M Patel Quotes

I want to gain immortality because of my brain and not because of the potential of my womb.

You want to be a good person, don't you, Pat?' I nod. I cry. I do want to be a good person, I really do. 'I'm going to up your meds,' Dr. Patel tells me. 'You might feel a little sluggish, but it should help to curb your violent outbursts. You need to know it's your actions that will make you a good person, not desire.

I fit into spaces which already exist and contort myself to fit a shape which has been allocated for me.

The world is made for couples. Even the unhappy ones.

I came because you’re the one,” he rasped. “You’re mine. I’m yours. We don’t belong with anyone else. I don’t stand in front of you, or run after you. I walk alongside you. I will be damned if anything breaks us.

The comments under this post all express urgent, alarmed concern for the sacrificed dishcloth and I think white people are wild for how they will have an acute empathy for anything bar actual melanated human beings.

Wanting to be an artist and being one are different. Perhaps I am just like everyone else and my disappointment is desiring to be special but not being special at all. Perhaps my life's purpose is to square myself with this.

I thought time stretched out forever. I thought I had the rest of my life to make this decision. But I realized I am on a clock and it runs differently for me. I am female. There was never much time and I have wasted so much already.

first of all i didn’t miss the red flags i looked at them and thought yeah that’s sexy

Happiness or safety. Or isn't that the same thing?

He has hungry eyes like a crocodile. Watching from the banks of the river he devours one half-naked woman, then the next.

But then how can you be so hateful when the same religion tells you to be peaceable and kind to all?” “I’m not perfect. And I’m speaking the truth.” “That’s a tired excuse. She’s imperfect, too. We all are. Being imperfect isn’t an excuse for you to slander. And she has every right to be here. Sounds like maybe you need to sit in the front row during sermons as much as anyone else.

What is the line between being vulnerable and prostrating yourself for a system that won't recognise you? The onus is never on the system to adjust its hardness, it's on you to shape-shift and acquiesce. Do I don vulnerability as a weapon against this culture? - If you require me to be hard and harder to fight you, I will rebel by being soft like a jelly-beaned being, but like anything, you need to be softer and softer to have the same impact. Do I weaponise my own pain and cause harm to myself by revelling in that pain, nurturing it, putting myself in danger to encourage it and then working it over by verbalising it for display, to show society, I am a human being and I feel pain just like you.

You have to let it go before it completely consumes you.” “How do I do that?” “Approach and embrace the bitterness. Look it in the eye and give it all you have, your tears, your fears, your anger. Then release it like a breath you’ve held for too long. Remember the good things about your father.” “You’re not going to think I’m some emotional man-child if I cry?” I smirked. She smiled. “We’ll cry together.

I look back frequently I'm learning from the past I try to distract from the pain I lose myself at times Chaos is still beautiful for me and I understood I'm stronger braver and more resilient Then I once believed

Whiteness and white people make themselves pervasive yet think of themselves as separate. It is parental and condescending in tone—it invented the concept of race conferring upon itself—a freak genetic accident—the values of intelligence, advancement, beauty, whereby the lower the level of melanin in the body, the higher your place in the hierarchy, the lighter the skin tone, the closer you are to whiteness therefore the better, more beautiful you are regarded, the more suited to power you are. The simplicity of this belief is in tandem with its terrible violence.

In a dark silent room I sit all alone Feeling only the pain and With uncontrollable tears The floral bed sheets I'm covered in Fails to offer the warmth and comfort I’m trapped Underneath the blankets Screaming and tormenting I'm passing the nights

Admitting mistakes, apologizing is very important in life but change! Someone can't just apologize and disappear. We need to be responsible. We have to clean up our mess. Actions are much more important than the words. Don't repeat the same mistake over and over again and end up saying sorry. 'I'm Sorry' just isn't enough always! If you still have the chance to undo the hurt with your actions, then you should. You must!

Darling, I'm sorry but, I’m going back to home. To myself! I realized, Home is not the place I live in, It is not where you are, It is not somewhere in the world Waiting for me to arrive but, Home is wherever I am, Home is within me. It’s just been a really long time, I’m going back to home. To myself!

The narratives open to us are the ones based on our identities as it is these stories that are market and social media approved. They have a numbing familiarity to them. We second generation immigrants have the privilege of self-actualisation. We make sculptures, direct films, write plays, novels, memoirs and poems about not having a home, of trying to find a home, of being between two types of home, what is home, of how we all feel ugly, of the mixed relationships we enter into with white people, losing our language from a culture we had a tenuous hold of in the first place, we tell the story of being acted upon, we speak from the position of the victim. For an algorithm not

Women are beautiful, alluring but terrifying forces and the way to deal with terrifying forces is to break them. ... He cannot bear a woman to have control over him and sees our sexuality as a threat, set out purposefully to destroy him which he must evade at all costs. In his failure to experience and take responsibility for his own sexuality, he seeks to nuke the woman yet simultaneously casts himself as the victim so the woman he is destroying still takes care of him as she is brought down. You collaborate in your own destruction.

White people are wild for how they will have an acute empathy for anything bar actual melanated human beings.

He wants the consistency from a mother and not the conditionality of a lover

I do not want to be awake to my deadness.

I never came with him. I never felt safe enough to.

I am no one. I am a fan. and because of this, I can be cut out. I am a supporting act

I might look innocent but I screenshot a lot

The validation a relationship bestows upon a woman's personhood still exists and has to be internally fought off if a union hasn't been achieved. The world is built for couples. Even unhappy ones.

Aren’t these wealthy aesthetes on Instagram merely another iteration of a class elite deciding what is good and what is not good, shaping our reality the way they always have just better disguised by technology which has the optics of transparency and democracy? Are they not the beneficiaries of the old, covert systems, descendants of the children of settlers and the children of Empire, left-leaning spawn from right-leaning families, who can pick and choose objects plucked outside of their cultural context in some sort of static menagerie in order to show how innately open-minded they are even as their wealth has been drawn from global structures that decimate the cultures those objects are from? If only we could all be buffered from exploitatively neoliberal regimes by family money and luxuriously austere domestic settings.

We are saddened by the knowledge that nothing really collectively changes but reassured by the thought that it did for me on an individual level, as we backstroke across the vast placid sea of righteous superiority.

The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep A list by Miranda Cabot The Idols (guys): Tristan Vanderbilt (year one), Zayd Kaiser (year one), and Creed Cabot (year one) The Idols (girls): Harper du Pont (year one), Becky Platter (year one), and Gena Whitley (year four) The Inner Circle: Andrew Payson, Anna Kirkpatrick, Myron Talbot, Ebony Peterson, Gregory Van Horn, Abigail Fanning, John Hannibal, Valentina Pitt, Sai Patel, Mayleen Zhang, Jalen Donner … and, I guess, me! Plebs: everyone else, sorry. XOXO

She inhaled the steam rising from the coffee without touching it. “I’m very picky about my coffee.” “White chocolate peppermint latte, half skim, half soy, no whip, extra white chocolate sauce on the bottom and a drizzle on top.” Her gaze shot up, watching me over the rim of the cup with a hint of incredulity. “How’d you know?” I shrugged. “Maybe we like the same drinks.” Or maybe Wendy had told me the other day when she balanced three cups of coffee in the elevator. Liya clamped her mouth shut but covered the warm cup with her petite hands. Her glossy red nails clicked against the sturdy paper cup, drowning out the muted sounds of others in the hallway beyond the open door. “It’s okay,” I assured her. “I don’t think you did anything to the coffee.” “I mean it’s okay to smile because someone brought you your picky-ass latte.” She took a sip. “We’re not friends, you know?” “No one forgets being told they’re not friends,” I said teasingly, knowing full well she didn’t want to be friends but yet, here we were. A smile crept across her lips, even though she tried hard to stop it.

I want it so no one else can have it. In the not having, it remains absolutely perfect, in my imagination it would fulfill all my needs, I would never need anyone again. I want it so that in the luxury of having it, I can ruin its perfection and then reject it when I am sure it means nothing.

The man I want to be with wants you most when you do not want him, he prefers the chase. The point at which you become emotionally invested is the exact moment he loses interest. This is met with my own wounding where I want what doesn’t want me. He wants the consistency from a mother and not the conditionality of a lover. When I pointlessly argue and fight with him, I feel like I am fighting the very structures of the old colonial forces, where he has, holds and takes, and I give, offer and ask for nothing in return. We all have teeth in our stomach for him. We are all sacrificed at the altar of his fear.

I felt more comfortable when you were cursing like a sailor and calling me filthy names." "Are you conceding defeat?" She tried to keep the hopeful tone from her voice when he tucked his laptop into his leather briefcase. "Of course not." His dark eyes flashed with mirth. "I have a business meeting in half an hour which I had hoped to conduct here, but I'm too much of a gentleman to intrude on your privacy while you crush the hearts of ten sad and lonely men. I look forward to battling with you tomorrow, Miss Patel. May the best man win." After the door closed behind him, she sat back in her chair surrounded by his warmth and the intoxicating scent of his cologne. She knew his type. Hated it. Arrogant. Cocky. Egotistical. Ultra-competitive. Fully aware of how devastatingly handsome he was. A total player. She would have swiped left if his profile had popped up on desi Tinder. So why couldn't she stop smiling?

As I sit there flipping through a Sports Illustrated, listening to the easy-listening station Dr. Patel pumps into his waiting room, suddenly I'm hearing sexy synthesizer chords, faint highhat taps, the kick drum thumping out an erotic heartbeat, the twinkling of fairy dust, and then the evil bright soprano saxophone. You know the title: "Songbird." And I'm out of my seat, screaming, kicking chairs, flipping the coffee table, picking up piles of magazines and throwing them against the wall, yelling, "It's not fair! I won't tolerate any tricks! I'm not an emotional lab rat!

That will be $22.95." He held out a hand, and this time she laughed, the full, delightful belly chuckle he remembered from the past. "How about I buy you dinner when we get to the Shark Tank instead?" she offered. "I don't believe that's on our dating plan, Ms. Patel." He pulled out his phone. "Let me see... Hmm. It appears that we've already crossed off the dinner option." Daisy shrugged. "If you don't like their roast beef sandwiches..." "With horseradish?" "And beer." Liam stroked his chin as if considering. "Double order of fries?" "Each." "And for dessert?" he asked. "Fried Oreos, of course." He tucked away his phone. "For you, I'm willing to go 'off plan.

IT WAS three days after the satisfactory resolution of the Patel case. Mma Ramotswe had put in her bill for two thousand pula, plus expenses, and had been paid by return of post. This astonished her. She could not believe that she would be paid such a sum without protest, and the readiness, and apparent cheerfulness with which Mr Patel had settled the bill induced pangs of guilt over the sheer size of the fee. It was curious how some people had a highly developed sense of guilt, she thought, while others had none. Some people would agonise over minor slips or mistakes on their part, while others would feel quite unmoved by their own gross acts of betrayal or dishonesty. Mma Pekwane fell into the former category, thought Mma Ramotswe. Note Mokoti fell into the latter. Mma Pekwane had seemed anxious when she had come into the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Mma Ramotswe had given her a strong cup of bush tea, as she always did with nervous clients, and had waited for her to be ready to speak. She was anxious about a man, she thought; there were all the signs. What would it be? Some piece of masculine bad behaviour, of course, but what? “I’m worried that my husband

Oh, so this is the kitchen! And the call girls come to you, to service you on shift. Shit, that's a nice perk of the job. Wish I could get a blowjob while I'm working." Audra snorted. If the stories were true, Jay had enjoyed more such perks than Patel would in his lifetime.

Here’, I am a disciple just as you are. The one you see is not ‘Dada Bhagwan’; it is ‘A. M. Patel’, a Patidaar from the town of Bhadran. The one sitting within is ‘Dada Bhagwan’. ‘I’ myself make everyone do jai jai kar of Dada Bhagwan [sing praise of Dada Bhagwan]. Therefore, ‘I’ too am a devotee, as are you.

There is no problem with the relative, but the problem is with the fact that you are becoming one with the relative.

If the new charging is going on [for next life by wrong belief that 'This is mine'], while [past life created] karma is being discharged in this life, then there is 'inner turmoil', but if there is only discharge [in this life and charging is stopped]; there is inner peace.

Once the state of duality is gone, then know that you have attained the Main Soul [One’s Own Original Real Self]. You must attain a state free from duality.

The mind performs its function, the intellect performs its function, the ego performs its function; they are all intents of the non-Self, they are not intents of the Self (Atmabhaav). To See and Know the intents of the non-Self is in fact Atmabhaav (the sense as the Self). There are unlimited intents of the non-Self. The world is trapped in the intents of the non-Self indeed.

To remain in the awakened awareness state in the midst of the Knower (Gnata) and the object to be known (gneya) is penance itself. For the Knower to not become the object to be known is itself invisible internal penance (adeetha tapa).

One will have to devoutly contemplate only about the destination he wants to arrive at, otherwise he will end up disembarking at another station!

Until you know 'Who am I?' (have realization of your true Self), merit karma is always to be accumulated [is acceptable] and demerit karma is worthy of being cast off.

To reside in the place which makes you forget worldly life, and to move away from the place that entangles you further in worldly life; the one who understands such discretion (vivek) will be able to accomplish his spiritual work.

The one who makes you forget wordly life (sansaar) is the one with the Knowledge of the Self (Gnani).

I’m a business man, Mr. Patel. My actions are never dictated by emotion.” A frown creased Patel’s brow. “You took Stavros. Isn’t that driven by emotion?” “I was bored.” Nieto pushed to his feet. “The Greek is highly entertaining.” As he approached Patel, he said, “Besides, a little bloodletting keeps me sharp and helps me think.

I'm a person in my own right, not someone who exists simply to fulfill a path I never choose.

As much as I loved my family, I was entirely dependent on them, against my will. I wanted to live on my own—make decisions without asking for permission from my family. Cook my own dinner. Pay for my own shit. Create a life of my own. And at the end of the day, I wanted to live a life I was proud of. And I wouldn’t achieve it until I moved out. I needed to follow my passion.

As much as I loved my family, I was entirely dependent on them, against my will. I wanted to live on my own—make decisions without asking for permission from my family. Cook my own dinner. Pay for my own shit. Create a life of my own. And at the end of the day, I wanted to live a life I was proud of. And I wouldn’t achieve it until I moved out. I needed to follow my passion.

Your beauty makes me confused.. Whenever I look at you, I lose myself. I look into your deep eyes and I feel the depth of the ocean, but I love to drown there. When I look at your soft moist lips I feel these are the most beautiful rose Patel When I look at your naughty smile, it looks like a blossoming flower. When I look at the shape of your body, I feel every curve is a masterpiece. I'm confused. What seduces me, what kills me more, is your pretty smile, your deep eyes, your moist lips or your sexy figure. Your beauty makes me confused.. the fire of your beautiful figure is greater or the kindness of your pure soul. But the conclusion is I'm in love with what you have everything all

Is the need for fervent fans a deeper expression of the fear of being anonymous

Grace Patel…” Bradley wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin, “that’s an Indian name, right?” “Yes. My father’s parents were from India.” He nodded. “Interesting. Do you plan on going into engineering or computer science?” Sara hissed, but she didn’t speak up. She’d barely said anything since Bradley had come into the room. Sebastian’s leg jiggled under the table so hard, his silverware rattled. I gripped his knee as I flashed Bradley a smile when I really wanted to stab his racist ass with my salad fork. “No. My dad didn’t pass any of those genes onto me. I’m an artist, but my plan is to study both art and graphic design in college. I have dreams of making a living from my sculptures, but since I’m a pragmatist, I want to have a marketable skill along with it.

Dr. Patel continued, “I need everyone to provide a DNA sample for analysis. Don’t worry, it'll be quick and painless!” Isabella and Drea exchanged wary looks. “Painless? What does he mean painless?” Isabella asked in a whispered panic. “You know I’m not good with needles!” Drea quickly rubbed her back to calm her down. Dr. Patel handed everyone a vial and a cotton swab. “Seriously?” Isabella whispered angrily. “I almost had a heart attack over a cotton swab!

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Woman is not at fault, sex is not at fault; the fault is in your tendencies [vruti]. The tendencies indeed interfere and cause misery.

This entire environment is filled with parmanu (the smallest, most indivisible and indestructible particles of matter). That is why 'we' tell you, "Do not criticize (ninda) anyone. Do not utter even a single word irresponsibly. And if you must speak, then speak that which is good.

Nature is compliant (adhin) to us, but we should remain compliant to it. We should abide by the laws of nature.

I brought the knowledge of vyavasthit (scientific circumstantial evidences) right from birth! It is my discovery of infinite past lives!!

You are not the 'doer' of this, there is a mistake in your belief. For the work that is not Yours, you claim, "I did it." Moreover, You are not even aware of what Your work is. Therefore, how much of Your work would be accomplished? No work has been accomplished. You had come without awakened awareness (jagruti); you were born in this world, and that too without awakened awareness, and you left without awakened awareness too. You ended up binding so much demerit karma without doing anything?

Purusharth (spiritual effort to progress as the Self) is such that it can only happen after attaining Purush (the Self). In fact, the prakruti (non-Self complex) is making you dance forcibly and on top of that you say, "I am doing this." That is known as bhranti no purusharth (illusory effort). That cannot be real spiritual effort to progress as the Self. It is only after the Self and the non-Self complex become separate that real spiritual effort to progress as the Self can happen.

Just as there is Kramic Vignan (the science of the step-by-step path to Self-realization) similarly this is Akram Vignan (the science of the step-less path to Self-realization). However, Akram Vignan cannot be found in books, it is in the heart of the Gnani (the enlightened One).

To never hinder our progress after attaining the path of Liberation should be our goal.

Samkit (awareness of ‘I am pure Soul’) is a vision. The moment one’s vision turns (from ‘I am Chandubhai’ to ‘I am pure Soul’), samkit has occurred.

Once the deceit is exposed, the mind will be brought under control [contained]. By exposing it, the mind can be controlled.

Dada Bhagwan’ is the Bhagwan [God], He is the Lord of the fourteen realms (regions) of the universe. He can give you whatever you ask for. This body has become a temple and a ‘public trust’. And who is this doing the talking? It is the ‘original tape record’ that is doing the talking. God does not do any talking.

Only ‘he’, who becomes free from his intellect, can become sarvagna (Omniscient).

Science’ (vignan) is always principled and it brings an end to all the misery. ‘Science’ is the only solution for it, but it must be the experiential science of Gnani Purush (the enlightened one).

Do not meddle with Gnani’s words. To do so carries grave liability. If just one word is absorbed and ‘digested’, it will take you all the way to moksha (Ultimate State of Liberation).

What should one do to get rid of ignorance? Attain Gnan (Knowledge of the Self). Use tools such as books and scriptures for attaining knowledge but if you meet a Gnani Purush (the Enlightened One), then you don’t need any tools. The Soul (Self) is inexpressible and indescribable. It cannot be put in books.

Gnani Purush’ (the enlightened one) always remains in the bliss of the Self; and only He can bring us in the bliss of the self. Otherwise no one else can. The One who has swum across (the worldly sea) can help others swim across. How can a drowing man help you swim?

There can be no other beneficial thing in this world, other than a Gnani Purush (the enlightened one).

Every element (vastu) is different by its inherent nature and elements which are different by their inherent nature cannot become one.

Simply saying the word 'Self' (Atma) will not work. The conviction of the Self must set in. Conviction means doubtlessness (nihshankta) about the Self; one himself becomes completely convinced [of being the Self]!

Fearlessness (nirbhayta) arises through a Self that is free of doubt. After becoming free of doubt, asangata (a state of absolute separation) arises.

Gnayakata (to continuously Know and See) is Swaramanata (dwelling in the state as the Self).

When is vyavasthit (result of scientific circumstantial evidences) formed? When someone instigates you and you become engrossed in that, there you became avasthit (absorbed in its effect), and that itself is the formation of vyavasthit!

The scriptures say that ‘the Soul is like this or like that or it is not like that’, and so do the ascetics. But what does sweetness mean? Only a ‘Gnani’ (The Enlightened one) will give you a taste of it.Then this Knowledge (Gnan) will give results on its own.

Whatever one’s belief arises, he will find tools corresponding to his beliefs. With the belief of the ‘Self’, there is only one ‘tool’ to acquire the Knowledge of the Self, that tool is the ‘Gnani Purush’ (the enlightened one). Contemplation of the Gnani Purush (the enlightened one) is the very tool with which the Soul will continue to manifest.

In June 2020 they post a black square and from then on, they post frolicky Black women in the company's cottage core aesthetic and say they acknowledge they have to do better.

As a teenager, I needed to be an ogre at home to frighten my parents so they didn't frighten me. If I breathed fire against them then I would scorch the earth around me to have some semblance of autonomy.

We are all of us engaged in a collective self-harm by trying to love him, seeking to be loved by him.

feel that.” Jane begins to inspect her hair for split ends. “Especially those guys who look at me like I’m fresh hamachi sashimi. As if I exist to lay there for their pleasure. Gross.

I do not know the meaning of love. Even its definition is abstract. “Strong affection based on kinship.” My parents are my kin. If providing for me is considered strong affection, I suppose I have that. But I do not feel anything for them except that I came from them. If it is sexual desire, I have that for my husband. But have no other use for him. What does it mean to hold someone dear? I’ve concluded that I do not care for it. Let it exist for others. I’m enough without it.

I'll have the pork vindaloo. Extra hot." He puffed out his chest. He'd acquired a taste for Indian food after the years he'd spent sharing meals at the Patel home, although he hadn't had food as good in many years. "It's too hot for me the way they make it," Daisy said. "I wouldn't even consider asking them to raise the heat." "I ate at your house every night and your dad made his curry extra hot. I miss that burn." Daisy's lips quirked at the corners. "He said it was extra hot so he didn't crush your ego, but in fact he kept the heat down when you were around. What he called 'extra hot' is actually a restaurant mild. His real extra hot would blow your mind." "You don't scare me," Liam said. "I'm not changing my mind." "Stubborn and ungrateful." Daisy smirked. "I'm going to enjoy listening to your screams of pain." "Is that your idea of a good date? Screams of pain?" She smiled, amused. "I don't date often. I usually just hook up with someone for the night.

The building … should be seen as a body but I see it as a metaphor for the way the mind works too. The show has a sexy confidence which is augmented by its supremely quiet focus. It is akin to being touched slowly by someone you want to be touched by, when you want them to go fast and of their slowing it all down so you pay attention. It’s the moment where you delay gratification, withholding so you enjoy how much the other person wants you, savouring your wanting of them, of their release to the animal, experiencing a body outside of words. The refusal to fill the space with objects but to move and reshape, invites chance and the unknown through negative spaces— because is this not faith, believing in what you cannot see? Is this not what invites God? An experience at its most powerful when it is suggested or alluded to, when you have to put the pieces together yourself.

There aren't just red and white and brilliant white, they don’t have names like ‘brave beige’ and ‘mermaid sheen’, no, these colours announce themselves like a discreet sommelier at a nice restaurant who murmurs excellent choice. Here, beige is split into bone, pigeon, tallow, wevet—beige is not beige in this kind of taste-country, it is rustically referenced to make you believe you are cleverer than you are and you deserve to be gently handled.

I don’t tell him how I’ve been monitoring her book release like I’m planning a drone strike.

I want the illusion rather than my self-respect.

By the fact of your gender, you are fundamentally dismissed, and because you are asking for his vulnerability, you become the enemy, you are treated as a hostile invader, with suspicion, surveyed as a constant high-level threat and you will be suppressed or defeated.

It is toxic. I am familiar

Dehadhyas (the belief that ‘I am the body’) will leave only when the belief of 'I am Pure Soul' prevails. Dehadhyas does not leave by simply saying, "The wife and children are not mine.

What is the assurance that one is Vitaraag? The answer is, it is when no worldly things come to memory. Besides attaining a state completely free of worldly attachment and abhorrence (vitaraagata), one cannot forget the world.

Nischay is One’s own real form as the Self, whereas vyavahaar (the relative) is one’s own fault.

The path to attaining God is normality. There is liberation (moksha) through normality. Normality is the 'backbone' of the world.

I’m not at all sure yet. I’m absolutely