Kolkata Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Kolkata. Here they are! All 58 of them:

In contrast, the gratification and education received from Sanjit’s classes is slow burning, personal, and in a changing world allegedly becoming more attuned to and obsessed with requiring that money spent – especially on education – must yield tangible results, what many would view as a paradoxical dynamic nevertheless persists there, near Park Circus, Kolkata. No grades, no forced accountability, all voluntary learning.
Colin Phelan (The Local School)
Sanjit says his apartment, the same one in which he grew up, has been flooded many times by the midsummer torrents. For what has been for millennia a primarily agricultural society, rains simultaneously destroy, create, and preserve life in India, similar to the functions of the three premier Hindu gods, Shiva, Brahma, and Vishnu. Every time Kolkata gets pounded by a cyclone, or when the monsoon first erupts in June (although the recent warming of the Indian Ocean increasingly disturbs a once-consistent timeline), Sanjit never fails to send along a video, his house flooded – seemingly destroyed – but the smiles on his, Bajju’s, or other house-guest’s faces signify just the opposite, having been cooled and relieved of perpetual heat. Flooded, they remain preserved.
Colin Phelan (The Local School)
Space is about 100 kilometers away. That’s far away—I wouldn’t want to climb a ladder to get there—but it isn’t that far away. If you’re in Sacramento, Seattle, Canberra, Kolkata, Hyderabad, Phnom Penh, Cairo, Beijing, central Japan, central Sri Lanka, or Portland, space is closer than the sea.
Randall Munroe (What If?: Serious Scientific Answers to Absurd Hypothetical Questions)
When does a job feel meaningful? Whenever it allows us to generate delight or reduce suffering in others. Though we are often taught to think of ourselves as inherently selfish, the longing to act meaningfully in our work seems just as stubborn a part of our make-up as our appetite for status or money. It is because we are meaning-focused animals rather than simply materialistic ones that we can reasonably contemplate surrendering security for a career helping to bring drinking water to rural Malawi or might quit a job in consumer goods for one in cardiac nursing, aware that when it comes to improving the human condition a well-controlled defibrillator has the edge over even the finest biscuit. But we should be wary of restricting the idea of meaningful work too tightly, of focusing only on the doctors, the nuns of Kolkata or the Old Masters. There can be less exalted ways to contribute to the furtherance of the collective good.... ....An endeavor endowed with meaning may appear meaningful only when it proceeds briskly in the hands of a restricted number of actors and therefore where particular workers can make an imaginative connection between what they have done with their working days and their impact upon others.
Alain de Botton (The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work)
I spent quite sometime just watching enthralled, the gnarled hands of Mother Teresa in a portrait because those hands are associated with bringing comfort to the aged and abandoned in Kolkata’s streets. So they are beautiful.
Sri Aurobindo (Inspiration from Savitri: Beauty)
If you’re in Sacramento, Seattle, Canberra, Kolkata, Hyderabad, Phnom Penh, Cairo, Beijing, central Japan, central Sri Lanka, or Portland, space is closer than the sea.
Randall Munroe (What If?: Serious Scientific Answers to Absurd Hypothetical Questions)
Gandhiji used to say, ‘True democracy is not run by twenty people sitting in Delhi. The power centres now are in capital cities like Delhi, Mumbai and Kolkata. I would like to distribute these power centres in seven lakh villages of India.
Arvind Kejriwal (Swaraj)
Laziness is a habit which makes you fall in the pit, Lazy people don’t act but prefer to sit, They delay action with some excuse, Laziness is of no use.
Ron Sen
Yet, there is a Chennai that hasn’t changed and never will. Women still wake up at the crack of dawn and draw the kolam—the rice-flour design—outside their doorstep. Men don’t consider it old-fashioned to wear a dhoti, which is usually matched with a modest pair of Bata chappals. The day still begins with coffee and lunch ends with curd rice. Girls are sent to Carnatic music classes. The music festival continues to be held in the month of December. Tamarind rice is still a delicacy—and its preparation still an art form. It’s the marriage between tradition and transformation that makes Chennai unique. In a place like Delhi, you’ll have to hunt for tradition. In Kolkata, you’ll itch for transformation. Mumbai is only about transformation. It is Chennai alone that firmly holds its customs close to the chest, as if it were a box of priceless jewels handed down by ancestors, even as the city embraces change.
Bishwanath Ghosh (Tamarind City)
Asif Ali maneuvers the gleaming Mercedes down the labyrinthine lanes of Old Kolkata with consummate skill, but his passengers do not notice how smoothly he avoids potholes, cows and beggars, how skilfully he sails through aging yellow lights to get the Bose family to their destination on time. This disappoints Asif only a little. In his six years of chauffeuring the rich and callous, he has realized that, to them, servants are invisible.
Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (Oleander Girl)
কান্টের মতো দার্শনিক একটা ছোট্ট শহরে ছিলেন জার্মানির, এত বড় চিন্তা করবার খোরাক পেয়েছিলেন সেখানে থেকেই। শহরে না থাকলেই লোক পুরোনো হয় বলে মনে কর কেন? নতুন আর পুরোনো অত্যন্ত সাধারণ ধরনের শ্রেণীবিভাগ। নতুন মাত্রেই ভালো নয়, পুরোনো মাত্রই মূল্যহীন নয়।
Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay (অভিযাত্রিক)
Since 1980, the planet has experienced a fiftyfold increase in the number of dangerous heat waves; a bigger increase is to come. The five warmest summers in Europe since 1500 have all occurred since 2002, and eventually, the IPCC warns, simply working outdoors at that time of year will be unhealthy for parts of the globe. Even if we meet the Paris goals, cities like Karachi and Kolkata will annually encounter deadly heat waves like those that crippled them in 2015, when heat killed thousands in India and Pakistan. At four degrees, the deadly European heat wave of 2003, which killed as many as 2,000 people a day, will be a normal summer. Then, it was one of the worst weather events in Continental history, killing 35,000 Europeans, including 14,000 French; perversely, the infirm fared relatively well, William Langewiesche has written, most of them watched over in the nursing homes and hospitals of those well-off countries, and it was the comparatively healthy elderly who accounted for most of the dead, many left behind by vacationing families escaping the heat, with some corpses rotting for weeks before the families returned.
David Wallace-Wells (The Uninhabitable Earth: Life After Warming)
The night before the Pune match, we had gone out for dinner—Viru, Zak and I. Out of the blue, Viru told me, ‘Laxman bhai, you had a great opportunity to make a triple hundred in the Kolkata Test, but unfortunately, you didn’t. Now you wait and watch, I will become the first Indian to score 300 in Test cricket.’ My jaw dropped and I stared at him in astonishment. This guy had played just four ODIs, wasn’t anywhere close to Test selection, and here he was, making the most outrageous of claims. For a second, I thought he was joking, but Viru was dead serious. To be honest, I didn’t know what to make of it.
V.V.S. Laxman (281 and Beyond)
আসল কথা, মনের আনন্দই মানুষের জীবনের অস্তিত্বের সব চেয়ে বড় মাপ- কাঠি। আমি দশ মাইল গিয়ে যে আনন্দ পেলাম, তুমি যদি হাজার মাইল গিয়ে সেই আনন্দ পেয়ে থাকো তবে তুমি আমি দুজনেই সমান। দশ মাইলে আর হাজার মাইলে পার্থক্য নেই। তবে ঘরকে একেবারে মন থেকে তাড়াতে হয়। ঘর মনে থাকলে পথ ধরা দেয় না। ঘর দুদিনের বন্ধন, পথ চিরকালের।
Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay
surprised to find that it had both Burhanpur and Khandwa marked on it. To her they seemed so far away from Kolkata that she wondered whether it was possible I could have traveled that distance. It was almost all the way across an enormous country. The first thing that hit me was that my home had been marked on the map above my desk the whole time, if I’d only known where to look. How many times had I looked at all those names, not knowing their secrets? I don’t remember if I ever noticed Burhanpur among the several similar names on the map when I was younger; if I had, I’d obviously written it off, probably as being too far from Kolkata. And that was the second thing—it was much farther than I thought possible. Was it too far? Did the trains go much faster than everyone had allowed for? Or had I been on the train for longer than I thought? Two surreal days passed. I was stuck between maps and memories. The things I’d always been so certain about were dissolving in the face of what I’d found. Were my greatest fears coming to fruition? Would the search erode what I thought I knew and leave me with nothing? My parents, Lisa, and I didn’t talk much more about my breakthrough over the next couple of days, and I wondered whether they were being overly cautious or waiting for me
Saroo Brierley (A Long Way Home)
11 pm: Heart’s pounding, hands shaking. Have these knots in my stomach. But drinking isn’t an option. Maa is sleeping with me. Baba in Lalitaji’s room. And she on the sofa. Want to step into the toilet, take one swig, and then go directly to sleep. How the hell will Maa know? I mean she’s sleeping like a log. No, no, shouldn’t. What if she wakes up? She’s a light sleeper, after all. 11.30 pm: No wine. Or vodka. Terrible, terrible night. When will they go back to Kolkata and let me be? 11.32 pm: Chhi . . .Chhi . . . How selfish am I? My parents, one with a heart condition, spent thousands on flight tickets and landed in Chennai. Why? Because they wanted to spend time with their widowed daughter. And what does the daughter want? To sneak into the toilet and take one good swig of wine. Shame on her! Okay, now I’m being over-dramatic.
Chitrangada Mukherjee (Secret Diary of an Incurable Romantic (Um...and a closet alcoholic))
Oh I'll die I'll die I'll die My skin is in blazing furore I do not know what I'll do where I'll go oh I am sick I'll kick all Arts in the butt and go away Shubha Shubha let me go and live in your cloaked melon In the unfastened shadow of dark destroyed saffron curtain The last anchor is leaving me after I got the other anchors lifted I can't resist anymore, a million glass panes are breaking in my cortex I know, Shubha, spread out your matrix, give me peace Each vein is carrying a stream of tears up to the heart Brain's contagious flints are decomposing out of eternal sickness other why didn't you give me birth in the form of a skeleton I'd have gone two billion light years and kissed God's ass But nothing pleases me nothing sounds well I feel nauseated with more than a single kiss I've forgotten women during copulation and returned to the Muse In to the sun-coloured bladder I do not know what these happenings are but they are occurring within me I'll destroy and shatter everything draw and elevate Shubha in to my hunger Shubha will have to be given Oh Malay Kolkata seems to be a procession of wet and slippery organs today But i do not know what I'll do now with my own self My power of recollection is withering away Let me ascend alone toward death I haven't had to learn copulation and dying I haven't had to learn the responsibility of shedding the last drops after urination Haven't had to learn to go and lie beside Shubha in the darkness Have not had to learn the usage of French leather while lying on Nandita's bosom Though I wanted the healthy spirit of Aleya's fresh China-rose matrix Yet I submitted to the refuge of my brain's cataclysm I am failing to understand why I still want to live I am thinking of my debauched Sabarna-Choudhury ancestors I'll have to do something different and new Let me sleep for the last time on a bed soft as the skin of Shubha's bosom I remember now the sharp-edged radiance of the moment I was born I want to see my own death before passing away The world had nothing to do with Malay Roychoudhury Shubha let me sleep for a few moments in your violent silvery uterus Give me peace, Shubha, let me have peace Let my sin-driven skeleton be washed anew in your seasonal bloodstream Let me create myself in your womb with my own sperm Would I have been like this if I had different parents? Was Malay alias me possible from an absolutely different sperm? Would I have been Malay in the womb of other women of my father? Would I have made a professional gentleman of me like my dead brother without Shubha? Oh, answer, let somebody answer these Shubha, ah Shubha Let me see the earth through your cellophane hymen Come back on the green mattress again As cathode rays are sucked up with the warmth of a magnet's brilliance I remember the letter of the final decision of 1956 The surroundings of your clitoris were being embellished with coon at that time Fine rib-smashing roots were descending in to your bosom Stupid relationship inflated in the bypass of senseless neglect Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah I do not know whether I am going to die Squandering was roaring within heart's exhaustive impatience I'll disrupt and destroy I'll split all in to pieces for the sake of Art There isn't any other way out for Poetry except suicide Shubha Let me enter in to the immemorial incontinence of your labia majora In to the absurdity of woeless effort In the golden chlorophyll of the drunken heart Why wasn't I lost in my mother's urethra? Why wasn't I driven away in my father's urine after his self-coition? Why wasn't I mixed in the ovum -flux or in the phlegm? With her eyes shut supine beneath me I felt terribly distressed when I saw comfort seize S
Malay Roy Choudhury (Selected Poems)
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Stark Electric Jesus Oh I'll die I'll die I'll die My skin is in blazing furore I do not know what I'll do where I'll go oh I am sick I'll kick all Arts in the butt and go away Shubha Shubha let me go and live in your cloaked melon In the unfastened shadow of dark destroyed saffron curtain The last anchor is leaving me after I got the other anchors lifted I can't resist anymore, a million glass panes are breaking in my cortex I know, Shubha, spread out your matrix, give me peace Each vein is carrying a stream of tears up to the heart Brain's contagious flints are decomposing out of eternal sickness other why didn't you give me birth in the form of a skeleton I'd have gone two billion light years and kissed God's ass But nothing pleases me nothing sounds well I feel nauseated with more than a single kiss I've forgotten women during copulation and returned to the Muse In to the sun-coloured bladder I do not know what these happenings are but they are occurring within me I'll destroy and shatter everything draw and elevate Shubha in to my hunger Shubha will have to be given Oh Malay Kolkata seems to be a procession of wet and slippery organs today But i do not know what I'll do now with my own self My power of recollection is withering away Let me ascend alone toward death I haven't had to learn copulation and dying I haven't had to learn the responsibility of shedding the last drops after urination Haven't had to learn to go and lie beside Shubha in the darkness Have not had to learn the usage of French leather while lying on Nandita's bosom Though I wanted the healthy spirit of Aleya's fresh China-rose matrix Yet I submitted to the refuge of my brain's cataclysm I am failing to understand why I still want to live I am thinking of my debauched Sabarna-Choudhury ancestors I'll have to do something different and new Let me sleep for the last time on a bed soft as the skin of Shubha's bosom I remember now the sharp-edged radiance of the moment I was born I want to see my own death before passing away The world had nothing to do with Malay Roychoudhury Shubha let me sleep for a few moments in your violent silvery uterus Give me peace, Shubha, let me have peace Let my sin-driven skeleton be washed anew in your seasonal bloodstream Let me create myself in your womb with my own sperm Would I have been like this if I had different parents? Was Malay alias me possible from an absolutely different sperm? Would I have been Malay in the womb of other women of my father? Would I have made a professional gentleman of me like my dead brother without Shubha? Oh, answer, let somebody answer these Shubha, ah Shubha Let me see the earth through your cellophane hymen Come back on the green mattress again As cathode rays are sucked up with the warmth of a magnet's brilliance I remember the letter of the final decision of 1956 The surroundings of your clitoris were being embellished with coon at that time Fine rib-smashing roots were descending in to your bosom Stupid relationship inflated in the bypass of senseless neglect Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah I do not know whether I am going to die Squandering was roaring within heart's exhaustive impatience I'll disrupt and destroy I'll split all in to pieces for the sake of Art There isn't any other way out for Poetry except suicide
Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury (The Hungryalists)
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Here is another Inspirational Poem that gives peace and strength The mind always fights between the wrong and the right, Be aware of this and win the fight. Overpower the negatives with determination and grit, Make positive thinking a regular habit.
Ron Sen (The Verses of Life)
We all become worried about tomorrow, We pray that we should remain happy devoid of sorrow. Your tomorrow will depend on the way you live today, So live a life of fulfillment and gay.
Ron Sen (The Verses of Life)
Many of today’s youngsters are unaware that in their grandparents’ time Kolkata, Dhaka and Chittagong were part of a single entity, and Lahore, Rawalpindi, Amritsar and Jalandhar likewise. And they are unaware of what it means for a nation to find freedom.
Rajmohan Gandhi (Understanding the Founding Fathers: An Enquiry into the Indian Republic's Beginnings)
In Kolkata is a temple where the deity worshipped is Amitabh Bachchan. The daily aarti is performed to the chanting of the Amitabh Chaleesa. And people still ask, “Could our mythological heroes be based on actual people who once lived?
Ashwin Sanghi
While in Kolkata, India, for this book, I stayed at the iconic Oberoi Grand. The concierge explained to me the hotel’s hiring philosophy: “You can’t bend mature bamboo. But if you get it as a young shoot, you can bend it, mold it. We hire them between the ages of 18 and 21 so we can mold them.” The concierge was one of only 15 double golden key (Clef d’Or) concierges in India, and he knew that sometimes having no experience is a huge advantage. Age doesn’t matter; an open mind does.
Timothy Ferriss (The 4-Hour Chef: The Simple Path to Cooking Like a Pro, Learning Anything, and Living the Good Life)
Before independence from Britain, Bengal was one of the largest states in India. Now it is split into two, West Bengal, where Kolkata is located, and East Bengal, which became East Pakistan and, afterward, the beautiful but blighted nation of Bangladesh.
Simon Majumdar (Eat My Globe: One Year to Go Everywhere and Eat Everything)
Into its pinched streets, the fish-sellers told me, cars from Kolkata arrive daily, sent by government officials or corporate executives just to buy the best of the day's catch. The daily market is the town's centerpiece. For streets together, cereal-sellers sit surrounded by sacks of six or eight types of cereals; fisherwomen with toes reddened by fish blood squat behind cutters, little steel tubs of still-swimming catfish, and turmeric-smeared cuts of fish; on blue tarpaulins, vegetable-sellers arrange potatoes, gourds, red onions, beans both broad and French, big and little aubergines, pumpkins and huge heads of cabbage.
Samanth Subramanian (Following Fish: Travels around the Indian Coast)
:Öleceğim, öleceğim, öleceğim :Derim, ateşten bir coşku içinde :Nereye gideceğim, ne yapacağım bilmiyorum; hastayım :Sanat’ın her türlüsüne tekmeyi basıp, Shubha’ya ulaşacağım, :Shubha, bana izin ver, gidip yaşayayım pelerinli kavununda :Safran perdeyi mahveden karanlığın dağılan gölgesinde, :Diğer çapaları topladıktan sonra, son çapa da beni terk ediyor :Artık dayanamıyorum, milyonlarca cam kırığı korteksimi yırtıyor, :Biliyorum, Shubha, rahmini aç, bana barışı getir :Her bir damar, kalbe gözyaşı taşıyor, :Beynin bulaşıcı taşları, sonsuz hastalık dışında bozuluyor :Anne, beni neden bir iskelet şeklinde doğurmadın? :Bir milyar ışık yılı boyunca gidip, Tanrı’nın kıçını öpebilirdim :Ama şimdi hiçbir şey beni memnun etmiyor, hiçbir şey kulağa iyi gelmiyor :Bir öpücükten fazlasıyla midem bulanıyor :Cinsel birleşme sırasında kadınları unuttum ve ilham perime döndüm :Güneş renkli idrar torbasının içine, :Tüm bu olan biten ne bilmiyorum ama hepsi oluyor işte, :Her şeyi yıkıp paramparça edeceğim :Açlığıma Shubha’yı çizip, onu yükselteceğim :Oh Malay :Kolkata ıslak ve kaygan organlar korteji gibi bugün, :Ama ben şimdi, bir başıma ne yapacağımı bilmiyorum :Hatırlama gücüm sararıp soldu, :Bırak da ölümün karşısına tek başıma çıkayım, :Cinsel birleşmeyi ve ölümü öğrenmek zorunda değildim :İşedikten sonra son damlayı dökme sorumluluğunu öğrenmek zorunda değildim :Gidip, karanlıkta Shubha’nın yanına uzanmak zorunda değildim :Nandita’nın göğsüne uzanırken, Fransız derisinin kullanılışını öğrenmek zorunda değildim :Gerçi, Aleya’nın taze çingülü rahminin sağlıklı ruhunu istedim :Nihayet beynimdeki tufanın ilticasına teslim oldum :Neden hala yaşamak istediğimi anlayamıyorum :Sefih Sabarna-Choudhury soyumu düşünüyorum :Yeni ve farklı bir şeyler yapmak zorundayım :İzin ver, son bir kez Shubha’nın göğsü kadar yumuşak yatağımda uyuyayım, :Şimdi, doğduğum dakikanın keskin parlaklığını hatırlıyorum :Vefat etmeden önce kendi ölümümü görmek istiyorum :Dünyanın Malay Roychoudhury ile yapabileceği hiçbir şey yok, :Shubha, izin ver birkaç dakikalığına zorlu, gümüşi rahminde uyuyayım :Bana barışı getir, Shubha, bırak huzura sahip olayım :İzin ver, iskeletim, günahım senin mevsimsel kan akışınla yeniden yıkansın :İzin ver, dölyatağında kendi spermimle kendimi yaratayım :Başka ana-babaya sahip olsaydım böyle olur muydum? :Bambaşka bir spermle ben Malay olabilir miydim? :Babamın başka bir kadınının rahminde ben Malay olabilir miydim? :Shubha olmasaydı, kendimden, tıpkı ölü erkek kardeşim gibi profesyonel bir centilmen yaratabilir miydim? :Cevaplar… bırak birileri bunları cevaplasın, :Shubha, ah Shubha :İzin ver de dünyaya senin şeffaf kızlık zarından bakayım :Yeniden yeşil şiltenin üzerine gel :Katot ışınlarının, mıknatıs görkemliğinin samimiyeti ile emilmesi gibi :1956’nın nihai karar mektubunu hatırlıyorum, :Klitorisinin çevresi aynı zamanda kurnazca süslenmiş :Güzel kaburga-yıkıcı kökler göğsüne doğru azalıyordu, :Aptal ilişkiler, anlamsız ilgisizliğin geçitinde şişirildi :Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah :Ölüp ölmeyeceğimi bilmiyorum :Sefahat, kalbin ayrıntıcı tahammülsüzlüğünde gürlüyordu :Bozup yok edeceğim :Hepsini, sanat uğruna parçalara ayıracağım, :Şiir için intihardan başka bir yol yok :Shubha, :İzin ver, ezelden beri kendine hakim olamayan vajinanın dudaklarına gireyim :Acısız çaba absürdlüğüne,
Malay Roy Choudhury (Poems of Malay Roychoudhury)
Oh, moriré. Moriré. Moriré. Mi piel está en el furor ardiente. No sé qué hare, donde iré. Oh, estoy enferma. Patearé todas las artes en el trasero y me iré, Shubha. Shubha me dejó ir y vivir en tu melón encapuchado. En la sombra desabrochada de la cortina de azafrán destruida oscura. La última ancla me está dejando después de que levanté los otros anclajes. No puedo resistirme más, un millón de paneles de vidrio se están rompiendo en mi corteza. Lo sé, Shubha, extiende tu matriz, dame paz. Cada vena lleva un torrente de lágrimas hasta el corazón. Los pedernales contagiosos del cerebro se están descomponiendo de la enfermedad eterna. ¿Por qué no me diste a luz en forma de esqueleto? Habría pasado dos mil millones de años luz y besado el culo de Dios. Pero nada me agrada, nada suena bien, siento náuseas con más de un solo beso. He olvidado a las mujeres durante la cópula y he regresado a la Musa en la vejiga del color del sol que hago. No sé qué son estos acontecimientos, pero están ocurriendo dentro de mí. Destruiré y destruiré todo. Dibujaré y elevaré a Shubha a mi hambre. Shubha tendrá que ser administrada. Oh, Malay. Kolkata parece ser una procesión de órganos húmedos y resbaladizos hoy. Pero sí no sé lo que haré ahora con mi propio ser. 66 El Corno Emplumado: la determinación ... Alfredo Zárate-Flores y Tirtha Prasad Mukhopadhyay La Colmena 103 julio-septiembre de 2019 ISSN 1405-6313 eISSN 2448-6302 Mi poder de recuerdo se está agotando. Déjame ascender solo hacia la muerte. No he tenido que aprender la cópula y morir. No he tenido que aprender la responsabilidad de derramar las últimas gotas después de la micción. No he tenido que aprender a acostarme junto a Shubha en la oscuridad. No he tenido que aprender el uso del francés cuero
Malay Roy Choudhury (The Hungryalist Poems by Malay Roychoudhury)
But we should be wary of restricting the idea of meaningful work too tightly, of focusing only on the doctors, the nuns of Kolkata or the Old Masters. There can be less exalted ways to contribute to the furtherance of the collective good and it seems that making a perfectly formed stripey chocolate circle which helps to fill an impatient stomach in the long morning hours between nine o'clock and noon may deserve its own secure, if microscopic, place in the pantheon of innovations designed to alleviate the burdens of existence.
Alain de Botton (The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work)
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It is not usually remembered that after his great victory at Plassey, Robert Clive did not offer thanksgiving at a church but at a Durga Puja organized by Nabakrishna Deb in Kolkata.
Sanjeev Sanyal (Land of seven rivers: History of India's Geography)
Nevertheless, a love that is so deep, bears deeper wounds. The intangible scars on his heart pained more for he never expressed it. But repressed emotions run around as man’s unconscious decides, and since it was not being given its due, it heaved him into a deep well. Outside, it manifested as an abnormally reticent personality.
Ajanta Sengupta (Unlettered)
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until every possible ammai and achayan, from Dubai to Brampton, Kolkata to Scotland, could fly back to put him in the cemetery.
Sarah Thankam Mathews (All This Could Be Different: Finalist for the 2022 National Book Award for Fiction)
your paddy ridden field in baishak is my soul’s stamp – not the heart’s in the winter fog i exhale smoke - not a cigarette's in bed bereft of a woman i masturbate early in the morning in whose tummy will my child arrive one for which i will provide two morsels of rice? without a party flag i have been surviving without the love of a woman i have been surviving in order to listen to rabindranath’s songs at twelve thirty in the afternoon sun i have been surviving no i never wanted to be rabindranath never ever i have never wanted to love sumita never ever had never wanted her body have never wanted mita’s body had only wanted her love but nothing happened to me but of course the khan army in bangladesh the US mines from the coast of tonkin and the CRPF hiding behind the sand bags in kolkata have left the china nixon treaty has been signed white black America has sent
Falguni Roy
to have the Eden crowd firmly behind me, in my corner, rooting for me and willing me to do well, is something I will cherish for ever and ever. ‘Lokhon da, tumi raaan korbe (Laxman da, you will score runs),’ used to be a constant from the time I got off the plane in Kolkata. Unaccustomed to the fanfare and to being in the limelight, I took my time getting used to it. I realised just how much they wanted me to do well—from our bus driver to the room-service waiter, from the hotel receptionists to the ever-smiling masseur in the dressing room. I felt elated, fortunate and blessed. When so many people are genuinely hoping and wishing and praying for your success, how can you not walk the extra mile to keep those smiles on
V.V.S. Laxman (281 and Beyond)
The night before the Pune match, we had gone out for dinner—Viru, Zak and I. Out of the blue, Viru told me, ‘Laxman bhai, you had a great opportunity to make a triple hundred in the Kolkata Test, but unfortunately, you didn’t. Now you wait and watch, I will become the first Indian to score 300 in Test cricket.
V.V.S. Laxman (281 and Beyond)
Kolkata. It’s a dead city filled with armchair intellectuals.
Brinda S. Narayan (No Trespassing)
That the goddess comes to town with her children, leaving her reluctant-householder husband behind on Mount Kailash, makes Pujo a singular celebration of family values and domesticity, unlike the Kill Bill independence of Kali.
Indrajit Hazra (Grand Delusions: A Short Biography Of Kolkata)
Heads fall off from time to time Some of them old, some of them young The conductor hollers into the crowd: 'Keep moving forward to the back!
Indrajit Hazra (Grand Delusions: A Short Biography Of Kolkata)
As was typical in those days, if you weren’t playing the Test, you didn’t get to bat in the nets the day before the match, like I didn’t ahead of the second Test in Kolkata. I still went down to Eden in the evening to practise on my own, and it was Harsha Bhogle who bowled to me! The next morning, I was told that I was playing the Test. Harsha must have given me a good workout, for I danced to 95 and had a big opening stand with Sidhu, but fell with a century beckoning.
V.V.S. Laxman (281 and Beyond)
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Ongoing Struggle Between Central Agencies and Bengal: A Recurring Pattern The recent clash in West Bengal's Sandeshkhali, where an Enforcement Directorate (ED) team investigating an alleged ration distribution scam was attacked by locals, is not an isolated incident. From Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee staging her own dharna in protest against CBI action on the Kolkata police chief to instances involving the NHRC and NCPCR, Central agencies have faced challenges in the state. Leaders of the Trinamool Congress (TMC) argue that the Central government is intentionally targeting and harassing its leaders and the state government. In this latest incident, eight members of the ED team, accompanied by Central forces personnel, were conducting raids on the residence of local TMC leader Shahjahan Sheikh in the North 24 Parganas district. As they attempted to enter the house, protesters became violent, preventing the officers from proceeding. This confrontation mirrors previous instances where Central investigative teams have encountered resistance in West Bengal. One such case involved the arrest of former minister Jyoti Priya Mallick by the ED in connection with the same scam in October of the previous year. The recurring pattern of clashes between Central agencies and the state of Bengal underscores the persisting tension between the two entities.
Steenz (Work for a Million (Graphic Novel))
আসল কথা, মনের আনন্দই মানুষের জীবনের অস্তিত্বের সব চেয়ে বড় মাপ- কাঠি। আমি দশ মাইল গিয়ে যে আনন্দ পেলাম, তুমি যদি হাজার মাইল গিয়ে সেই আনন্দ পেয়ে থাকো তবে তুমি আমি দুজনেই সমান। দশ মাইলে আর হাজার মাইলে পার্থক্য নেই। তবে ঘরকে একেবারে মন থেকে তাড়াতে হয়। ঘর মনে থাকলে পথ ধরা দেয় না। ঘর দুদিনের বন্ধন, পথ চিরকালের।
Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay (অভিযাত্রিক)
Bose had demonstrated his experimental prowess with homemade instruments employing gunpowder and a bell before British officialdom in the Kolkata Town Hall. He used a homemade 'coherer,' an apparatus he did not seek to patent because he had no interest in making money. Instead, Guglielmo Marconi, who Bose had met in London in 1896, was celebrated for similar work in wireless telegraphy.
Ruth Harris (Guru to the World: The Life and Legacy of Vivekananda)
Kolkata is like an ex-girlfriend who you know is bad for you, but about whom you cannot stop thinking. She has always let you down and treated you badly, and you have promised yourself hundreds of times that you are not going to spend any more time in her company. But, then, just as you think you are finally over her, she does something so utterly alluring, so impossibly irresistible, you find yourself falling in love again.
Simon Majumdar (Eat My Globe: One Year to Go Everywhere and Eat Everything)
এঁরা প্যারাডাইসের নতুন পাখি। কলকাতার প্রেমিক যুবক সম্প্রদায়ের দুটি স্পেসিমেন। ভাস্কোডাগামার মতো চুল, ইউক্যালিপটাসের মতো শীর্ণ সবল। আমাদের ভবিষ্যতের ঝুলঝাড়ু।
Sanjib Chattopadhyay (কলিকাতা আছে কলিতাতাতেই)
Prabhu turns the car to the left. And makes another quick left. It seems he has taken it upon himself to prove that Kolkata is indeed a city of the Left.
Vivek Agnihotri (Urban Naxals: The Making of Buddha in a Traffic Jam)
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He can be called eclectic akin to ancient philosophers who selected doctrines from various schools of thought. Thus he had imbibed and projected a catholicity of views,’ says Supriyo Banerjee, an academic from Kolkata.
Kingshuk Nag (Atal Bihari Vajpayee: A Man for All Seasons)
In 1975 the Jesuit philosopher John Kavanaugh . . . For the dialogue between Kavanaugh and Mother Teresa, see Brennan Manning’s Ruthless Trust. An account of Mother Teresa’s journey in a collection of her letters is Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light (edited by Brian Kolodiejchuk). The name of the home has since been changed to “Home of the Pure Heart” as has the name of the city to Kolkata.
Peter Enns (The Sin of Certainty: Why God Desires Our Trust More Than Our "Correct" Beliefs)
Happiness is not lame sex with diseased dickheads from the internet with no social or sexual charisma, whose entire personality is PureGym, and then finding yourself constantly dashing off to 56 Dean Street to make sure you haven't contracted chlamydia or worse. Happiness is not the School of Oriental and African Studies, or the Royal African Society, or any Africanists and Orientalists who schlep to cities like Kolkata and Kampala, and find endlessly inventive ways to weaponise their whiteness by explaining decolonisation to folks their own ancestors are still fucking over from beyond the grave.
Diriye Osman
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By his mid 40s Gupta was CEO of McKinsey, the world’s most prestigious consulting firm. He retired in 2007 to take on roles with the United Nations and the World Economic Forum. He partnered on philanthropic work with Bill Gates. He sat on the board of directors of five public companies. From the slums of Kolkata, Gupta had quite literally become one of the most successful businessmen alive
Morgan Housel (The Psychology of Money: Timeless lessons on wealth, greed, and happiness)