich sitze aufrecht. Ich ziehe aus, sage ich. Ich bin unsicher, sage ich. Ich bin verliebt. Das sage ich nicht. Aber ich sage: Ich will an meinem Fundament rütteln.

He spent two years running a hospital for Chai.” Molly put her arm around the younger woman. “Which was the equivalent of working the ER in a city like New York or Chicago. He saved a lot of lives.” She made sure Max was paying attention, too. “And before you say, ‘Yeah, of drug runners, killers, and thieves,’ you should also know that his patients were just regular people who worked for Chai because he was the only steady employer in the area. Or because they knew they’d end up in some mass grave if they refused his offer of employment. Before Grady came in, if they were injured in some battle with a rival gang, they were just left for dead.” Jones looked up to find Max watching him as he sterilized a particularly sharp knife. “Me and Jesus,” he said. “So much alike, people often get us confused.

những câu hỏi tôi dành cho thế giới hắn không trả lời không cúi gằm mặt thản nhiên hắn cười tôi cái cười không độ lượng tôi ngủ giấc ngủ của sâu bọ mơ về giấc ngủ của quả xanh tỉnh dậy đã chín cựa mình rơi quả rụng thành hồ giữa sa mạc không ai đến kịp thế giới có thấy mình bị chai sạn không? có thấy điệu cười khẩy nhạt nhẽo lắm không? lớn vậy rồi mà có hiểu câu hỏi không? mực nước biển đồng loạt dâng đột ngột chỉ những con cá khóc

Though there had been moments of beauty in it, Mariam knew that life for the most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clamour of her laugh, to sit with her once more for a pot of chai and left over halwa under a starlit sky. She mourned that she would never see Aziza grow up, would not see the beautiful young woman that she would one day become, would not get to paint her hands with henna and toss noqul candy at her wedding. She would never play with Aziza's children. She would have liked that very much, to be old and play with Aziza's children. Near the goalpost, the man behind her asked her to stop. Mariam did. Through the crisscrossing grid of the burqa, she saw his shadow arms lift his shadow Kalashnikov. Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings. Mariam's final thoughts were a few words from the Koran, which she muttered under her breath. He has created the heavens and the earth with the truth; He makes the night cover the day and makes the day overtake the night, and He has made the sun and the moon subservient; each one runs on to an assigned term; now surely He is the Mighty, the Great Forgiver. "Kneel," the Talib said O my Lord! Forgive and have mercy, for you are the best of the merciful ones. "Kneel here, hamshira and look down." One last time, Mariam did as she was told.

Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea. They talk about their “morning ritual” and how they “dress for writing” and the cabin in Big Sur where they go to “be alone”—blah blah blah. No one tells the truth about writing a book. Authors pretend their stories were always shiny and perfect and just waiting to be written. The truth is, writing is this: hard and boring and occasionally great but usually not.

It was not so easy to pray, alone--or at least he had never found it so. But all at once he felt that he dared not go unblessed--unarmed. What prayer could he make, to the God whom he had refused to forsake, yet could not truly remember? He drew his sword and held it up before him, hoping for words, but none came. The moonstone on the pommel shone faintly in the dimness of the tent. The Shield of Adamant glittered. These two, and me, and Dur'chai; that's all, he thought. That's all there is, to meet him. 'Take us,' he said aloud, 'for what we're worth. It's harder than I thought--and I'm afraid.

Chàng biết là mỗi bước chân đặt lên bờ là như giẫm phải mảnh chai mảnh sành. Nhưng chàng vẫn bằng lòng để cho bà tiên thay hai lá phổi vào chỗ cái mang cá của chàng. Từ đó chàng lên bờ. Để không phải chịu đau đớn mỗi bước đi, chàng chấp nhận cho hai chân dính liền lại. Chỉ một thời gian mà thôi. Chỉ là một chuyến du lịch. Đi thăm thú đời sống con người mà chàng đã từng sống. Từng có cả người yêu. Bao giờ chàng đọc hết nghe hết nghìn lẻ một câu chuyện thì chàng sẽ tự thấy là đủ. Chàng là người đi sưu tầm chuyện của cõi trần. Sưu tầm đủ nghìn lẻ một chuyện thì chàng sẽ ra bờ biển để đổi đời người lấy lại đời cá.

I am Hannah fucking Kabbah. I go to the supermarket every week without a shopping list. I once memorised an entire psychology textbook the day before an exam after realising I'd been revising the wrong module for weeks. And guess what? I got an A. I spent the first few years of my professional life keeping multiple toddlers alive. Do you know how hard it is to keep toddlers alive, Ms. Chai Latte? It's really fucking hard. And I was good at it. I do not get things wrong. I do not make mistakes. I do not fuck up FUCKING CHAI LATTES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? This is what Hannah thought. But what she said was... Oh. Wait. Shit.

I've made countless variations on this recipe. Chai-infused shortbread diamonds. Rosewater shortbread squares. Cocoa shortbread sandwiches spliced with Nutella. But tonight, in honor of Grandma Damson, I make hers, from memory. In a sense, I fail. No ghosts materialize in the kitchen, not Grandma Damson, not Nonna, not anyone. But out of the mess I make a dozen ideal shortbread wedges, perfect in shape, size and flavor. Warm and delicate. With a glass of cold milk, they are delicious. When shortbread melts on your tongue, you feel the roundness of the butter and the kiss of the sugar and then they vanish. Then you eat another, to feel it again, to get at that moment of vanishing. I eat myself sick on them.

« C’hai ragione, è stupido prendere delle medicine che dovrebbero aiutare le persone a non essere depresse e invece le fa ingrassare, perché essere grassi è un sacco deprimente.» Scossi la testa. Che razza di idiozia poteva spingere qualcuno a mettere la propria vanità al di sopra della propria salute mentale? E che razza di idiota avrebbe potuto avallare una simile scelta? Eppure mi faceva piacere che Darian la pensasse a quel modo. Accidentale o no, era la prima volta che qualcuno mi riconosceva la possibilità di essere frivolo e sciocco come qualsiasi altro individuo. Che mi riconosceva il diritto a non essere grato per il semplice fatto di passare da un giorno all’altro come un gonfio e vacuo zombi. «Allora siamo tutti e due superficiali e ci meritiamo a vicenda,» dissi.

Từ lần cuối cùng gặp nhau ở nhà hàng McDonald’s, đã bảy năm trôi qua, tôi đột nhiên cảm thấy quãng thời gian đằng đẵng như vậy chỉ như trong khoảnh khắc của một cái quay đầu. Cuộc đời dâu bể. Cái thay đổi chỉ là trái tim ngày càng chai sạn của tôi, cái thay đổi chỉ là cái vỏ bề ngoài càng như hóa đá của Dĩ Thâm. Còn cô ấy hầu như không thay đổi. Vẫn nụ cười vô tư. Hôm đó về đến nhà, ngồi trên ghế sôpha, nhìn trời sáng dần qua cửa sổ. Do bận công việc, căn nhà thuê đã lâu không sửa, chậu hoa trên ban công mua về để đấy, không biết đã ra hoa tự lúc nào, vài cành hoa đã tàn phất phơ trước gió, chỉ còn một cánh màu đỏ trên đài hoa nhỏ xíu màu tím nhạt. Bỗng nhiên tôi cảm thấy mình giống như loài hoa không biết tên này. Lặng lẽ ra hoa, lặng lẽ tàn, ngày tháng trôi qua không ai thăm hỏi.

My studio team and I approached the creation of this series with enthusiasm, wit, sincerity and sometimes more than a dash of humour. Is the result just another foray into the clichés of Orientalism? I think not. For the most part the people photographed became co-conspirators in our elaborate game of recreating reality. They enjoyed chai with us and a morning samosa (we most always shoot in the early morning since it is the best time to utilize available light). Our models were indeed “posed and paid”, but they cooperated by suggesting so many things themselves… eagerly grasping the process we were undertaking and joining in the creation of what generally became more than just a photo shoot. Each session in the studio became an “event”…an episode of manufactured expression in which all participated and all remembered.

He spent two years running a hospital for Chai.” Molly put her arm around the younger woman. “Which was the equivalent of working the ER in a city like New York or Chicago. He saved a lot of lives.” She made sure Max was paying attention, too. “And before you say, ‘Yeah, of drug runners, killers, and thieves,’ you should also know that his patients were just regular people who worked for Chai because he was the only steady employer in the area. Or because they knew they’d end up in some mass grave if they refused his offer of employment. Before Grady came in, if they were injured in some battle with a rival gang, they were just left for dead.” Jones looked up to find Max watching him as he sterilized a particularly sharp knife. “Me and Jesus,” he said. “So much alike, people often get us confused.” “Mock me all you want—I’m just saying.” Molly had on her Hurt Feelings Face. It may have fooled Max, but Jones knew it was only there to mask her Relentless Crusader. She was lobbying hard for Max to be on Jones’s side if they made it out of here alive. And she wasn’t done. “Yes, Grady Morant worked for Chair for a few years—after the U.S. left him to die in some torture chamber. He’s so evil, except what was he doing during those two years? Oh, he was saving lives . . .?” “I was practicing medicine without a license,” Jones pointed out. “You just gave Max something else to charge me with when we get home.” When, not if. Even though he wasn’t convinced that they weren’t in if territory, he’d used the word on purpose. The look Molly shot him was filled with gratitude. He gave her a smoldering blast of his best “Yeah, you can thank me later in private, baby” look, and, as he’d hoped she would, she laughed.

Mereka punya sebuah mimpi. Dan aku berbagi mimpi itu dengan mereka: mimpi tentang sebuah dunia yang tampak jelas di tengah-tengah semburan gas air mata dan reruntuhan yang berasap di kamp-kamp pengungsi. Sebuah dunia tempat seorang bocah sebelas tahun tak perlu belajar cara menggunakan sepucuk kalashnikov atau mesin peluncur roket untuk membela keluarganya. Sebuah dunia yang damai, adil, dan aman, tempat aku tak perlu mengatakan kepada seorang anak, "Pergilah ke sekolah," hanya untuk mengetahui bahwa sekolahnya telah dibom, atau mengatakan kepada seorang gadis, "Bantulah ibumu menyiapkan makan malam," hanya untuk melihatnya kembali kepadaku dan mengatakan bahwa ibu dan keluarganya telah dibunuh. Sebuah dunia tempat kami tak perlu lagi takut terkubur hidup-hidup di dalam puing-puing. Sebuah dunia tempat aku tak perlu lagi memperbaiki bagian-bagian tubuh yang patah hanya untuk melihatnya dipatahkan lagi, atau memeluk tubuh remuk seorang bocah dengan tanganku dan bertanya, "Mengapa?" atau mendengar orang-orang bertanya, "Berapa lama lagi?" Sebuah dunia tanpa penjara, tanpa penyiksaan, tanpa rasa sakit, tanpa kelaparan, dan tanpa kartu-kartu identitas pengungsi, tempat aku dapat berteduh di rumahku sendiri dan mendengarkan nyanyian ibuku seraya menutup mata di penghujung hari. Tempat itu adalah mimpi kami, Jerusalem kami.

There was a present on the front seat of Ethan's car, a Gap box tied with a white ribbon. "Happy birthday, Jenna," Ethan said, leaning over to kiss me, his lips cool from the iced chai he stopped for every morning. I opened the box and pulled out an orange sweater with a cream-colored stripe down the arms. "Thank you. I love it." "I know," he said, pulling away from the curb. "That's what you said when you handed it to me at the store and told me to get it for your birthday." "I'm sorry," I said, holding the sweater in my lap. I knew he was just teasing, but I wanted to be the kind of person who could enjoy surprises. I wanted to be as spontaneous and free as everyone else seemed to be and not feel all the time like if I didn't follow some kind of specific map of daily life, disaster would be right there waiting. "I just...really liked it." "And wanted to make sure you got it," he said, smiling. "So basically you're greedy." "Basically.

What do you remember most about what your pai put in his lamb chops?" "I think it was basically salt, pepper, and garlic." He squeezed his eyes shut and focused so hard that not dropping a kiss on his earnestly pursed mouth was the hardest thing. His eyes opened, bright with memory. "Of course. Mint." "That's perfect. Since we're only allowed only five tools, simple is good." "My mãe always made rice and potatoes with it. How about we make lamb chops and a biryani-style pilaf?" Ashna blinked. Since when was Rico such a foodie? He shrugged but his lips tugged to one side in his crooked smile. "What? I live in London. Of course Indian is my favorite cuisine." Tossing an onion at him, she asked him to start chopping, and put the rice to boil. Then she turned to the lamb chops. The automatic reflex to follow Baba's recipe to within an inch of its life rolled through her. But when she ignored it, the need to hyperventilate didn't follow. Next to her Rico was fully tuned in to her body language, dividing his focus between following the instructions she threw out and the job at hand. As he'd talked about his father's chops, she'd imagined exactly how she wanted them to taste. An overtone of garlic and lemon and an undertone of mint. The rice would be simple, in keeping with the Brazilian tradition, but she'd liven it up with fried onions, cashew nuts, whole black cardamom, cloves, bay leaves, and cinnamon stick. All she wanted was to create something that tasted like Rico's childhood, combined with their future together, and it felt like she was flying. Just like with her teas, she knew exactly what she wanted to taste and she knew exactly how to layer ingredients to coax out those flavors, those feelings. It was her and that alchemy and Rico's hands flying to follow instructions and help her make it happen. "There's another thing we have to make," she said. Rico raised a brow as he stirred rice into the spice-infused butter. "I want to make tea. A festive chai." He smiled at her, heat intensifying his eyes. Really? Talking about tea turned him on? Wasn't the universe just full of good news today.

... If I am correct... ... the secret to this sauce is honey and balsamic vinegar ." "Got it one, sir! Both ingredients have a mild sweetness that adds a layer of richness to the dish. The tartness of the vinegar ties it all together, ensuring the sweetness isn't too cloying and giving the overall dish a clean, pure aftertaste. The guide told me that Hokkaido bears really love their honey... ... so I tried all kinds of methods to add it to my recipe!" "Is that how he gave his sauce a rich, clean flavor powerful enough to cause the Gifting? Unbelievable! That's our Master Yukihira!" Something doesn't add up. A little honey and vinegar can't be enough to create that level of aftertaste. There has to be something else to it. But what? "...?! I got it! I know what you did! You caramelized the honey!" CARAMELIZATION Sugars oxidize when heated, giving them a golden brown color and a nutty flavor. Any food that contains sugar can be caramelized, making caramelization an important technique in everything from French cooking to dessert making. "I started out by heating the honey until it was good and caramelized. Then I added some balsamic vinegar to stretch it and give it a little thickness. Once that was done, I poured it over some diced onions and garlic that I'd sautéed in another pan, added some schisandra berries and then let it simmer. After it had reduced, I poured bear stock over it and seasoned it with a little salt... The result was a deep, rich sauce perfect for emphasizing the natural punch of my Bear-Meat Menchi Katsu!" "Oho! You musta come up with that idea while I was relaxing with my cup o' chai! Not bad, Yukihira-chin! Not bad at all! Don'tcha think?" "Y-yes, sir..." Plus, there is no debating how well honey pairs well with bear meat. The Chinese have long considered bear paws a great delicacy... ... because of the common belief that the mellow sweetness of the honey soaks into a bear's paw as it sticks it into beehives and licks the honey off of it. What a splendid idea pairing honey with bear meat, each accentuating the other... ... then using caramelization and balsamic vinegar to mellow it to just the right level. It's a masterful example of using both flavor subtraction and enhancement in the same dish!

Họ sống như vậy, họ và các bạn họ, trong những căn hộ nhỏ dễ thương chất đầy các thứ lủng củng, với những buổi đi dạo và những bộ phim, những bữa đại tiệc thân thiện, những dự án tuyệt vời của họ. Họ không bất hạnh. Có những niềm hạnh phúc sống, thoáng qua, mờ dần, làm bừng sáng những buổi ban ngày. Có những chiều, sau bữa ăn, họ chần chừ không đứng lên khỏi bàn; họ uống hết một chai vang, gặm những trái hồ đào, châm những điếu thuốc lá. Có những đêm, họ không sao ngủ được, và, nửa nằm nửa ngồi, gối kê sau lưng, một chiếc gạt tàn để giữa, họ nói đến tận sáng. Có những ngày, họ đi dạo, vừa đi vừa tán gẫu suốt nhiều giờ. Họ tự nhìn mình trong gương của các mặt hàng, mà mỉm cười. Họ thấy tất cả đều hoàn hảo; họ bước đi một cách tự do, các cử động của họ cởi mở, thời gian như không còn tác động tới họ. Họ chỉ cần hiện hữu ở đó, trên phố, một ngày lạnh khô, gió to, mặc ấm, vào lúc chiều rơi, đi về một nơi ở của bạn bè, không vội vã nhưng sải bước, để cho một cử chỉ nhỏ nhất của mình – châm một điếu thuốc, mua một gói hạt dẻ nóng, luồn lách trong đám nhốn nháo vừa ra khỏi nhà ga – cũng hiện ra như biểu hiện rõ ràng, tức khắc, của một niềm hạnh phúc không bao giờ cạn.

I’m very glad,” Jones continued fervently, sounding like a card-carrying Colin Firth impersonator. “So very glad. You can’t know how glad . . .” He cleared his throat. “I hate to be the bearer of more bad tidings, but your . . . friend was something of a criminal, the way I heard it. He had a price on his head—millions—from some druglord who wanted him dead. Chased him mercilessly, for years. I guess this Jones fellow used to work for him—it’s all very sordid, I’m afraid. And dangerous. He had to be on the move constantly. It was risky just to have a drink with Jones—you might’ve gotten killed in the crossfire. Of course, the big irony here is that the druglord died two weeks before Jones. He never knew it, but he was finally free.” As he looked at her with those eyes that she’d dreamed about for so many months, Molly understood. Jones was here, now, only because the druglord known as Chai, a dangerous and sadistic bastard who’d spent years hunting him, was finally dead. “It’s entirely possible that whoever’s taken over business for this druglord,” he continued, “would’ve gone after this Jones, too. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have searched to the ends of the earth for him . . . Although, when dealing with such dangerous types, it pays to be cautious, I suppose.” Message received. “Not that that’s anything Jones needs to worry about,” he added. “Considering he’s left his earthly cares behind. Still, I suspect it’s rather hot where he’s gone.” Yes, it certainly was hot in Kenya right now. Molly covered her mouth, pretending to sob instead of laugh. “Shhh,” Helen admonished him, thinking, of course, that he was referring to an unearthly heat. “Don’t say such a thing. She loved him.” She turned back to Molly. “This Jones is the man that you spoke of so many times?” Molly could see from the expression on Jones’s face that Helen had given her away. She might as well go big with the truth. She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief that Helen had at the ready, then met his gaze. “I loved him very much. I’ll always love him,” she told this man who’d traveled halfway around the world for her, who apparently had waited years for it to be safe enough for him to join her, who had actually thought that, once he arrived, she might send him away. If you don’t want me here—and I don’t blame you if you don’t—just say the word . . . “He was a good man,” Molly said, “with a good heart.” Her voice shook, because, dear Lord, there were now tears in his eyes, too. “He deserved forgiveness—I’m positive he’s in heaven.” “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy for him,” he whispered. “It shouldn’t be . . .” He cleared his throat, put his glasses back on. “I’m so sorry to have distressed you, Miss Anderson. And I haven’t even properly introduced myself. Where are my manners?” He held out his hand to her. “Leslie Pollard.” Even with his glasses on, she could see quite clearly that he’d far rather be kissing her. But that would have to wait for later, when he came to her tent . . . No, wait, Gina would be there. Molly would have to go to his. Later, she told him with her eyes, as she reached out and, for the first time in years, touched the hand of the man that she loved.

After midnight, I’ve set the cookies on the cooling rack and put on my cat pajamas, and I’m climbing into bed to read when there’s a knock at my window. I think it’s Chris, and I go to the window to check and see if I’ve locked it, but it’s not--it’s Peter! I push the window up. “Oh my God, Peter! What are you doing here?” I whisper, my heart pounding. “My dad’s home!” Peter climbs in. He’s wearing a navy beanie on his head and a thermal with a puffy vest. Taking off the hat, he grins and says, “Shh. You’re gonna wake him up.” I run to my door and lock it. “Peter! You can’t be in here!” I am equal parts panicky and excited. I don’t know if a boy has ever been in my room before, not since Josh, and that was ages ago. He’s already taking off his shoes. “Just let me stay for a few minutes.” I cross my arms because I’m not wearing a bra and say, “If it’s only a few minutes, why are you taking off your shoes?” He dodges this question. Plopping down on my bed, he says, “Hey, why aren’t you wearing your Amish bikini? It’s so hot.” I move to slap him upside the head, and he grabs my waist and hugs me to him. He buries his head in my stomach like a little boy. His voice muffled, he says, “I’m sorry all this is happening because of me.” I touch the top of his head; his hair feels soft and silky against my fingers. “It’s okay, Peter. I know it’s not your fault.” I glance at my moonbeam alarm clock. “You can stay for fifteen minutes, but then you have to go.” Peter nods and releases me. I sink down on the bed next to him and put my head on his shoulder. I hope the minutes go slow. “How was the party?” “Boring without you.” “Liar.” He laughs an easy kind of laugh. “What did you bake tonight?” “How do you know I baked?” Peter breathes me in. “You smell like sugar and butter.” “Chai sugar cookies with eggnog icing.” “Can I take some with me?” I nod, and we lean our backs against the wall. He slides his arm around me, safe and secure. “Twelve minutes left,” I say into his shoulder, and I feel rather than see him smile. “Then let’s make it good.” We start to kiss, and I’ve definitely never kissed a boy in my bed before. This is brand-new. I doubt I’ll ever be able to think of my bed the same way again. Between kisses he says, “How much time do I have left?” I glance over at my clock. “Seven minutes.” Maybe I should tack on an extra five… “Can we lie down, then?” he suggests. I shove him in the shoulder. “Peter!” “I just want to hold you for a little bit! If I was going to try to do more, I’d need more than seven minutes, trust me.

Every Day Take Your Daily Doses Black Cumin (Nigella sativa) (¼ tsp) As noted in the Appetite Suppression section, a systematic review and meta-analysis of randomized, controlled weight-loss trials found that about a quarter teaspoon of black cumin powder every day appears to reduce body mass index within a span of a couple of months. Note that black cumin is different from regular cumin, for which the dosing is different. (See below.) Garlic Powder (¼ tsp) Randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled studies have found that as little as a daily quarter teaspoon of garlic powder can reduce body fat at a cost of perhaps two cents a day. Ground Ginger (1 tsp) or Cayenne Pepper (½ tsp) Randomized controlled trials have found that ¼ teaspoon to 1½ teaspoons a day of ground ginger significantly decreased body weight for just pennies a day. It can be as easy as stirring the ground spice into a cup of hot water. Note: Ginger may work better in the morning than evening. Chai tea is a tasty way to combine the green tea and ginger tweaks into a single beverage. Alternately, for BAT activation, you can add one raw jalapeño pepper or a half teaspoon of red pepper powder (or, presumably, crushed red pepper flakes) into your daily diet. To help beat the heat, you can very thinly slice or finely chop the jalapeño to reduce its bite to little prickles, or mix the red pepper into soup or the whole-food vegetable smoothie I featured in one of my cooking videos on NutritionFacts.org.4985 Nutritional Yeast (2 tsp) Two teaspoons of baker’s, brewer’s, or nutritional yeast contains roughly the amount of beta 1,3/1,6 glucans found in randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled clinical trials to facilitate weight loss. Cumin (Cuminum cyminum) (½ tsp with lunch and dinner) Overweight women randomized to add a half teaspoon of cumin to their lunches and dinners beat out the control group by four more pounds and an extra inch off their waists. There is also evidence to support the use of the spice saffron, but a pinch a day would cost a dollar, whereas a teaspoon of cumin costs less than ten cents. Green Tea (3 cups) Drink three cups a day between meals (waiting at least an hour after a meal so as to not interfere with iron absorption). During meals, drink water, black coffee, or hibiscus tea mixed 6:1 with lemon verbena, but never exceed three cups of fluid an hour (important given my water preloading advice). Take advantage of the reinforcing effect of caffeine by drinking your green tea along with something healthy you wish you liked more, but don’t consume large amounts of caffeine within six hours of bedtime. Taking your tea without sweetener is best, but if you typically sweeten your tea with honey or sugar, try yacon syrup instead. Stay

«Ho qualcosa da discutere con voi due» disse Hagrid, sedendosi tra loro con aria insolitamente seria. «Cosa?» chiese Harry. «Hermione» disse Hagrid. «Perché?» disse Ron. «Perché non sta bene, ecco perché. È venuta qui a trovarmi tante volte da Natale. Si sente sola. Prima non ci parlavate, con lei, per via della Firebolt, adesso non ci parlate perché il suo gatto...» «...ha mangiato Crosta!» lo interruppe Ron furioso. «Perché il suo gatto ha fatto come fanno tutti i gatti» continuò Hagrid ostinato. «Ha pianto tante volte, sapete. È un brutto momento per lei. Troppi impegni, se volete saperlo, con tutto il lavoro che sta cercando di fare. Ma ha trovato lo stesso il tempo di aiutarmi con il caso di Fierobecco, sapete... ha trovato della roba davvero buona... credo che lui ha qualche possibilità adesso...» «Hagrid, avremmo dovuto aiutarti anche noi... scusa...» esordì Harry imbarazzato. «Non ti rimprovero mica!» disse Hagrid, respingendo le scuse di Harry. «Con tutto quello che c’hai avuto per la testa, ti ho visto che ti allenavi a Quidditch a tutte le ore del giorno e della notte... ma ve lo devo dire, credevo che a voi due vi importava di più della vostra amica che di una scopa o di un topo. Ecco». Harry e Ron si guardarono, entrambi a disagio. «Era davvero sconvolta, poverina, quando Black ti ha aggredito, Ron. Lei sì che ha il cuore al posto giusto, lei, e voi due che non ci parlate nemmeno...» «Se solo si sbarazzasse di quel gatto, io le parlerei ancora!» disse Ron arrabbiato, «ma lo difende sempre! È un criminale, e lei non vuole nemmeno sentirselo dire!» «Ah, be’, la gente a volte è un po’ stupida quando ci parli dei suoi animali» disse Hagrid saggiamente. Alle sue spalle, Fierobecco sputò qualche osso di furetto sul cuscino.

Go through life as if it has already been rigged in your favor

one of them, it turns out, has read Chai, Chai. It occurs to me that it has been many years since I travelled for the book, and now the book is doing the travelling.

Chin now joined chai (tea) and shchi (cabbage soup) to form a triad around which revolved a great deal of Russian life.

Instant Chai With this mix, you can have a cup of chai in minutes. MAKES 12 SERVINGS PREPARATION TIME: 20 MINUTES 1 cup unsweetened instant tea 1 cup nonfat dry milk powder ½ cup xylitol 1 teaspoon vanilla 1 teaspoon ground ginger 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon ground cloves ½ teaspoon ground cardamom Combine all ingredients in a food processor or blender and process until you have a fine powder. Store in an airtight container. To serve, stir 2 heaping tablespoons into a cup of hot water. PER SERVING: 41 calories; trace fat (1.3% calories from fat); 2 g protein; 11 g carbohydrate; trace dietary fiber; 1 mg cholesterol; 31 mg sodium. Note Chai is an ancient spiced tea-milk beverage from India. Thai

My best friend and other business partner, Adeena Awan, was embracing spring's floral vibes by pushing her signature lavender chai latte as well as her new seasonal creations, including a lavender honey latte (the honey sourced from Elena's uncle's local apiary), lavender calamansi-ade, and a sampaguita matcha latte (I didn't really like floral flavors, but even I had to admit the matcha drink was stunning). As for me, I was leaning into "spring means green" and had prepared pandan-pistachio shortbread and brownies with a pandan cheesecake swirl. I also came up with a red bean brownie recipe, which wasn't particularly spring-like, but hey, I was in a brownie mood. And for a quick no-bake option, I developed buko pandan mochi Rice Krispie treats, which would be sure to delight our youngest customers

Later, a different passion will lead the man to rename the woman, this time without reference to himself. Hearing that the woman will bear children, the only good news in God’s grim prophecy of the dismal human future (sorrow, sweat, toil, and death), he grasps at this straw of hope, renaming the woman Eve (Chavah), because she is the mother of all living (chai). From Adam’s hopefulness, Eve gets the first genuinely proper name in the Bible.

I sip my iced chai and turn up my nose. “I d-don’t want them.” Velspar’s elation hardens. “Colette, what did I say about lying to me?” “Why would I care about a-nything you’ve ever said?” His eyes roll toward the ceiling, and he takes a long drag of his coffee before setting the cup down and standing. “I’m going to get you more books. You should sit here and think about how naughty you’re being.

But tell me one thing, why do Bengalis still use surnames that indicate their caste? We used to do it in Kerala fifty years ago, now we don’t do it any more. But you people still use Mukherjee and Chatterjee and so on.’ I did not have an answer to his question, but I knew that the question was a well-meaning one, asked out of innocent curiosity by one member of the communist society to another presumed member. He did not know that I actually hailed from the Hindi heartland, where people wear their caste names like medals. Casteism in Uttar Pradesh is so rampant that it can lead to embarrassing situations in day-to-day life because of two certain surnames—Sharma and Verma. There are two varieties of Sharma, one the Brahmins and the other the craftsman community, such as carpenters, called Vishwakarmas. And there are two varieties of Vermas, one the Kayasthas and other the mallah or the boatman community. The uppercaste Sharmas and Vermas never miss a chance to point out that they are not to be confused with the other set of Sharmas and Vermas. I was witness to such an incident, while in college in Kanpur. Among my many friends, there were two Sharmas, one Anil Sharma, a boy from a well-to-do family, and another Sunil Sharma, who rarely spoke about his family. One winter afternoon, while I was having a smoke with Sunil at the parking lot, Anil came by. I introduced them to each other. ‘Meet Sunil Sharma,’ I told Anil. Anil somewhat hesitated to shake Sunil’s hand but when he finally did, the first thing he asked was, ‘Are you the Brahmin Sharma or the Vishwakarma Sharma?’ Sunil’s face went red with embarrassment, but he mustered a smile and said, ‘Vishwakarma Sharma.’ ‘No wonder. I could tell that,’ Anil grinned and took leave, leaving me red-faced. But that was then. Today, Anil could have been lynched for that arrogant grin, because power has gone to the hitherto-suppressed classes. Either way, the fact remains that caste rules. Compared to Uttar Pradesh, Kerala might be a paradise, where caste is nearly irrelevant in public life, but are there not people who still take pride in being called a Nair or a Nambiar or a Menon? I wanted to ask Mr Sankarankutty that, but I let it be. His question was, after all, a well-meaning one. By now, I had completely forgotten that a whisky bottle was sitting there. The conversation with him had distracted me from my hypochondria and I felt perfectly fine. After he left, I reached for my skipping rope and jumped five hundred times non-stop. I knew I was in perfect shape to climb even a mountain.

I’m a Bengali,’ I said. His face lit up. ‘Oh Bengali! Bengali, Malayali same thing. Communism, cinema, culture . . .’ He could have gone on talking, but his English was as limited as my Malayalam. Though I could see from his eyes that he was genuinely happy to have me in that chair. I was glad that he did not speak English or else it would have broken his heart to know that I never lived in Bengal and was, culturally, more of a UP-wallah. I have let down—and even offended—quite a few Malayalis during my visits to Kerala. Upon knowing that I am a Bengali, they would presume that I hailed from Calcutta and was bound to be a distant relative of Jyoti Basu. Once, I was at a small gathering in Trivandrum, where a young man, in order to impress me about his knowledge of Marxist literature emanating from Bengal, asked me, ‘So what do you think of . . .?’ He named someone I had never heard of. ‘I am sorry, but who is he?’ ‘What? You never read his books?’ he was scandalised. ‘He is such a great writer.’ I told the young man that I had never heard of this writer. He was indignant. ‘What? You never heard of him? He is also a Ghosh, then how come?’ ‘I am sorry, but I have never heard of him.’ ‘What? You never heard of him? He is one of the leading lights of communism. How can a Bengali not read him?’ I told him I had never lived in Bengal and that the communist movement did not interest me much. ‘Oh, so where are you from?’ ‘I am from Kanpur, in Uttar Pradesh.’ ‘But you surname says you are a Bengali.’ ‘Of course I am a Bengali, but born and raised in Uttar Pradesh.’ ‘Oh, so you are a rootless Bengali. No wonder.’ The young man looked smug as if he had won a battle and he poured himself another drink. He looked around for approval but, fortunately, the other members at the gathering kept a straight face.

I’m a Bengali,’ I said. His face lit up. ‘Oh Bengali! Bengali, Malayali same thing. Communism, cinema, culture . . .’ He could have gone on talking, but his English was as limited as my Malayalam. Though I could see from his eyes that he was genuinely happy to have me in that chair. I was glad that he did not speak English or else it would have broken his heart to know that I never lived in Bengal and was, culturally, more of a UP-wallah. I have let down—and even offended—quite a few Malayalis during my visits to Kerala. Upon knowing that I am a Bengali, they would presume that I hailed from Calcutta and was bound to be a distant relative of Jyoti Basu. Once, I was at a small gathering in Trivandrum, where a young man, in order to impress me about his knowledge of Marxist literature emanating from Bengal, asked me, ‘So what do you think of . . .?’ He named someone I had never heard of. ‘I am sorry, but who is he?

Hmmm, just about perfect.” She gazed up at me, her face radiant. “Really? Did something special happen at the café?” There was something decidedly different about her today. She practically glowed from the inside out. She shook her head. “Nope. Just a regular day filled with chocolate cupcakes, chai tea, and Pyper badgering me about what we were celebrating.

Nope. Moved to the Philippines in his twenties, but he grew up in Wan Chai. Isn't that where you're from?' LIKE ALL THE PROSTITUTES. 'No, I grew up in Kowloon Tong. Was your mother from Wan Chai?' Arabella shot back. 'She was from Shenyang, but she met my dad in the Philippines. I was born in Forbes Park.' IN A HOUSE MUCH BIGGER THAN THIS OLD DUMP AND WITH THREE TIMES THE SERVANTS. 'I don't know the Philippines. I believes some of the maids we had growing up came from Cebu.

इन्हें पूरा कर दिखाओगे एक दिन यह यक़ीन तो इनको दिलाओ फिर देखो यह कहाँ जाते हैं फिर देखो तुम कहाँ जाते हो फिर देखो यह खुद कहाँ पहुँचते हैं फिर देखो यह तुम्हें कहाँ पहुँचाते हैं सिर्फ़ सपने देखने से बात नहीं बनती सपने तो जिये जाते हैं सपने खुद कभी पूरे नहीं होते सपने तो पूरे किए जाते हैं हाँ, यह होता है तरीक़ा सपने तो ऐसे लिए जाते हैं

Bryce smiled slightly. Also true. “But do you think Danika might have been keeping anything else a secret?” Fury seemed to consider. Then said, “The only other secret I knew about Danika was that she was a bloodhound.” Bryce straightened. “A what?” Fury signaled the barista for another chai. “A bloodhound—she could scent bloodlines, the secrets in them.” “I knew Danika had an intense sense of smell,” Bryce acknowledged. “But I didn’t realize it was that …” She trailed off, memory surfacing. “When she came home with me over winter break freshman year, she could pick out the family ties of everyone in Nidaros. I thought it was a wolf thing. It’s special?” “I only know about it because she confronted me when we first met. She scented me, and wanted to understand.” Fury’s eyes darkened. “We sorted our shit out, but Danika knew something dangerous about me, and I knew something dangerous about her.” It was as much as Fury had ever said about being … whatever she was. “Why is it dangerous to be a bloodhound?” “Because people will pay highly to use the gift and to kill anyone with it. Imagine being able to tell someone’s true lineage—especially if that person is a politician or some royal whose parentage is in question. Apparently, the gift came from her sire’s line.

During this confrontation, Xie Lanshan suddenly lifted an eyebrow, perked up his lips, and pressed his face forward to kiss the other on the mouth.

Dessert was home-made candied chestnuts, chiffon cake baked with amazake and rice flour, and cups of gingery chai. Biting into the cake, Rika discovered that it was perfectly fluffy, with a pleasing springiness and bite to it.

Even if I am no longer myself, even if I become a bloodthirsty apostle of sin, even if the whole world has fallen into ruins, I will still love you with my whole life until death...

A pork seller had a violent dispute with his wife on the street; it began with the merchant, who sold the flesh of poultry and animals, suspecting his wife of also selling her own flesh.

The beauty of a stone is not in its strengths but in the uniqueness of its failings.

I, meanwhile, am starfished on my cushy ivory rug, staring at the ceiling with a mug of chai at my hip.

It is, however, not the thought of your own death that makes the sight of the biers so terrifying: it is actually the thought of your near and dear ones being carried away in that fashion. It is a thought you consider secretly in the deepest crevices of your heart, not even sharing it aloud with your own self.

After the move, Chai began losing weight again, like she did during her time at the Dickerson Park Zoo, ultimately losing over 1,000 pounds. The Oklahoma Zoo had trained her to perform for the crowds, and during one of these performances Bamboo attacked her, knocking her into a fence. On January 30, 2016, Chai was found dead in her cage. The cause of death was determined to be sever fat loss and a systemic blood infection.

Even the simplest of lives must have a routine. Or maybe, it is the routine that makes lives simple.

The vibrant but amorous light blurred the distance between the two men. They stared into each other’s eyes, infinitely close but also distant.

They wanted to see — truly see — what could grow out of a spilled chai tea latte and a swipe to the right while cuddled in bed one night.

As he’d fallen into his slumber, someone had touched his face, a soft and gentle caress tracing from the arch of his eyebrows down to the corner of his eyes. The hand searched from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his lips before gently coming to rest in his hair. It had been comforting.

No, but I’d be up for it.” He couldn’t be careless when answering these questions testing his dignity as a man, yet Xie Lanshan captured Shen Liufei’s sharp gaze without breaking a sweat. “How about we test each other out tonight if you’re so concerned? I’ll always welcome you to prove your worth to me in action, Mr. Shen.

As per your request, all the chocolate we have on offer." There were pandan cheesecake brownies, red bean brownies, ube chocolate chip cookies, ube Oreo mochi Rice Krispie treats, brown butter chai chocolate chip cookies, Mexican hot chocolate cookies, and a champorado parfait, the last of which was still in the experimental phase. I didn't usually make so many chocolate offerings in one day, but I guess subconsciously I felt the need for chocolaty comfort as much as Marcus did.

It is strange this life, for the things we are scared of, we find no longer scare us with time. It's like when you run and run and then after a long time, you look over your shoulder and find there is no one chasing you. You wonder what it was you have been running away from all this time. Many of our fears are but imagined ones bearing little resemblance to what is real. How much better our lives would have been had we known this while we were still young. How much more wisely we would have acted.

Tea is the soothing potion that turns "calm down" into "chai down." It's like a warm hug in a cup, a liquid oasis in a world of chaos. Sip by sip, it transforms stress into serenity, worry into wonder. With its aromatic steam rising, it whispers, "Relax, rejuvenate, and refill your cup of sanity." So, let's raise our mugs and toast to tea—the humble hero of hydration, the aromatic ally of afternoon delight.

2½ cups all-purpose flour ¾ tsp baking powder 2 sticks butter 1½ tbsp sugar 1 tsp salt ¾ tsp cumin seeds ½ tsp cumin powder (optional) 2 to 2½ tbsp plain whole milk yogurt Sift the flour and baking powder. Cream the butter and sugar. Mix in the salt, cumin seeds, and cumin powder (if you like the flavor of cumin, adding the powder is recommended). Add the sifted flour to the creamed mixture. Knead into a dough, adding the yogurt as you do so. Roll the dough ⅛-inch thick. Cut into round shapes with cookie cutter. Place on a greased cookie tray and bake in a preheated oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and leave on a rack to cool. Enjoy the naan khatais with a cup of hot Indian chai.

Now, of course, you can’t walk in any Indian city without running into a café selling everything from mochas to cappuccinos to that monstrosity known unironically as chai latte containing ingredients such as maple syrup and vanilla extract. Either commit to a chai or to a coffee, people. What kind of daily indecisiveness do you battle that you must find ways to marry the two?

E Jibon e Jato tuku peyechhi..... Mon bale Taro beshi Peyechhi

I curled my lip at the sight of sizzling human hair and skin clinging to my demon flesh. Damn, I’d have given anything to be back in Boston, sipping chai tea latte." ~ Muse, Ties That Bind, #5 The Veil Series.

The pseudo-private chai pe charcha between Obama and Modi, televised live through carefully placed cameras, drew directly from Simi Garewal’s shows, down to the white sofas. Like those shows, it succeeded in appearing to give the audience a glimpse into the intimate life of the great.

I get the most information from Spirit when I’m in the shower and when I blow-dry my hair--and I don’t think it’s because Spirit likes the scent of my shampoo and styling cream (though it does smell like chai tea). I am, however, starting to think it’s true when they say, “The higher the hair, the closer to God!” Other people I know are most receptive to Spirit when they’re doing a boring chore like vacuuming or washing the dishes. These are the moments when your mind’s not cluttered with a to-do list of activities and is naturally open to hear from Spirit. And yes, they can talk over the roar of your Hoover!

Every 2.5 seconds, a baby’s life is taken by abortion in China. Every day, hundreds of baby girls are abandoned and five hundred women commit suicide.

The country is our country. The people are our people. The government is our government. If we don’t shout, who will? If we don’t act, who will? Our

In the words of a Chinese proverb, “The wind always destroys the tallest tree in the forest.

it for two years. Well, all the anger I had bottled

Thử nhìn xung quanh, có ai dám thay đổi điều gì? Người ta nát óc trước khi quyết định chuyển tường phòng ngủ từ màu be sang vàng nhạt. Người ta không thể thuê nhà ở nơi khác chỉ vì đã quá quen với cửa hàng bánh mì đầu phố. Người ta gọi điện báo cảnh sát giao thông vì một cái xe tải đã đỗ đúng vào con đường buổi chiều vẫn đi dạo. Người ta cãi nhau rầm rĩ để xem Giáng Sinh năm nay mời ông bà nội hay ông bà ngoại, ăn gà nướng hay vịt quay, đặt ga-tô hương cà phê hay vị ca-cao, mua ba chai sâm-banh không biết đã đủ. Tóm lại, người ta lần lượt tạo ra vô vàn thói quen và cương quyết bảo vệ chúng như con ngươi của mắt mình.

In my mind, there was nothing better than a cupcake with a funny little twist. I liked bold pairings of fresh ingredients slathered high with decadent, old-fashioned waves of icing- organic pear and chai tea cake topped with vanilla-ginger buttercream was one of my current favorites. But Lolly St. Clair had more classic taste, and so I'd made an array of delicately flavored Meyer lemon, vanilla, and mocha cupcakes for the benefit.

Cụ nghiệm thấy xung đột lớn và khó tin nhất trên Trái đất này là theo kiểu: "Mày ngu, không, anh ngu thì có, không, chính mày mới là đồ ngu.". Giải pháp thường là, Allan nói, cả hai cùng cưa một chai vodka với nhau rồi sau đó nhìn về tương lai.

In politics, there are no permanent friends or enemies, just permanent interests’.

War! We don’t want a war. We don’t want the emotional burden of deaths of millions. All we want is the Make in India nonsense to stop. We want the recurring weapons business to continue, which will happen in the absence of war as well. Now that Doshi is eliminated, our purpose is fulfilled.

I had to do the right thing, especially when the rest of the world remained silent. If I became afraid and caved in to the pressure, I would deny the very person I am. Maybe

Từ sau khi lìa bỏ Trình Kính Tu và Tuyết Sắc, nàng không động đến bất kỳ nhạc cụ nào nữa. Nàng ra sức xóa sạch những vết tích khổ luyện tỳ bà trên tay. Giờ đây, đôi tay này mịn màng mềm mại, thịt da như ngọc, đã chẳng còn vết chai sần nào nữa. Chẳng ai hay, nhiều năm trước, một ngọn đèn trơ trọi dưới trăng, nàng từng gảy những khúc đàn du dương suốt đêm, dốc hết năm tháng thanh xuân tươi đẹp nhất, mới đổi được danh hiệu “một khúc tỳ bà chống được trăm yêu nữ”. Chẳng ai hay, từng có một nam nhân lặn lội giữa đêm mưa tìm đến, mang theo cây trâm của nàng, đứng đợi trước bụi tường vi đến sáng. Trong khoảnh khắc trông thấy nàng, cặp mắt đã dầm mưa suốt đêm đột nhiên sáng bừng lên. Chẳng ai hay, nàng từng có một đứa con gái tên Tuyết Sắc, hệt như bông tuyết ngậm trong nhụy mai, chỉ sợ ánh nắng rọi tới là tan biến. Trừ vầng trăng giữa trời, chẳng ai hay.

I don’t drink coffee,” Tabby replied. “Only tea when I’m at home or chai latte if I’m in a cafe.

She smells like powder and chai tea and something herbal, possibly marijuana.

women, in some parts of France, were barred from the chai, or winery, during harvesttime. Their presence, according to superstition, would turn the wine sour.

Họ sống như vậy, họ và các bạn họ, trong những căn hộ nhỏ dễ thương chất đầy các thứ lủng củng, với những buổi đi dạo và những bộ phim, những bữa đại tiệc thân thiện, những dự án tuyệt vời của họ. Họ không bất hạnh. Có những niềm hạnh phúc sống, thoáng qua, mờ dần, làm bừng sáng những buổi ban ngày. Có những chiều, sau bữa ăn, họ chần chừ không đứng lên khỏi bàn; họ uống hết một chai vang, gặm những trái hồ đào, châm những điếu thuốc lá. Có những đêm, họ không sao ngủ được, và, nửa nằm nửa ngồi, gối kê sau lưng, một chiếc gạt tàn để giữa, họ nói đến tận sáng. Có những ngày, họ đi dạo, vừa đi vừa tán gẫu suốt nhiều giờ. Họ tự nhìn mình trong gương của các mặt hàng, mà mỉm cười. Họ thấy tất cả đều hoàn hảo; họ bước đi một cách tự do, các cử động của họ cởi mở, thời gian như không còn tác động tới họ. Họ chỉ cần hiện hữu ở đó, trên phố, một ngày lạnh khô, gió to, mặc ấm, vào lúc chiều rơi, đi về một nơi ở của bạn bè, không vội vã nhưng xải bước, để cho một cử chỉ nhỏ nhất của mình – châm một điếu thuốc, mua một gói hạt giẻ nóng, luồn lách trong đám nhốn nháo vừa ra khỏi nhà ga – cũng hiện ra như biểu hiện rõ ràng, tức khắc, của một niềm hạnh phúc không bao giờ cạn.

Together, whether we are pro-life or pro-choice, Democrat or Republican,” says Chai, “we can all agree that the systemic elimination of girls simply because they’re girls is a crime that has to be stopped.

Impamvu tur' abakristo bintegenke nuko tutar' imbata nyazo za Kristo

And the PRCS [Palestinian Red Crescent Society] had not lost just one hospital: thirteen clinics and nine hospitals all over Lebanon had been destroyed in this way. Only Gaza Hospital, for a reason I was to discover three years later, was still standing. At the height of the air raids, when the Palestinians found out that every single PRCS hospital and clinic was a bomb target, they put three Israeli soldiers captured in south Lebanon on the upper floors of Gaza Hospital, and radioed a message to the Israeli Army saying that any further military action on Gaza Hospital would result in Israeli lives being lost. That saved Gaza Hospital from further destruction.

Mother made sure her little kids were subjected to a strict routine. We were given a timetable which covered our every waking moment, copies of which were posted by our bedside, in the sitting room and in the kitchen. Story hour meant that mother would read us novels and short stories by Guy de Maupassant, Oscar Wilde and Edmondo de Amicis. Soon we graduated to Tolstoy, Gogol and Turgenev. She read them to us in Chinese and I never realised until much later that the writers wrote them in different European languages. Comics were absolutely forbidden and so were Enid Blyton adventures and pop music. . .Lee Cyn and I soon went to a primary school nearby. . .After mother’s rigorous timetable, school became fun and easy-going.

None of these points mean that students cannot be recognized and celebrated for their success. The key is to not hold it out as a “carrot” but, instead, to provide it as an unexpected “bonus” (Chai, 2009).

In that playground we played cricket during winter afternoons—the neighbourhood boys, irrespective of which school they went to. Someone would own the bat, someone would contribute the ball, and someone else would bring the stumps. Pads and gloves were a luxury and largely unnecessary. The umpiring would be done by someone who had done with batting for the day, even though his decisions would often be overruled by the ‘third umpire’—one of the neighbourhood ‘uncles’ closely following the game standing at the gate of his house.

Drink this,” Ranee encourages, scooting her chair closer to Marin’s. “When I was young, and there was a problem in the family or village, we would all gather at someone’s home and have cup after cup of chai. After enough hours, the problem that seemed insurmountable was suddenly solved.

Presently Grandmother Jia appeared, seated, in solitary splendour, in a large palanquin carried by eight bearers. Li Wan, Xi-feng and Aunt Xue followed, each in a palanquin with four bearers. After them came Bao-chai and Dai-yu sharing a carriage with a splendid turquoise-coloured canopy trimmed with pearls. The carriage after them, in which Ying-chun, Tan-chun and Xi-chun sat, had vermilion-painted wheels and was shaded with a large embroidered umbrella. After them rode Grandmother Jia’s maids, Faithful, Parrot, Amber and Pearl; after them Lin Dai-yu’s maids, Nightingale, Snowgoose and Delicate; then Bao-chai’s maids, Oriole and Apricot; then Ying-chun’s maids, Chess and Tangerine; then Tan-chun’s maids, Scribe and Ebony; then Xi-chun’s maids, Picture and Landscape; then Aunt Xue’s maids, Providence and Prosper, sharing a carriage with Caltrop and Caltrop’s own maid, Advent; then Li Wan’s maids, Candida and Casta; then Xi-feng’s own maids, Patience, Felicity and Crimson, with two of Lady Wang’s maids, Golden and Suncloud, whom Xi-feng had agreed to take with her, in the carriage behind. In the carriage after them sat another couple of maids and a nurse holding Xi-feng’s little girl. Yet more carriages followed carrying the nannies and old women from the various apartments and the women whose duty it was to act as duennas when the ladies of the household went out of doors.

He was a self-righteous know-it-all who had the breath of a dung beetle, a gray ponytail he barely pulled together from the bozo ring of hair clinging to his balding, freckled dome, and loved to drink, of all things, tea. Usually it was some sickly sweet-smelling herbal crap that was made in the hippie wasteland of Boulder, Colorado. The box was festooned with the image of a happy, dancing bear in a field of multicolored flowers and the tea had some idiotic name like Tai Chai. After work one evening, I snatched the box of tea bags from the break room and changed the recipe. I wasn't really worried that any other employees would use one of the tea bags because NO ONE DRINKS FUCKING TEA AT WORK, especially not the totally useless, noncaffeinated fairy tears reserved for old maids to sip while they watch Murder, She Wrote in bed with their legion of cats.

As he turned, he happened to catch sight of Dai-yu, who was sitting behind Bao-chai, smiling mockingly and stroking her cheek with her finger – which in sign-language means, ‘You are a great big liar and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.

Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea. They talk about their “morning ritual” and how they “dress for writing” and the cabin in Big Sur where they go to “be alone”—blah blah blah. No one tells the truth about writing a book. Authors pretend their stories were always shiny and perfect and just waiting to be written. The truth is, writing is this: hard and boring and occasionally great but usually not. Even I have lied about writing. I have told people that writing this book has been like brushing away dirt from a fossil. What a load of shit. It has been like hacking away at a freezer with a screwdriver. I

audience looks on somberly, the woman, Chai Jing, displays a graph of brown-red peaks with occasional troughs. “This was the PM 2.5 curve for Beijing in January 2013, when there were 25 days of smog in that one month,” explains Ms. Chai, a former Chinese television reporter,

blouse walking on to a stage dimly lit in blue. As an audience looks on somberly, the woman, Chai Jing, displays a graph of brown-red peaks with occasional troughs. “This was the PM

Cigarettes and communism have always gone hand in hand since there can be no better way of building comradeship than sharing a smoke. I

They moved in. They prayed. They made and drank chai.

Yat so, so dou mei, The first comb, combs to the end, (May your marriage last a lifetime) Yi so, ji syun mun dei, The second comb, to have children and grandchildren everywhere, (May you be blessed with children and grandchildren) Saam so, baak faat chai mei! The third comb, for white hair and white eyebrows! (May you be blessed with longevity)

1 cup strawberry preserves 8 herbal peach tea bags 12 fresh strawberries, cored and sliced Ice Using a medium saucepan, add 4 cups of water, strawberry preserves, and peach tea bags, and bring to a boil. Remove from heat, and steep 15 minutes. Pour in remaining 6 cups of cold water. Remove tea bags and let cool completely. Then, add strawberry slices, and stir.

Charlotte Bell was waiting in line at the coffee stand, not fidgeting, not tapping her toes, not looking at her phone, she was just there. Present in some indefinable but obvious way. Probably counting her breaths or reminding herself that the anticipation would make her almond chai latte taste better. She alone looked at peace amidst the disorder, as though she were standing in the eye of the storm.

For someone who, like James Redd, prefers the simplicity and straightforwardness of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, a trip to Starbucks is like a journey into another dimension. In much the same way, one-size-fits-all coffee does not cut it for the Bleus. Phoebe’s favorite order is the “grande two-pump skinny vanilla latte.” Finn almost always gets a “grande skim latte with mocha and peppermint, 4.5 pumps, nonfat, no water, no foam, with extra hot chai.” Although people with fluid worldviews talk about these drinks among their friends fully believing that everyone knows what they mean, the Redds would probably need a translator to learn that Phoebe has ordered a large skim-milk latte with a half shot of sugar-free vanilla syrup, while Finn has asked for a medium nonfat latte with four and a half pumps of chai syrup, no water added, the foam taken off the top, and the cup filled with extra-hot steamed milk.

1. Xã hội đã văn minh hơn. Ngày nay, phần lớn đều đồng ý rằng ngay cả với súc vật chúng ta cũng cần có những nguyên tắc đối xử nhân đạo, không bắt chúng làm việc tới kiệt sức, không đánh đập chúng khi chúng “lười”, không nuôi chúng lấy thịt trong những điều kiện tàn nhẫn, và cho chúng một cái chết không đau đớn khi cần giết chúng. Từ thời của Kant, khi khái niệm quyền động vật còn xa lạ, ông đã cho rằng tra tấn động vật là sai trái. Kant không quan tâm tới những đau khổ mà động vật phải chịu đựng, nhưng tới tác động của việc tra tấn chúng tới xã hội con người. Chính chúng ta sẽ chịu đau khổ, một cách gián tiếp, bởi vì “người độc ác với động vật sẽ trở nên chai sạn khi cư xử với con người”. 2. Chúng ta cần tôn trọng nhân phẩm của người khác kể cả khi họ không nhất thiết được coi là “xứng đáng” để được tôn trọng. Nói một cách khác, tôi tôn trọng anh ta vì anh ấy là một con người, mặc dù qua những gì tôi biết về tính cách và hành động của anh ta, anh ấy không dáng được ca ngợi. Kant viết: “Tôi không thể rút lại sự tôn trọng thuộc về anh ấy bởi thuộc tính anh ấy là người, mặc dù qua các hành vi của mình anh ta tự làm mình trở nên thiếu tư cách.” 3. Với Kant, giá trị đạo đức cơ bản nhất, còn nền tảng hơn cả yêu thương hay trắc ẩn, là tôn trọng. Kant không yêu cầu chúng ta quý mến hay yêu thương người chúng ta không quý mến được và không yêu thương được, nhưng yêu cầu chúng ta đối xử với họ với sự tôn trọng, không hạ nhục hay ngược đãi họ, kể cả khi họ là kẻ cắp, kẻ hiếp dâm, lừa đảo, tham nhũng. Không khó để đối xử đẹp với người chúng ta quý mến hay yêu thương, nhưng điều quan trọng nằm ở cách chúng ta đối xử với những người còn lại. Chuẩn mực văn minh không cho phép chúng ta tàn nhẫn hay phục thù. Chúng ta không lăng nhục kẻ lăng nhục, không hiếp dâm kẻ hiếp dâm, không tra tấn kẻ tra tấn. Theo đại văn hào Nga Dostoyevsky, người ta có thể biết được mức độ văn minh của một cộng đồng khi đi vào nhà tù của nó. 4. Với người, cũng giống như với các thứ khác, kẻ mua, chứ không phải kẻ bán, là người xác định giá. Bởi nếu để người ta tự đánh giá thì phần lớn sẽ coi bản thân ở mức cao nhất, mà giá trị thực của anh ta thì lại không cao hơn sự ước lượng của người khác.” 5. “Tôi nói chuyện với người nào cũng theo cách như nhau, bất kể anh ta là người quét rác hay chủ tịch trường đại học.” - Albert Einstein “Ở những điểm sâu sắc nhất, các tôn giáo nhấn mạnh rằng sâu thẳm ở bên trong, mỗi con người là siêu việt và nằm ngoài tầm nắm bắt của chúng ta.”-Karen Amstrong 6. Tuy nhiên, tha thứ thành công không có nghĩa là quan hệ của người bị hại và kẻ gây hại nhất thiết phải trở lại như trước khi cái sai xảy ra. Để phục hồi lại quan hệ và niềm tin, cần thêm một bước nữa. Đó là hòa giải. Nếu như tha thứ là buông bỏ ý muốn trả thù và sự cay đắng, và thậm chí còn có thể phát triển những cảm xúc tích cực về người gây hại, thấu cảm với những đau đớn và u mê của họ, mong muốn họ được cải hóa và gặp những điều tốt lành, thì hòa giải đi xa thêm nữa. Hòa giải hàn gắn, phục hồi lại quan hệ giữa hai người. Tha thứ thay đổi thái độ của ta với kẻ gây hại. Hòa giải khôi phục lại quan hệ của ta với họ. Tha thứ có thể không đi kèm với hòa giải. Một người vợ có thể tha thứ cho người chồng bạo lực, hiểu vì sao anh ta hành xử vậy, thậm chí giúp đỡ khi anh ta gặp khó khăn, nhưng nếu anh ta không cải thiện được các hành vi của mình, thì hòa giải và tiếp tục quan hệ hôn nhân là một điều nguy hiểm. Trong trường hợp đó, người vợ nên từ chối tiếp tục là nạn nhân. Cô nên xây dựng cuộc sống riêng của mình mà không có người chồng, mặc dù không mang theo sự oán trách và giận dữ, bởi cô đã tha thứ. Ngược lại, một người nhẫn nhục tự nguyện chịu đựng cái sai trái của người khác không phải là người có trái tim tha thứ, mà là một người không phân biệt được đúng sai.

5. Xem thế thì biết, không có lòng trắc ẩn thì không phải là người; không có lòng tu ố (biết xấu hổ) thì không phải là người; không có lòng từ nhượng (biết nhường nhịn) thì không phải là người; không có lòng thị phi (biết phân biệt đúng sai) thì không 6. “Chúng ta đánh giá người khác qua hành vi của họ, và đánh giá bản thân qua ý định của mình.” - Ian Percy 7. Nelson Mandela nói rằng cần đánh giá một đất nước không phải qua cách nó đối xử với các công dân cao quý nhất, mà qua cách nó đối xử với các công dân thấp kém nhất của mình. Các bạn có nghĩa vụ luôn nhắc nhở chúng ta tới câu nói đó”. 8. Xã hội đã văn minh hơn. Ngày nay, phần lớn đều đồng ý rằng ngay cả với súc vật chúng ta cũng cần có những nguyên tắc đối xử nhân đạo, không bắt chúng làm việc tới kiệt sức, không đánh đập chúng khi chúng “lười”, không nuôi chúng lấy thịt trong những điều kiện tàn nhẫn, và cho chúng một cái chết không đau đớn khi cần giết chúng. Từ thời của Kant, khi khái niệm quyền động vật còn xa lạ, ông đã cho rằng tra tấn động vật là sai trái. Kant không quan tâm tới những đau khổ mà động vật phải chịu đựng, nhưng tới tác động của việc tra tấn chúng tới xã hội con người. Chính chúng ta sẽ chịu đau khổ, một cách gián tiếp, bởi vì “người độc ác với động vật sẽ trở nên chai sạn khi cư xử với con người”. 9. Chúng ta cần tôn trọng nhân phẩm của người khác kể cả khi họ không nhất thiết được coi là “xứng đáng” để được tôn trọng. Nói một cách khác, tôi tôn trọng anh ta vì anh ấy là một con người, mặc dù qua những gì tôi biết về tính cách và hành động của anh ta, anh ấy không dáng được ca ngợi. Kant viết: “Tôi không thể rút lại sự tôn trọng thuộc về anh ấy bởi thuộc tính anh ấy là người, mặc dù qua các hành vi của mình anh ta tự làm mình trở nên thiếu tư cách.” 10. Với Kant, giá trị đạo đức cơ bản nhất, còn nền tảng hơn cả yêu thương hay trắc ẩn, là tôn trọng. Kant không yêu cầu chúng ta quý mến hay yêu thương người chúng ta không quý mến được và không yêu thương được, nhưng yêu cầu chúng ta đối xử với họ với sự tôn trọng, không hạ nhục hay ngược đãi họ, kể cả khi họ là kẻ cắp, kẻ hiếp dâm, lừa đảo, tham nhũng. Không khó để đối xử đẹp với người chúng ta quý mến hay yêu thương, nhưng điều quan trọng nằm ở cách chúng ta đối xử với những người còn lại. Chuẩn mực văn minh không cho phép chúng ta tàn nhẫn hay phục thù. Chúng ta không lăng nhục kẻ lăng nhục, không hiếp dâm kẻ hiếp dâm, không tra tấn kẻ tra tấn. Theo đại văn hào Nga Dostoyevsky, người ta có thể biết được mức độ văn minh của một cộng đồng khi đi vào nhà tù của nó. 11. Với người, cũng giống như với các thứ khác, kẻ mua, chứ không phải kẻ bán, là người xác định giá. Bởi nếu để người ta tự đánh giá thì phần lớn sẽ coi bản thân ở mức cao nhất, mà giá trị thực của anh ta thì lại không cao hơn sự ước lượng của người khác.”

How do you go from ruthless capitalist matchmaking pimp one moment to considerate gentleman the next?" "Im a complicated man." He joined her at the credenza. "I thought I'd stay in case you needed more snacks." "I'll allow it," she said magnanimously. "But I'll do the talking. You can just scowl and look frightening and intense. It shouldn't be hard since it seems to be your normal state of being." Sam snorted. "And here I thought I was doing you a favor..." "Would you like some tea?" "If it's not chai." "No one hates chai. What kind of desi are you?" She filled a cup with boiling water and motioned for him to select a tea bag. "The bad kind." His lips quirked at the corners. He'd smiled more since meeting Layla than he had in the last two years. "I should have guessed." She raised an admonishing eyebrow. "You have bad boy written all over you." He selected the Black Dragon tea simply because the name appealed to his senses. Anything that had to do with highly intelligent, powerful, fire-breathing creatures couldn't be bad.

All of Life's solution come up with a cup of Chai.

I'm about as American as chicken korma, apple pie, and chai, but even after forty years I'm still told to "go back." Where, exactly? In America, who (and what) are you when you're both "us" and "them"? When I'm a native but seen as a foreigner? When I'm a citizen but also seen as a perpetual suspect? When I'm your neighbor but also seen as an invader? When I'm a cultural creator but also seen as an eraser of white identity and European civilization?

I am sorry I cannot fill my hands with moonlight and give it to you. I go back to bed and dream of meeting you again.

The handsome man crouching over the dead mechanic looked straight into my eyes and spoke in a low growl. “I didn’t do this. You have to believe me.” I didn’t believe him.

It was frustrating how many arbitrary guidelines there were for women. Women were supposed to be smart, strong, independent, forward, brave, fearless, and unique. But they weren’t supposed to shine too bright, be too bold, too sharp. They were supposed to fit in, have friends, make people think they were sexually invigorated but not actually be sexy for themselves, and respect everyone so they would appear soft and feminine. This double-edged sword was encased in a cultural sheath. Every country had customs and traditions that were supposed to be valued and cherished, and India was no different.

I was just something to admire for a little while. Not meant to have an option, let alone make an impact. At least, that was the old me. But I didn’t know who this new me was either. I was caught in the middle. In the middle of me.

He’d always dipped the crisp arrowroot cookies into her chai because he didn’t like his own picking up the flavor. He did it now, and she didn’t stop him. Not all ways of taking someone for granted were hurtful. Everyone deserved someone whose chai they could dip their biscuits into without thought.

You find beauty in the small things,” Nash said, and the tenderness in his eyes was unmistakable. “Isn’t that the only way to live? To find beauty in all moments?” Kiran asked.

chai tea latte.

I don’t mean English. I mean in their language, through their eyes. They only see their stories as valid. Give them that. Give them their stories but write them better. You’ve studied English literature; you know how it works.’ He

Cafe by the Sea by Jenny Colgan, and

I was awakened early by the massed cockerels of Osh. There had been heavy rain overnight, and as I lay in bed I could hear the first traffic splashing through deep puddles in the potholed streets. Unfamiliar birdsong floated in, and a thin steam rose off the windowsills. I found myself in a faded hotel suite of two bedrooms, bathroom and huge sitting room full of ancient threadbare sofas draped in rugs. I felt very much at home; even more so when the hotelier brought in a breakfast tray of fresh, hot bread, honey, butter and chai. I even enjoyed the stampede of silverfish that fled the bathroom and the rusty water of the shower. I knew for certain I was going to like Kyrgyzstan.

I had, by now, travelled about half the breadth and almost the entire length of the country. If I were to join with a pencil the places I visited during the past few weeks, I would be drawing a crude ‘S’ on the map of India. These are places that don’t mean a thing to you because you never get down there, but at the same time they mean the world to you because no train journey is complete without them. They are irrelevant, yet they are a ritual. Next time when my train halts at any of these junctions, my mind would be racing back to the lanes and bylanes of these towns, which I know now like the back of my hand. But since I have been there and done that, I would, in all probability, be standing at the door of my coach and looking out for the man calling, ‘Chai, chai!

I felt the problem was that no one in the family had learned to stand up to Uncle Harry’s bullying. He was considered the clever one, the successful businessman and he had the most money, which intimidated my grandparents into thinking he was something they should be proud of.

Yit-gadal v’yit-kadash sh’may raba B’alma dee-v’ra che-ru-tay Ve’yam-lich mal-chutay b’chai-yay-chon uv’yo-may-chon Uv-cha-yay d’chol beit Yisrael Ba-agala u-vitze-man ka-riv, ve’imru Amen. Y’hay sh’may raba me’varach Le-alam uleh-almay alma-ya . . .

unlike you, Chai isn't completely ignorant." "Hey!" "Sorry, the nightmare bat-insects are getting to me," I said." "The what?

his old life looked small and blinkered. Still, he wanted it back. He wanted his quiet, ordered days back, growing old among the towering shelves, exploring the space between two covers while sitting in a comfortable chair, with a hot cup of chai within arm’s reach.

He brought her gossip and scandals and intimate secrets. He brought her the truth of his brave heart, and the mischievous, awe-struck wonder that was the wellspring of his laughter, and of that sky-wide smile. And as I watched him scurry toward the chai shop, I saw that already his head was wagging and his hands were waving as he rehearsed the story that he brought to her as the new day’s gift.

Your engagement ring, dummy.” "He had jammed it in the middle of the muffin, and I ate it." Tabby shook the glass in front of the screen making the purple contents slosh around. "Which is why I’m drinking prune juice." Becky’s hand froze, her mouth dropped open, and she slowly rotated her blonde head where the comb lay forgotten in the middle of her curls. She passed the test of friendship when she did not laugh. “If that is how you got engaged, I wonder what your wedding will be like.” Tabby

Her sister had always teased her saying that people who drank tea were boring, but the ones who drank coffee were cool.

My brother laughed at my nostalgia, reminding me that I could still drive the car when I came home. He didn’t understand that it wasn’t just the driving I’d miss. That it was the tinfoil balls, the New York Times, and the broken speaker; the fingernail marks, the stray cassettes, and the smell of chai. Alone that night and parked in my driveway, I listened to Frank Sinatra with the moon roof slid back.

None of us is exactly who we think we are. Who we want to be. Learning to live with that, or change it if we can, is called growing up.

A rabbit should be cute, not a full-grown human being.

Bạn hỏi mình về cảm giác khi yêu, mình hỏi có bao giờ bạn cảm thấy mọi điều cùng lúc chưa? Êm đềm và ray rứt, ồn ào và lặng lẽ, ấm áp và cô độc, thấu hiểu và riêng rẽ... đều có cả, nhưng rất ít tính sở hữu, không giày vò nhau, không cố gây đau đớn cho nhau để được nhung nhớ, không đòi hỏi bằng nhu cầu được cho đi, được vỗ về họ, được bù đắp, được an ủi họ. Thế là ở giữa vườn hoa đầy ắp tình yêu rồi. Cảm giác đó nếu một lần chảy qua trong đời sẽ trở thành cột mốc lớn lao, là chất làm mềm đi trái tim chai sạn và giải phóng những khúc ca chưa từng được hát..

All the bad moments were converging, everything at once, like we couldn't hold them off anymore, as though there weren't enough good memories to keep the bad ones from winning.

I love the smell of Chai Tea in the morning... (What should have been said in "Apocalypse Now")

Are you afraid that you're hurting your national auto industry? - Environmental protection isn't a burden. It's innovation. Protecting a backward industry is no way to promote innovation. The government's role is to set standards and then ensure fair competition in the market. You win the market through fair competition.

चाय भी एक तरह सोशल नेटवर्क ही तो है

Every Day Take Your Daily Doses Black Cumin (Nigella sativa) (¼ tsp) As noted in the Appetite Suppression section, a systematic review and meta-analysis of randomized, controlled weight-loss trials found that about a quarter teaspoon of black cumin powder every day appears to reduce body mass index within a span of a couple of months. Note that black cumin is different from regular cumin, for which the dosing is different. (See below.) Garlic Powder (¼ tsp) Randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled studies have found that as little as a daily quarter teaspoon of garlic powder can reduce body fat at a cost of perhaps two cents a day. Ground Ginger (1 tsp) or Cayenne Pepper (½ tsp) Randomized controlled trials have found that ¼ teaspoon to 1½ teaspoons a day of ground ginger significantly decreased body weight for just pennies a day. It can be as easy as stirring the ground spice into a cup of hot water. Note: Ginger may work better in the morning than evening. Chai tea is a tasty way to combine the green tea and ginger tweaks into a single beverage. Alternately, for BAT activation, you can add one raw jalapeño pepper or a half teaspoon of red pepper powder (or, presumably, crushed red pepper flakes) into your daily diet. To help beat the heat, you can very thinly slice or finely chop the jalapeño to reduce its bite to little prickles, or mix the red pepper into soup or the whole-food vegetable smoothie I featured in one of my cooking videos on NutritionFacts.org.4985

One of the many online arguments I've had about the importance of language, how language can hurt, has been about tea. Chai tea means tea tea. The number of times you see this on a menu makes you wonder why people can't be bothered to do their research. Like naan bread too. Bread bread.

His face was slack, his mouth turned down, and his eyes puffy-looking without their glasses over them. He lay very still. I held my breath, suddenly thinking something terrible, something terrifying, but then he breathed out, very slowly, his chest falling from under the chenille throw that was supposed to be in the family room. I wanted to wake him up immediately, the way I had when I was a little girl and I needed something right away. One year I'd gotten up at dawn for Christmas, but Mama said we couldn't open any presents until everyone was awake. Papa slept late on holidays and by mid-morning I couldn't stand the wait. I filled a glass with cold water from the kitchen and brought it to the bedroom and poured it on his face. He hadn't been angry. But I didn't dare do that now. I wasn't a little girl anymore, I couldn't pretend I didn't know better. I crept back to the edge of the staircase and sat on the bottom, my knees bent against my chest, my head against my arms, the tags on my bra scratching at my skin. I didn't even have a book to pass the time, but it didn't matter. The answer I needed wasn't in a book. Instead I sensed that I should sit, I should be patient, I should wait like this until my father finally woke up.

I just want you to know," my father said, "I forgive you." "For what?" I said. "For everything." It was just unbelievable. I had taken care of my mother when she was ill. I had taken care of my father after his heart surgery. Had they paid me? Had they worried that this might be a hardship for me? Had they asked my brother to take time off the tenure track to help them? And now, here it was my winter break, I had friends going on trips, Hong Kong, Myanmar, but no, I'd told them all I couldn't go because my father had said he wanted to visit me. So I let him come and gave him my bed, and I drive him across the Bay to visit his crazy old friends and play the filial game, and now this! When I was a teenager, he'd spent money on my brother for a car, a motorcycle, a three-wheeler even, and I wasn't allowed to go out after dark, and the housework I'd done, and the cooking, and who had to work her way through college? I felt the old familiar anger settling into my stomach again, and I remembered why I'd wanted to move far away from my family in the first place, vowing to stay away. I took a deep cleansing breath, the kind the therapist recommended when she talked about family dynamics and repeating the cycle and breaking the cycle, and I exhaled slowly over my teeth. I tried to count to ten but only made it to five. "I forgive you too," I said tightly. "You're welcome," my father agreed. "No, I said I FORGIVE YOU. I didn't thank you.

Chai and ghatiya

If there was a group of men, one of them sipped his chai and told his story, and when he got to a point where he couldn’t continue, the point in the story I most wanted to hear, someone else took a sip of his chai and began his own story, and so on and so forth, until everyone was given a say and not a single story was actually finished.

My Unexpectedly Smooth Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project From Heritage to Highways: Agra to Etawah in Style I’ve always believed that the journey matters just as much as the destination. So when I planned a quick drive from Agra—after soaking in the glory of the Taj Mahal—I decided to take the Agra Etawah Toll Road for the very first time. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much. Indian highways are usually hit-or-miss. But from the moment I entered the toll gate, I knew I was in for a very different kind of ride. A World-Class Highway in the Heart of Uttar Pradesh The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is a marvel. I cruised effortlessly on a six-lane expressway, flanked by proper barriers, clear signboards, and smooth curves. No bumps, no chaotic junctions—just uninterrupted driving bliss. And the best part? You’re not just saving time—you’re actually enjoying the drive. Wide open stretches, with views of the countryside rolling by, made me forget I was just on a basic intercity trip. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Safe, Smart, and Scenic Everything about this road screams planning. I noticed SOS booths, speed-monitoring cameras, and regular exit points, which give you peace of mind, especially when traveling solo like I was. The roadside amenities were decent too—fuel stations, food stalls, and shaded rest zones at reasonable intervals. No stress, no guessing games—just a safe, smart journey. #ModernRoadMakers Talking with Locals: Real Benefits on the Ground I stopped at a chai stall near the highway and chatted with a few truck drivers. One of them told me that what used to be a painfully long and unpredictable trip has now become a reliable daily route. For transporters, locals, and travelers like me—it’s a win-win. This road doesn’t just connect cities. It connects lives, businesses, and opportunities. A Road Worth Remembering By the time I reached Etawah, I wasn’t tired—I was impressed. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project felt like the kind of infrastructure India has been waiting for. For those who love the open road, this one’s a gem. Don’t think of it as just another toll road—think of it as a glimpse into India’s bright and well-paved future. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure