Indian Bride Quotes

Chaap Tilak Chhap tilak sab cheeni ray mosay naina milaikay Chhap tilak sab cheeni ray mosay naina milaikay Prem bhatee ka madhva pilaikay Matvali kar leeni ray mosay naina milaikay Gori gori bayyan, hari hari churiyan Bayyan pakar dhar leeni ray mosay naina milaikay Bal bal jaaon mein toray rang rajwa Apni see kar leeni ray mosay naina milaikay Khusrau Nijaam kay bal bal jayyiye Mohay Suhaagan keeni ray mosay naina milaikay Chhap tilak sab cheeni ray mosay naina milaikay Translation You've taken away my looks, my identity, by just a glance. By making me drink the wine of love-potion, You've intoxicated me by just a glance; My fair, delicate wrists with green bangles in them, Have been held tightly by you with just a glance. I give my life to you, Oh my cloth-dyer, You've dyed me in yourself, by just a glance. I give my whole life to you Oh, Nijam, You've made me your bride, by just a glance.

Arriving on Bainbridge Island is the opposite of arriving in Seattle. When you got in your car and waited to unload off the ferry in Seattle, you saw the Space Needle, cars, and a mound of urban construction. Once you exit the ferry terminal on Bainbridge, however, it’s mostly trees. Pine as far as the eye can see. Well, pines, firework and coffee stands, and eventually a casino. You drive through the Port Madison Indian Reservation when you leave the island. I couldn’t help but smile as I went past the casino. I didn’t really get gambling, since I’d never had money to throw away, but as I passed through all the beautiful countryside that I’m sure once belonged to the tribe, I sort of hoped they would rob the white man blind. Perhaps not politically correct, but the feeling was there all the same.

here he dug in his pockets and produced a thimble, a root, two empty tin cans, three Indian arrowheads, an apple peeler, a dried-up boll weevil, and a bent pocketknife.

The perfect marriage, like the perfect body, is mythical. I never met a woman who's said she has the perfect marriage or the perfect body...There's always something lacking. -- Virgin Bride

There was no Disney World then, just rows of orange trees. Millions of them. Stretching for miles And somewhere near the middle was the Citrus Tower, which the tourists climbed to see even more orange trees. Every month an eighty-year-old couple became lost in the groves, driving up and down identical rows for days until they were spotted by helicopter or another tourist on top of the Citrus Tower. They had lived on nothing but oranges and come out of the trees drilled on vitamin C and checked into the honeymoon suite at the nearest bed-and-breakfast. "The Miami Seaquarium put in a monorail and rockets started going off at Cape Canaveral, making us feel like we were on the frontier of the future. Disney bought up everything north of Lake Okeechobee, preparing to shove the future down our throats sideways. "Things evolved rapidly! Missile silos in Cuba. Bales on the beach. Alligators are almost extinct and then they aren't. Juntas hanging shingles in Boca Raton. Richard Nixon and Bebe Rebozo skinny-dipping off Key Biscayne. We atone for atrocities against the INdians by playing Bingo. Shark fetuses in formaldehyde jars, roadside gecko farms, tourists waddling around waffle houses like flocks of flightless birds. And before we know it, we have The New Florida, underplanned, overbuilt and ripe for a killer hurricane that'll knock that giant geodesic dome at Epcot down the trunpike like a golf ball, a solid one-wood by Buckminster Fuller. "I am the native and this is my home. Faded pastels, and Spanish tiles constantly slipping off roofs, shattering on the sidewalk. Dogs with mange and skateboard punks with mange roaming through yards, knocking over garbage cans. Lunatics wandering the streets at night, talking about spaceships. Bail bondsmen wake me up at three A.M. looking for the last tenant. Next door, a mail-order bride is clubbed by a smelly ma in a mechanic's shirt. Cats violently mate under my windows and rats break-dance in the drop ceiling. And I'm lying in bed with a broken air conditioner, sweating and sipping lemonade through a straw. And I'm thinking, geez, this used to be a great state. "You wanna come to Florida? You get a discount on theme-park tickets and find out you just bough a time share. Or maybe you end up at Cape Canaveral, sitting in a field for a week as a space shuttle launch is canceled six times. And suddenly vacation is over, you have to catch a plane, and you see the shuttle take off on TV at the airport. But you keep coming back, year after year, and one day you find you're eighty years old driving through an orange grove.

waters. When he was full-grown, Heti had him married to Sandhya Devi’s daughter, Salakatankata, and Vidyutkesa enjoyed his bride as Indra does Paulomi.

achieved a result, then just hours later this retreat, which didn't worry him, he said, the confession would weigh heavily in court, it needed explaining. We're hopeful that Gøran will be convicted, he said, sounding very persuasive.

Nobody asked the Negro what he thunk about the whole business, by the way, nor the Indian, when I think of it, for neither of their thoughts didn't count, even through most of the squabbling was about them on the outside, for at bottom the whole business was about land and money, something nobody who was squabbling seemed to ever get enough of.

And now this talk of bringing the UN back into the picture. But that old UN girl - it turns out that she just ain't what she was cracked up to be. She's been demoted (although she retains her high salary). Now she's the world's janitor. She's the Filipino cleaning lady, the Indian jamardini, the postal bride from Thailand, the Mexican household help, the Jamaican au pair. She's employed to clean other people's shit. She's used and abused at will.

When Sweetu wasn’t being reduced to merely existing as a bride, as a piece of meat to be handled and prodded, to have decorative contraptions stuck into her skull, her interests were otherwise unexpressed. She rarely complained, hardly asked for anything, and maybe that’s because Indian girls grow up going to weddings and we watch the procedure and we know our roles: be demure, don’t complain, cry but don’t scream, get tea for anyone older than you, and calmly meet expectations.

There is a story about a great chief and his negro wife They were in a trading post, and white men took his wife away. They said she was someone’s property and had to be returned to its rightful owner.” His voice hardened with emotion. “They wish to destroy everything they cannot have. But…” He stopped walking and tipped her chin up. "That Indian chief killed every white man in his path until he got his bride back. I will not let them take you.” He leaned forward and kissed her.

I borrowed the term from a particular American Indian tradition. When a bride married her husband, her mother told her that after marriage, at the end of the day, a man would withdraw into his cave. At those times, don’t go in his cave or you will be burned by his dragon. She was referring of course to a man’s anger.

I’m Osawatomie John Brown of Kansas,” he declared. He liked to use his full Indian name when he was warring. “And I come to free the Negro people.

Everybody has room next to us. no one comes to resurrect us. we have room for brides for grooms in the tight places no one comes to say you’re too many. no one. complains of crowding. too understanding with the living we breed like field rabbits per square meter we breathe the same air. crowns of viruses. faraway emperors when we dreamed with a thousand eyes a thousand feet. given what we were no one thought we’d be used against ourselves only the ground bulges at its ends. all on top of each other we make love under pressure in all sorts of positions undiscovered by the kama sutra. we liquefy we ooze dandelion syrup through all our holes. sometimes we think we’re breaking into indian hemp flowers our faces melt down our mouths are parched. we laugh at ourselves from our diaphragms. (in english by Diana Manole)

Gandhi’s second son, Manilal, had been sent away to South Africa. With Albert West, he was running the Phoenix settlement and publishing the magazine Gandhi had founded in 1903, Indian Opinion. Manilal was lonely, and desperately keen to get married (he was now in his mid-twenties, well past the age at which Indian males then found their brides). Gandhi insisted that Manilal continue to be celibate. In January 1918, Gandhi wrote to him that ‘You may consider marriage only when you can leave Indian Opinion in good order....We have a thousand desires; all of them cannot be satisfied.’ To West’s sister, Gandhi wrote that if Manilal ‘can stand a few more years of bachelor life, he will get hardened’. Writing to Manilal, Gandhi fretted that he ‘could not attract Harilal to my path of a truth-seeker and he dropped away from it’. He thought he might yet succeed with his second son. Gandhi told Manilal that 'You have stayed on in my life, but are discontented. You can’t bring yourself to go out of it, and yet do not altogether like being in it. This is why you are not at peace with yourself.... I have not harmed you intentionally. All I have done I did in the belief that it was for your good. Is not this enough to bring down your anger against me?'.

Yet no number of evil deeds could be excused by anything in the Good Book.

Antes, the great composer, husband, father, revolutionary, statesman, plunderer, iron maker, wife beater, cornetist, Indian grave robber, and all-around great American who served as president of Pottstown borough

It was one thing to read, to enjoy reading, and quite another to hide in a book, to look for joy and fulfillment in the life of somebody else, somebody fictional.

St. Lawrence River May 1705 Temperature 48 degrees “You know what is happening with Eben, don’t you?” “Will he marry Sarah?” Mercy asked excitedly. “We don’t know how it worked out. Tell us.” “Father Meriel will honor Sarah’s decision to accept Eben. I guess it’s going to be quite an event. The French family does not accept Sarah’s decision, and they’re going ahead with their wedding plans. Eben’s Indian family are going ahead with their wedding plans. There’s going to be one bride, two grooms and a lot of armed men.” Ebenezer was laughing about it. Mercy certainly hoped it was safe to laugh. “I don’t think anybody will actually fight,” said Ebenezer. “Father Meriel will straighten it out.

Just wait a month, and this meadow will be carpeted in bluebonnets,” Sarah promised him. “And the next month, gold and red flowers, Indian blanket, Mexican hat, primroses—Nolan, you can’t believe how beautiful it is!” “I can’t believe how beautiful you are, Sarah,” he said, cupping her cheek. “And as I said in church, how kind, how brave…” “Brave? Me? I’m not brave at all,” she protested. “Milly would tell you I’ve been a quiet little mouse all my life. She’s been the brave one, the leader.” “I don’t think she’d say that anymore, Nurse Sarah. In fact, I think you have all the qualities to make an excellent doctor’s wife.” When his words hit her, she gaped at him. “Dr. Nolan Walker! Did you just propose to me, on our very first outing together?” He grinned. “Ayuh,” he said, in a deliberately exaggerated “Downeast” accent. “We men of Maine don’t waste time. Am I going too fast, sweetheart? I promise you’ll get your courtship, never fear, but you and I both know I’ve been courting you every time we met—as much as you’d let me, anyway—ever since Founder’s Day last fall.” She considered his words. “I guess that’s true. All right, as long as you don’t stint on the courtship—we Texas ladies set great store by courting, I’ll have you know—I agree.” “Did you just say yes, Miss Sarah, on our very first outing as a courting couple?” She nodded, blushing a rosy pink that made her even lovelier still. He couldn’t wait any longer, and lowered his lips to hers.

That’s my Sarah,” he said, extending an arm to tickle her nose with a vivid red Indian paintbrush blossom. “Always more concerned for others than herself. It’s one of the things I love about you.” She swatted playfully at the flower, capturing it, and tickling him back.

the Supreme Court ruling and forced their Indians into Indian Territory (Oklahoma), along what has come to be called the infamous “Trail of Tears.” Although

You ever seen what they do to a captive white woman? If you ask me, them Injuns got exactly what was coming to ’em.” Mr. Steinbach lifted a quizzical brow. “You ever see how some white men treat a squaw?” “It ain’t our doin’ that Injuns sell off their women to no-accounts.” “Marry them off,” Steinbach corrected. “Indians don’t sell their women, Mr. Masters. They accept a bride price, which is entirely different. The gifts are taken in good faith, and the woman is, according to their beliefs, taken as an honored wife. They expect her to be treated as such.” “Bride price!” Henry snorted. “Same thing as sellin’. Heathen animals, ever last one of ’em.” Steinbach smiled. “Perhaps. But then they would say the same of us and the dowry a woman brings into marriage. The way they see it, we pay to get rid of our daughters, which is just as heathenish and doesn’t say much for our women.

considering this is a country where in-laws burn brides, they did seem like nice people. More

Like Alec, his complexion was almost swarthy. But the Indian sun had darkened Aidan's still more, so that his skin was a dark, burnished hue that made him appear almost a foreigner- particularly when combined with the beard he'd grown, the patch he'd still worn over one eye upon his return home.

very difficult to cross, and there are still problems with the Indians from time to time. There are the renegade bands to contend with.” Adrian nodded and fixed her with an intense gaze. “There are troubles, to be sure, but the railroad is going to change your world, Miss Gallatin.

In India, a "bride burning"—to punish a woman for an inadequate dowry or to eliminate her so a man can remarry—takes place approximately once every two hours, but these rarely constitute news. In the twin cities of Islamabad and Rawalpindi, Pakistan, five thousand women and girls have been doused in kerosene and set alight by family members or in-laws—or, perhaps worse, been seared with acid—for perceived disobedience just in the last nine years. Imagine the outcry if the Pakistani or Indian governments were burning women alive at those rates. Yet when the government is not directly involved, people shrug.

beating. Emma! A beautiful young woman with golden hair came outside. Her hair was tied into a a tail at the base of her neck. Two Indian women came up to her and they embraced. Each Indian woman held a child, one of them just a little baby.

thousand questions raced through Rafe’s mind. He suspected she wouldn’t answer any of them. “We’ll get you out of here, and I’ll help you get . . . get home.” Where in the world could home be? There weren’t any women in the area. There hadn’t been any since the gold had run out. Well, a few Indians. But her little bit of talking told him she wasn’t one. As he descended, Rafe felt the darkness of the cave press on him like a slowly closing fist, crushing him by inches. He quit talking so he could breathe. After what seemed like forever, he reached the ledge. Stepping off the ladder, he turned, listening. Her breathing was audible. She was close to the left side tunnel, as if she was poised to run down it, away from him. “Please, don’t be afraid. I won’t harm you.

NITA BROADWELL SAT IN THE CAR-POOL LINE READING CAPTIVE Bride of the Choctaw. The love scenes were graphic, and made her feel restless and slightly queasy. She had started out reading Harlequin Romances but had quickly progressed to the harder stuff, and now she read about masters and slave girls, Indian braves and captive white women. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t stop. She had seen women like herself on afternoon talk shows, sad women who were addicted to alcohol, or food, or the Home Shopping Network. She wasn’t sure what a woman addicted to soft porn romance novels would be called, but she was pretty sure there was a name for it. She was pretty sure Oprah or Dr. Phil would know what it was called.

The Delhi Sultans and the Mughals may have arrived from abroad, and their progenitors might initially have harked back to distant cities in the Ferghana Valley as their idea of ‘home’, but they settled in India and retained no extraterritorial allegiance. They married women from India and diluted their foreign blood to the point that in a few generations no trace remained of their foreign ethnicity. Akbar’s son Jehangir was half-Rajput; Jehangir’s son Shah Jehan also came from an Indian bride; Aurangzeb was only one-eighth non-Indian. Of course, the Mughal emperors were all deeply aware of their connections to Ferghana; they would ask emissaries from there about the conditions of their ancestors’ Chingisid tombs and donate money for their upkeep. The past was part of the Mughal identity, but their conceptions of themselves in the present and for the future became more rooted and embedded in India. The British, in contrast, maintained racial exclusivity, practised discrimination against Indians and sneered at miscegenation. Yes, the Mughal emperors taxed the citizens of India, they claimed tributes from subordinate princes, they plundered the treasuries of those they defeated in battle—all like the British—but they spent or saved what they had earned in India, instead of ‘repatriating’ it to Samarkand or Bukhara as the British did by sending their Indian revenues to London. They ploughed the resources of India into the development of India, establishing and patronizing its industries and handicrafts; they brought painters, sculptors and architects from foreign lands, but they absorbed them at their courts and encouraged them to adorn the artistic and cultural heritage of their new land. The British did little, very little, of such things. They basked in the Indian sun and yearned for their cold and fog-ridden homeland; they sent the money they had taken off the perspiring brow of the Indian worker to England; and whatever little they did for India, they ensured India paid for it in excess. And at the end of it all, they went home to enjoy their retirements in damp little cottages with Indian names, their alien rest cushioned by generous pensions provided by Indian taxpayers.

I heard many foreigners and not a few Indians complain about the corruption that adhered to every aspect of public and commercial life in Bombay. My few weeks in the city had already shown me that those complaints were often fair, and often true. But there's no nation uncorrupted. There's no system that's immune to the misuse of money. Privileged and powerful elites grease the wheels of their progress with kickbacks and campaign contributions in the noblest assemblies. And the rich, all over the world, live longer and healthier lives than the poor. There is a difference between the dishonest bride and the honest bribe, Didier Levy once said to me. The dishonest bribe is the same in every country but the honest bride is India's alone. I smiled when he said that because I knew what he meant. India was open. India was honest. And I liked that from the first day.

On the next page, in the weekly small-ad marriage market, the parents of young men still demanded, and the parents of young women proudly offered, brides of ‘wheatish’ complexions. Chamcha remembered Zeeny’s friend, the poet Bhupen Gandhi, speaking of such things with passionate bitterness. ‘How to accuse others of being prejudiced when our own hands are so dirty?’ he had declaimed. ‘Many of you in Britain speak of victimization. Well. I have not been there, I don’t know your situation, but in my personal experience I have never been able to feel comfortable about being described as a victim. In class terms, obviously, I am not. Even speaking culturally, you find here all the bigotries, all the procedures associated with oppressor groups. So while many Indians are undoubtedly oppressed, I don’t think any of us are entitled to lay claim to such a glamorous position.

was

OK, so more fascinating discoveries. This one thanks to Yujiro Hashi. There was a time when the Japanese equivalent for ‘the whole world’ was ‘the three countries.’ So, instead of saying ‘You are the most beautiful person in the whole world,’ they would have said, ‘You are the most beautiful person in the three countries,’ although the import would be the same. The fascinating part is that the three countries referred to are Japan itself, China and India. That was the whole world according to the Japanese mental map of the time. The phrase (now antiquated) is: san goku ichi no xxx, i.e. ‘the best xxx in the three countries (whole world). San goku ichi no hana-yom or the most beautiful bride in the world, is an expression still used at weddings.

I’m not asking you to love me,” Wicapiwakan said.

In the muddy area below, the men of Jamestown gathered. Their excitement was obvious in the way they greeted each other, the rapid pumping of arms and the boisterous slapping of backs. Heads nodded as they conversed and waited to mingle with the ladies who would soon be their help mates. These men had pioneer spirits and courage. They had travelled to an unknown land to make a new life for themselves in a country where even the climate could kill. When these adventurers had first arrived, trade had been established with the Powhatans. Then the fort had been built. Then another, after the Indian raids. Then, the men of God came, and disease came, and the first two women, followed by families, and then winter. Cold, deadly winter followed by four years of Indian wars, and the hollow ache of starvation. Still, year after year, the settlement had survived and one year after the ship, The White Lion, brought the first black people, the settlement was thought safe for women—European women. Wives! It was a glorious day, for now each hard-working man could claim his bounty in female flesh. Of course, there would be opportunities to talk to a woman before making a life-binding decision, and there would be a celebration meal, ale and, no doubt, a dance.

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