Jaipur Quotes

there were three kinds of karma: the accumulated karma from all our past lives; the karma we created in this life; and the karma we stored to ripen in our future lives.

People are more gullible and less compassionate than any of us want to believe.

Success was ephemeral—and fluid—as I’d found out the hard way. It came. It went. It changed you from the outside, but not from the inside. Inside, I was still the same girl who dreamed of a destiny greater than she was allowed. Did I really need the house to prove I had skill, talent, ambition, intelligence? What if—

Hadn’t Gandhi-ji said, An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind?

Some would assert that Providence was at work shaking out its pockets in Humanity's lap. Other would argue for that mindless choreographer, Chance. Either way it was a simple thing: a lost diary fell into the hands of a soul-sick war hero on a train from Bombay to Jaipur just when he'd grown tired of the scenery and needed something to keep his thoughts from the minefield of his wretched thoughts. In such mild ways is the groundwork laid for first kisses and ruined lives.

Be humble for you are made of earth Be noble for you are made of stars. —SERBIAN PROVERB

He deserves paradise who makes his companions laugh.

At this moment, sitting in front of this good, sensible woman, I wanted the thing I hated most in this world. Sympathy. Even more, I hated that I wanted it. Hated myself for my weakness.

Independence changed everything. Independence changed nothing.

I’ve come to think that some people are meant to be in our lives for a certain length of time and not a moment more.

Just then, my mother’s words echoed in my head: stretch your legs only as far as your bed. I was getting too far ahead of myself.

The measure of us isn’t in the day-to-day. And it’s not in our past or our future. It’s in the fundamental changes we make within ourselves over a lifetime. Samaj-jao?

Jaipur is the finest jewelry ever created on earth, where king was the jeweler and bricks his gems.

Jaipur is a blushing bride draped in pink, dancing in our dreams while the peacocks sing.

Before independence, these objects had signified my ladies’ admiration for the British. Now, they signified their scorn. My ladies had changed nothing but the reasons for their pretense. If I had learned anything from them, it was this: only a fool lives in water and remains an enemy of the crocodile.

If you want the rose, you must put up with the thorn. —HINDU PROVERB

If I had learned anything from them, it was this: only a fool lives in water and remains an enemy of the crocodile.

The measure of us isn’t in the day-to-day. And it’s not in our past or our future. It’s in the fundamental changes we make within ourselves over a lifetime.

There's more power in keeping a secret than in betraying it.

Not once had I believed him capable of change. But if I could change, why couldn’t he?

Success was ephemeral—and fluid—as I’d found out the hard way. It came. It went. It changed you from the outside, but not from the inside.

My younger sister was lively and curious, which was good, but she was also untamed—and that could be a dangerous combination.

The one-eyed man is king among the blind,” I replied, smiling.

In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews. The rumormongers made sure of that. Blame lay heavily in my chest. Had I not deserted my marriage, Radha would not have suffered so much, and Maa and Pitaji would not have been so powerless against an entire village.

I felt my spirits lift. I would leave the map of my life here, in Jaipur. I would leave behind a hundred thousand henna strikes. I would no longer call myself a henna artist but tell anyone who asked : I healed, I soothed. I made whole. I would leave behind the useless apologies for my disobedience. I would leave behind my yearning to rewrite my past. My skills, my eagerness to learn and my desire for a life I could call my own - these were things I would take with me. They were part of me the way my blood, my breath, my bones were

I turn the pages carefully. Our tribal elders may not know how to read, but they revere those who can. "Books contain magic," they say.

The poor weren’t the only ones imprisoned by their caste.

When the Goddess of Wealth comes to give you her blessing, you shouldn’t leave the room to wash your face. —Hindu Proverb

A wise man to the rest of the world is a nobody at home.

What is the use of crying when the birds have eaten the whole farm?

I wanted the thing I hated most in this world: sympathy. Even more, I hated that I wanted it. Hated myself for my weakness,

He looks at his father as if to ask how I could possibly know the queens of Jaipur so well. It’s a small satisfaction, and I feel a deep pleasure as I approach Her Highness.

Saasuji once told me there were three kinds of karma: the accumulated karma from all our past lives; the karma we created in this life; and the karma we stored to ripen in our future lives.

The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway. Honesty and transparency make you vulnerable. Be honest and transparent anyway. What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight. Build anyway. Give the world the best you have and you may get hurt. Give the world your best anyway. —MOTHER TERESA

I also realize I’m angry at the injustice of it all. Manu’s signature is on everything. He’ll be held responsible for the greatest calamity Jaipur has known in decades. The Singhs will walk away with only a portion of the blame.

I cried, a bit, as a spoke to Belinda on my mobile phone, in a quiet corner, perhaps the only quiet corner in Jaipur. I told her how I'd hoped Paul would read the forward, that he'd read how much I admired his work and how much I admired him, how much I just plain liked him and loved him. But, even as I spoke, I knew: Paul had always known that. He'd seen in on my face every time we met. What made me cry was the obvious, stupid fact that we'd never meet again.

Miss Charlotte was often and spectacularly silent. But her silence was that of the woods and hills, a natural absence of speech. The maharani’s, on the other hand, made Mrs. Watson think of the walled forts of Jaipur, a silence that watched and hid.

Maa was gentle, but firm. She was brought up to obey her parents and her husband, not to defy, question or contradict. She told me Pitaji’s books had filled my head with too many silly ideas. They had given me the useless notion that I could make my own decisions.

Snobs by Julian Fellowes The Piano Teacher by Janice Y. K. Lee People Like Us by Dominick Dunne The Power of Style by Annette Tapert and Diana Edkins (this is out of print; I will lend you my copy) Pride and Avarice by Nicholas Coleridge The Soong Dynasty by Sterling Seagrave Freedom by Jonathan Franzen D. V. by Diana Vreeland A Princess Remembers: The Memoirs of the Maharani of Jaipur by Gayatri Devi Jane Austen—complete works beginning with Pride and Prejudice Edith Wharton—The Custom of the Country, The Age of Innocence, The Buccaneers, The House of Mirth (must be read in strict order—you will understand why when you finish the last one) Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh Anthony Trollope—all the books in the Palliser series, beginning with Can You Forgive Her?

Samir Singh frequented the pleasure houses of Hazi and Nasreen whenever he had business in Agra. There, Muslim noblemen, Bengali businessmen and Hindu doctors and lawyers smoked hookahs, and ate and drank as the courtesans recited ancient poetry, sang sweet, nostalgic ghazals and performed

Independence changed everything. Independence changed nothing. Eight years after the British left, we now had free government schools, running water and paved roads. But Jaipur still felt the same to me as it had ten years ago, the first time I stepped foot on its dusty soil. On the way to our first appointment of the morning, Malik and I nearly collided with a man carrying cement bags on his head when a bicycle cut between us. The cyclist, hugging a six-foot ladder under his arm, caused a horse carriage to sideswipe a pig, who ran squealing into a narrow alley. At one point, we stepped aside and waited for a raucous band of hijras to pass. The sari-clad, lipstick-wearing men were singing and dancing in front of a house to bless the birth of a baby boy. So accustomed were we to the odors of the city—cow dung, cooking fires, coconut hair oil, sandalwood incense and urine—that we barely noticed them.

I should have known that Moti-Lal would figure it out. More than once, he’s told me selling gold requires an insight into human nature. He says you must be able to discern the intensity of a customer’s desire by looking into their eyes. That will tell you what to show, what to hold back, and how much the customer is willing to part with.

Being a woman is difficult. I can see why my mother didn’t like her own gender. We can do so much. Give so much. But not everyone wants what we’re offering. And in the end, we’re left with...pieces of a whole. Shards. Splinters. Chips. Pick them up, they cut our hands. Leave them on the ground, they cut our feet. It’s hard for us to just walk away.

Independence of our country was actually the event of the century, Nikhil.” “Well, I wasn’t alive then, Papaji. But I’m alive

I never knew there was a place where you could go look at books, much less borrow them, then return them when you are through looking. Imagine! Something that precious!

She expected from me what wasn’t mine to give. Forgiveness. Absolution. I was a stranger.

He was committed to his ideals. Unfortunately, high ideals came with a price.

An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind?

I would leave behind the useless apologies for my disobedience. I would leave behind the yearning to rewrite my past.

Why am I the one who must find the solution to a problem I didn’t cause?

Nimmi and I don’t belong. Not truly. To one set of beliefs, one set of traditions. But we can create our own traditions. Observe those we like, abandon those we don’t.

In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews.

stretch your legs only as far as your bed. I was getting too far ahead of myself.

To her, a hill woman accustomed to sleeping in the open air on bedding quilts padded with scraps of old blankets, these two-story Shimla houses, built by the British, must seem obscenely luxurious.

There were three kinds of karma: the accumulated karma from all our past lives; the karma we created in this life; and the karma we stored to ripen in our future lives.” ― Alka Joshi, The Henna Artist

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.

Handbrake found the drive to Jaipur that morning particularly frustrating. The new tarmac-surfaced toll road, which was part of India’s proliferating highway system, had four lanes running in both directions, and although it presented all manner of hazards, including the occasional herd of goats, a few overturned trucks and the odd gaping pothole, it held out an irresistible invitation to speed. Indeed, many of the other cars travelled as fast as 100 miles

Snobs by Julian Fellowes The Piano Teacher by Janice Y. K. Lee People Like Us by Dominick Dunne The Power of Style by Annette Tapert and Diana Edkins (this is out of print; I will lend you my copy) Pride and Avarice by Nicholas Coleridge The Soong Dynasty by Sterling Seagrave Freedom by Jonathan Franzen D. V. by Diana Vreeland A Princess Remembers: The Memoirs of the Maharani of Jaipur by Gayatri Devi Jane Austen—complete works beginning with Pride and Prejudice

After Dev died in the gorge, I’d became adamant that my children would never suffer the same fate, migrating back and forth with the tribe through the mountains, toes lost to frostbite, the threat of death always only a few paces away.

I've given my best, but I've been used. Delphine said I have to move past it. Lakshmi moved past her betrayals. So did Victorine. Isn't that the look she's giving us in Manet's paining? There will always be a Ferdie in our lives. We have to do our best despite them.

What independence had changed was our people. You could see it in the way they stood, chests puffed, as if they could finally allow themselves to breathe. You saw it in the way they walked—purposefully, pridefully—to their temples. The way they haggled—more boldly than before—with the vendors in the bazaar.

The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. —From the poem Journey Home by Rabindranath Tagore When the Goddess of Wealth comes to give you her blessing, you shouldn’t leave the room to wash your face. —Hindu Proverb

We have important destinies. We are the ones who make or break this country. My family has responsibilities to make sure people like you have food to eat, a roof over your head. Now you’ll leave my family alone, or you’ll have bigger things to deal with—more significant than whether Manu Agarwal is about to lose his job. And you won’t go spreading lies about my son.

We saw sundials built 300 years ago that are more accurate than any watch or calendar developed electronically today. We got cold feet when it came to crossing the road in Jaipur and decided whatever was on the other side wasn’t worth attempting to cross even on a zebra crossing. We ate in a restaurant that clearly indicated ‘No firearms or guns permitted,’ which made us feel safe. We saw a street fight in Agra over a traffic situation, the only one in the whole ten days. And we learned that when a car driver honks his horn it means, “I’m turning left,” or “I’m turning right,” or “I’m going straight ahead,” or “I’m overtaking on the inside,” or “I’m overtaking on the outside,” or “I just feel like honking my horn for absolutely no reason whatsoever other than I haven’t done it in a while.

We warily sipped ‘fresh’ buffalo milk in a Krishna temple. We travelled into the Himalayas until, at a height of two kilometres above sea level where we found ourselves surrounded by men as hard and tough as the mountains that bred them. We negotiated a price of 100 rupees for one of these men to carry our two heaviest bags the 15-minute walk to the hotel with nothing more than rope and a forehead strap. I paid him 300 rupees and his face lit up! We watched the morning mist clear to reveal views of the green Doon Valley and the distant white-capped Himalayan peaks. We rode an elephant up to the Amber Fort of Jaipur, and the next day we painted, washed and fed unpeeled bananas to another elephant, marvelling at her gentle nature as we placed the bananas on her huge bubble-gum coloured tongue.

Our senses were assaulted with colours, smells and noise. We saw a million saris, and never once did I see the same pattern repeated twice. We saw poverty that both humbled and disturbed us. We bartered with street traders for Indian prices, not tourist prices. We stopped by the side of the road and watched an old man crushing sugar canes so that we could drink the juice. It was the most delectable and flavourful drink we have ever tasted. We walked barefoot around the Swaminarayan Akshardham, the largest Hindu house of worship in the world, and were absolutely awed. The whole temple echoes with spirituality and we could have spent an entire day there. I saw a village of dirty black bricks, no rendering, just filth and grime, and right in the middle an exquisite and elegant white temple, freshly painted and unblemished. We drove from Jaipur to Delhi. The previous day the road had been closed due to the Jat caste protests. Thirty people died, ten women reported being raped and buildings and cars were set on fire

per hour. Handbrake knew that he could keep up with the best of them. Ambassadors might look old-fashioned and slow, but the latest models had Japanese engines. But he soon learned to keep it under seventy. Time and again, as his competitors raced up behind him and made their impatience known by the use of their horns and flashing high beams, he grudgingly gave way, pulling into the slow lane among the trucks, tractors and bullock carts. Soon, the lush mustard and sugarcane fields of Haryana gave way to the scrub and desert of Rajasthan. Four hours later, they reached the rocky hills surrounding the Pink City, passing in the shadow of the Amber Fort with its soaring ramparts and towering gatehouse. The road led past the Jal Mahal palace, beached on a sandy lake bed, into Jaipur’s ancient quarter. It was almost noon and the bazaars along the city’s crenellated walls were stirring into life. Beneath faded, dusty awnings, cobblers crouched, sewing sequins and gold thread onto leather slippers with curled-up toes. Spice merchants sat surrounded by heaps of lal mirch, haldi and ground jeera, their colours as clean and sharp as new watercolor paints. Sweets sellers lit the gas under blackened woks of oil and prepared sticky jalebis. Lassi vendors chipped away at great blocks of ice delivered by camel cart. In front of a few of the shops, small boys, who by law should have been at school, swept the pavements, sprinkling them with water to keep down the dust. One dragged a doormat into the road where the wheels of passing vehicles ran over it, doing the job of carpet beaters. Handbrake honked his way through the light traffic as they neared the Ajmeri Gate, watching the faces that passed by his window: skinny bicycle rickshaw drivers, straining against the weight of fat aunties; wild-eyed Rajasthani men with long handlebar moustaches and sun-baked faces almost as bright as their turbans; sinewy peasant women wearing gold nose rings and red glass bangles on their arms; a couple of pink-faced goras straining under their backpacks; a naked sadhu, his body half covered in ash like a caveman. Handbrake turned into the old British Civil Lines, where the roads were wide and straight and the houses and gardens were set well apart. Ajay Kasliwal’s residence was number

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Ma was gentle but firm. She was brought up to obey her parents and her husband, not to defy, question, or contradict. She told me Pitaji's books had filled my head with too many silly ideas. They had given me the useless notion that I could make my own decisions.

...and once there were children, there would be no more I or me, only we and them. So often I'd beg my namesake, the goddess Lakshmi, to hear my pleas. I'm hungry for the knowledge of three sarasoti's Let me see the wider world before shutting me inside a small life...

Day after day, I worked alongside her to heal women. Most were children still. Twenty years old or younger, bodies weak from too many births, too many of them rough. Their days were filled with worry about how to feed them and, at night, they prayed that their husbands would come home from work too tired to add to their troubles. One day, Saasuji taught me how to prepare the contraceptive tea, and I realized that cottonwood bark could change a woman's life. She could choose for herself. That was what I wanted: a life that could fulfill me in a way that children wouldn't.

Success was ephemeral—and fluid—as I’d found out the hard way. It came. It went. It changed you from the outside, but not from the inside. Inside, I was still the same girl who dreamed of a destiny greater than she was allowed. Did I really need the house to prove I had skill, talent, ambition, intelligence?

She, who has guided sheep and goats through the Himalayan gorges with an eye out for predators like tigers, leopards and wild elephants, might think the killing of such animals for sport unnecessary, even cruel.

know Lakshmi helped to keep many of Samir’s mistresses childless during the ten years she spent in Jaipur. And I know that Samir Uncle once shared a bed with Auntie-Boss before she married Dr. Jay.

After all, scandal had put a full stop to my life as a henna artist in Jaipur. And even though the accusations of thieving their jewelry weren’t true,

As a boy, I crisscrossed this city delivering the contraceptive sachets that Auntie-Boss sold to him and his friends for their paramours.

It’s more than the color of my skin that will keep me from the ranks of the privileged. Long used to serving rather than being served, I affect a deference in my bearing that’s hard for me to shed.

screeching into their startled faces, Tell me you didn’t give Dev the evil eye! I screamed at Lord Shiva. I beat my fists on my distended belly, promising to give Shivaji the baby if he would just bring Dev back. My father-in-law and my brother had to pull my arms away from my stomach to keep me from hurting the life within.

She knew I was a fallen Brahmin in the eyes of other matrons because I handled women’s feet when I painted their henna. That task, considered to be unclean, was reserved for lower castes; it wasn’t respectable for Brahmins to do it.

That’s why I’m keeping him home from school. This is a small city with a lot of powerful people. And reputations can be ruined just like that.

Don’t you see how it looks? It’s like you’ve cut my legs out from under me! All of Jaipur will know Manu Agarwal is a coward, not to mention an embezzler of the highest order!” He turned to look at me in the armchair. “And you, Malik! I took you on in good faith, and you’re trying to dig up—dirty laundry? You’re talking about this project to all and sundry without my knowledge?

Samir paid for your education at Bishop Cotton. Don’t you owe him any loyalty? How could you accuse his company of fraud and recklessness when Samir opened doors for you?

Parvati found out soon enough, and then the life I’d built in Jaipur, the financial independence I’d gained, fell apart.

Gandhi-ji said, An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind?

Stretch your legs only as far as your bed.

Her dad was from Jaipur, and he lived there now, a fact she used to report proudly, until she realized it meant he had not loved her enough to stay.

the twelfth-century poet Layamon’s poem ‘Brut’ (written around 1190): ‘From heaven here came a marvelous flood; three days it rained blood, three days and three nights.

that from now on I can’t believe you.’47 Well, Dushyant had definitely not read Nietzsche,

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On being invited to the Jaipur Festival, I was naturally nervous about attempting an opening address to such an elite gathering.

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