Love Punjabi Quotes

A girl whose name is Love Is lost. Simple, beautiful, She is lost.

As her lips changed the geometry, Her smile turned to poetry.

Yesterday, I was collecting words. One was up there, sitting in the bo tree, Another was in the banyan. One was wandering in my street, Another was lying in the earthen jar. A green word lay in the fields, A black one was eating flesh. A blue word was flying With a grain of the sun in its beak. Every single thing in this world looks like a word to me. The words of eyes, The words of hands. But I do not understand words I hear from a mouth. I can only read words. I can only read words.

Mumbai is the sweet, sweaty smell of hope, which is the opposite of hate; and it's the sour, stifled smell of greed, which is the opposite of love. It's the smell of Gods, demons, empires, and civilizations in resurrection and decay. Its the blue skin-smell of the sea, no matter where you are in the island city, and the blood metal smell of machines. It smells of the stir and sleep and the waste of sixty million animals, more than half of them humans and rats. It smells of heartbreak, and the struggle to live, and of the crucial failures and love that produces courage. It smells of ten thousand restaurants, five thousand temples, shrines, churches and mosques, and of hunderd bazaar devoted exclusively to perfume, spices, incense, and freshly cut flowers. That smell, above all things - is that what welcomes me and tells me that I have come home. Then there were people. Assamese, Jats, and Punjabis; people from Rajasthan, Bengal, and Tamil Nadu; from Pushkar, Cochin, and Konark; warrior caste, Brahmin, and untouchable; Hindi, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain, Parsee, Animist; fair skin and dark, green eyes and golden brown and black; every different face and form of that extravagant variety, that incoparable beauty, India.

The laughter that they shared filled the room, a shot of intoxicating warmth like the first hint of summer

Do you remember? It was a full moon when we met. And today there is no moon because there is no (you) anymore in my life. I have expectations that the moon will come again, but will you?

Where perfumed rivers flow, Is the home of my beloved. Where passing breezes halt, Is the home of my beloved. Where dawn arrives on bare toes, Where night paints henna-beams on feet, Where fragrance bathes in moonlight, Is the home of my beloved. Where rays of light roam nakedly, In green forests of sandalwood. Where the flame seeks the lamp, Is the home of my beloved. Where sunsets sleep on wide waters, And the deer leap. Where tears fall for no reason, Is the home of my beloved. Where the farmer sleeps hungry, Even though the wheat is the color of my beloved, Where the wealthy ones lie in hiding, Is the home of my beloved. Where perfumed rivers flow, Is the home of my beloved. Where passing breezes halt, Is the home of my beloved.

I don’t seem to have said enough about the compensating or positive element of exposure to travel. Just as you discover that stupidity and cruelty are the same everywhere, you find that the essential elements of humanism are the same everywhere, too. Punjabis in Amritsar and Lahore are equally welcoming and open-minded, even though partition means the amputation of Punjab as well as of the subcontinent. There are a heartening number of atheists and agnostics in the six counties of Northern Ireland, even though Ulster as well as Ireland has been divided. Most important of all, the instinct for justice and for liberty is just as much “innate” in us as are the promptings of tribalism and sexual xenophobia and superstition. People know when they are being lied to, they know when their rulers are absurd, they know they do not love their chains; every time a Bastille falls one is always pleasantly surprised by how many sane and decent people were there all along. There’s an old argument about whether full bellies or empty bellies lead to contentment or revolt: it’s an argument not worth having. The crucial organ is the mind, not the gut. People assert themselves out of an unquenchable sense of dignity.

In the garden of life, Grows a sapling of pain, The deer of songs nibbles at it. The winds of seperation Blow through the night, A few leaves drop. A few leaves drop, Mother, they drop, And sounds stir in the garden. If a few birds of breath Should fly away, The deer of songs is afraid. But the birds of breath Will surely fly, Nothing can hold them back. Through the night In every direction They fly away.

People worship god. I worship this separation from you. It is worth Haj to a hundred Meccas, This separation from you. People say I am as brilliant as the sun, They say I am famous. What a fire it has lit in me, This separation from you. Behind me is my shadow, Ahead, is my darkness. I fear that it might leave me, This separation from you. No taint of the body is in it, Nor litter of the mind, All has been winnowed out, By this separation from you. When sorrow comes, bringing with it Loneliness and pain, I pull it close to me, This separation from you. Sometimes it colors my words Sometimes it weaves through my songs, It has taught me great deal, This separation from you. When sorrow, defeated, fell at my feet, Amazed at my fidelity, The world came out to see This separation from you. Love earned me fame. People flocked to praise me. It wept in my embrace, This separation from you. The world turned out to tell me, That I had been unwise. It sat me on a throne today This separation from you.

I had become something of a bird man – a passion that has remained with me – and could tell a Himalayan griffon from a bearded vulture and could identify the streaked laughing thrush, the orange bullfinch, Tytler’s leaf warbler and the Kashmir flycatcher, which was threatened then, and must surely by now be extinct. The trouble with being in Dachigam was that it had the effect of unsettling one’s resolve. It underlined the futility of it all. It made one feel that Kashmir really belonged to those creatures. That none of us who were fighting over it – Kashmiris, Indians, Pakistanis, Chinese (they have a piece of it too – Aksai Chin, which used to be part of the old Kingdom of Jammu and Kashmir), or for that matter Pahadis, Gujjars, Dogras, Pashtuns, Shins, Ladakhis, Baltis, Gilgitis, Purikis, Wakhis, Yashkuns, Tibetans, Mongols, Tatars, Mon, Khowars – none of us, neither saint nor soldier, had the right to claim the truly heavenly beauty of that place for ourselves. I was once moved to say so, quite casually, to Imran, a young Kashmiri police officer who had done some exemplary undercover work for us. His response was, ‘It’s a very great thought, Sir. I have the same love for animals as yourself. Even in my travels in India I feel the exact same feeling – that India belongs not to Punjabis, Biharis, Gujaratis, Madrasis, Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, Christians, but to those beautiful creatures – peacocks, elephants, tigers, bears . . .’ He was polite to the point of being obsequious, but I knew what he was getting at. It was extraordinary; you couldn’t – and still cannot – trust even the ones you assumed were on your side. Not even the damn police.

Mohabbat de kone vich asi ik duje diyan aankha ‘ch guaach gye, Na jaane kadon gallan-gallan ‘ch ik duje diyan baahaan ‘ch saun gye, Tu hai rab mere lyi soneya, te rab vangu rehna dill vich mere, Na chaunde si ik duje ton vakh hona, vakh hi ik duje ton share-aam ho gye, vakh ik duje ton share-aam ho gye.

It was a misalliance. Gargi’s diet was literary sarson ka saag; Jeannie was American apple pie. Gargi wanted appreciation for what he wrote; Jeannie never bothered to learn Punjabi and was therefore unable to become a part of her husband’s claque. Gargi was gregarious, open-hearted in his hospitality, with not much in his kitty to be open-hearted about; Jeannie cherished the privacy of her home and could not stomach people dropping in at all hours. She also had an enormous appetite for food, which embarrassed Gargi for the simple reason that his friends might think he did not give her enough to eat at home. It was Gargi who took the irrevocable step to break up the marriage by committing adultery. Gargi wrote an emotionally charged account of his lustful encounter with one of his girl students in a garage, through the window of which could see his wife and children. It was a detailed and lusty account of the love-making, describing even the size of her breasts and her nipples. And that was the end of his marriage with the beautiful Jeannie. In

ਮਾਂ ਤੇਰੇ ਹੱਥ ਤਾਂ painkiller

I gave you all the happiness I couldn’t have. You loved your husband, your marriage. Good for you. I survived mine.

A strong woman wears a salwar kurta, a sari, pants   or a dress. A strong woman speaks in Hindi, Punjabi, Rajasthani, Kannada or English. A strong woman is vital, joyous and alive with dreams, hopes and thoughts. A strong woman can love and care deeply for her family. A strong woman chooses marriage and family, early, late or never. A strong woman chooses to stay at home and never work outside the home or chooses a career and family passionately. A strong woman chooses to compete and excel or not. A strong woman chooses what and when to sacrifice for her family and society. A strong woman cares and pleases but also knows when to stop. A strong woman is not by definition oppositional; she chooses when to collaborate, when to oppose, when to support and when to be a solo player. A strong woman is unapologetic about her choices, yet she has the wisdom to know when she has wronged someone and the humility to say ‘I am sorry’ without making ‘sorry’ her life mantra.

Poonam, 54, is a senior United Nations official. She joined the elite Indian Administrative Service as a 23-year-old. ‘ No, no, I am not afraid. I think I wanted to be thought of  as a nice person . . . not someone with a bichhoo [ scorpion ] in her mouth that comes out suddenly, so I didn’t speak up. Like you know that aggressive Punjabi woman, I didn’t want that to happen. I think it was all these  things  –  what will so-and-so think, how they won’t see it from my point of view and thinking that the  whole  relationship  will fail. So many fears, imagined or real, who knows . . .    I just want to please, please, please. I have never been able  to communicate or talk openly and clearly with people who matter to me, who I love, my family and friends, about what I want. I would get small small ideas from outside like keep your own account – but I was so scared to say it. Even today. Slowly I am changing with little little things. What TV show to watch, what food to eat.

Battle-itch, hate, contempt and greed. The ingredients were waiting to be utilized, and a strategy presented itself to John Lawrence. Recall, with due care, the Sikh love of war. Stir and use the dislikes: Sikh resentment of Muslim rule, Muslim resentment of Sikh domination, Punjabi disdain of the Purbiah. Spread word of the chance to plunder Delhi under British protection.

Like so many interactions in the Sikh community, the encounter will end in a kind of wrestling match, with one person trying to thrust money on the other, the other refusing to accept, and both people ending up offended and possibly physically bruised by the other's persistence.

Love me or hate me, I have no loyalty to any religion. I give all my loyalty to the truth, regardless of truth’s origins. May the truth reside in the Old, the New, the Qur’an, the Vedas, the Gathas, or the Guru Granth. May the truth reside in the poor, the meek, the ugly, or the mud.

Love God and love all God’s creations. If you’re lucky, The Source will send The Spirit. Sat Guru truthfully teaches and can activate The Word within. The Word’s resonance allows the “I” to experience the absolute reality. Through the mind of a mystic, union with The Great Architect can be achieved. A permanent love, in the truest sense, can soak through to every gene and every inch of a person’s being. Salvation can be yours, and the first step is to be.

We are Punjabis,” he stated, as though she weren’t already aware of the fact. “We say it like it is. We’re loud, shiny, and love our drink, but we wouldn’t change a thing. Pun-jaa-bii!” He rally-cried the last word with a raised fist, peering around as if expecting a cheer, maybe a spontaneous bhangra dance.