Mynah Bird Quotes

The reputation of a girl ... is a delicate thing. Like a mynah bird in your hands. slacken your grip and away it flies.

We employed a stocky Yorkshire woman to walk me home from school past the barbershop with the unhappy mynah bird. "Kill me!" it suggested as we passed by.

He's a boy, you see, and, as such, what does he care about reputation? But you? The reputation of a girl, especially one as pretty as you, is a delicate thing, Laila. Like a mynah bird in your hands. Slacken your grip and away it flies. Fariba to her daughter Laila

The sun is shining, mynah birds are chattering, palm trees are swaying, so what. I'm in the hospital and I'm healthy. My heart is beating as it should. My brain is firing off messages that are loud and clear. My wife is on the upright hospital bed, positioned the way people sleep on airplanes, her body stiff, head cocked to the side. Her hands on her lap.

WHAT? Maybe you didn't hear exactly how big my plans are? Big enough to be PRESIDENT president!" I'll say. But that's my job!" he'll say. Look, are you a naysayer?" I'll say. Do you say 'NAY'? I say." Uh . . . no?" he'll say. Then it's settled," I'll say. You're third in charge, reporting directly to the mynah bird!

I do it for the girls." "What girls?" He smirked. "They think it's sexy." "It's not." "No?" "I assure you." "Not sexy?" "You look khila, like a half-wit." "That hurts," he said. "What girls anyway?" "You're jealous." "I'm indifferently curious." "You can't be both." He took another drag and squinted through the smoke. "I'll bet they're talking about us now." In Laila's head, Mammy's voice rang out. Like a mynah bird in your hands. Slacken your grip and away it flies. Guilt bore its teeth into her. Then Laila shut off Mammy's voice. Instead, she savored the way Tariq had said us. How thrilling, how conspiratorial, it sounded coming from him. And how reassuring to hear him say it like that - casually, naturally. Us. It acknowledged their connection, crystallized it. "And what are they saying?" "That we're canoeing down the River of Sin," he said. "Eating a slice of Impiety Cake." "Riding the Rickshaw of Wickedness?" Laila chimed in. "Making Sacrilege Qurma." They both laughed. Then Tariq remarked that her hair was getting longer. "It's nice," he said. Laila hoped she wasn't blushing. "You changed the subject." "From what?" "The empty-headed girls who think you're sexy." "You know." "Know what?" "That I only have eyes for you." Laila swooned inside. She tried to read his face but was met by a look that was indecipherable: the cheerful, cretinous grin at odds with the narrow, half-desperate look in his eyes. A clever look, calculated to fall precisely at the midpoint between mockery and sincerity.

Listen up, BIG SHOTS, BIGWIGS, and MUCKETY-MUCKS! What am I dressed for?" I'll ask. Success!" they'll yell. And what do clothes make?" I'll ask. The man!" they'll answer. Then it should come as no surprise when I say, I GOT BIG PLANS! BIG PLANS, I SAY!" I'm in!" says the mynah bird.

I worry where the mynah birds are hiding. I get a sinking dread about their well-being. I open my eyes and peer into Circe's face. She looks calm, almost beautiful. The darkness in her room is inky and tinged with cobalt blue. The air fizzles like television static. Circe mumbles and draws me towards her. She breathes on me, my mouth no more than three inches away from hers. She smells like Kodomo lion toothpaste and Gardenia bread. I know from this moment that these two things will always remind me of her, with a flinch, an ache. And maybe because of this, over time I will learn to avoid them.

[“Attention”, a voice began to call, and it was as though an oboe had suddenly become articulate. “Attention”, it repeated in the same high, nasal monotone. “Attention” (…) “Is that your bird?” Will asked. She shook her head. Mynahs are like the electric light”, she said. “They don’t belong to anybody.” Why does he say those things? “Because somebody taught him”, she answered patiently… But why did they teach him those things? Why ‘Attention’? Why ‘Here and now?’ “Well …” She searched for the right words in which to explain the self-evident to this strange imbecile. “That’s what you always forget, isn’t it? I mean, you forget to pay attention to what’s happening. And that’s the same as not being here and now.

Other bands pissed off clubs because they would trash the dressing room and steal liquor from the stockroom. We pissed off clubs because the half-naked marching bad outside the venue would elicit noise complaints, or because someone would leave a glittery cage of trained mynah birds in the hallway, thus blocking the barbacks' path to the ice machine.

I once had a mynah bird, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. When I put music on, it would start yelling at me. It was like living with an ancient, fractious aunt. The fucker was never grateful for anything.

He smirked. "They think it's sexy." "It's not." "No?" "I assure you." "Not sexy?" "You look khila, like a half-wit." "That hurts," he said "What girls anyway?" "You're jealous." "I'm indifferently curious." "You can't be both." He took another drag and squinted through the smoke. "I'll bet they're talking about us now." In Laila's head, Mammy's voice rang out. Like a mynah bird in your hands. Slacken your grip and away it flies. Guilt bore its teeth into her. Then Laila shut off Mammy's voice. Instead, she savoured the way Tariq had said us. How thrilling, how conspiratorial, it sounded coming from him. And how reassuring to hear him say it like that-casually, naturally. Us. It acknowledged their connection, crystallized it. "And what are they saying?" "That we're canoeing down the River of Sin," he said. "Eating a slice of Impiety Cake." "Riding the Rickshaw of Wickedness?" Laila chimed in. "Making Sacrilege Qurma." They both laughed. Then Tariq remarked that her hair was getting longer. "It's nice," he said Laila hoped she wasn't blushing- "You changed the subject." "From what?" "The empty-headed girls who think you're sexy." "You know." "Know what?" "That I only have eyes for you." Laila swooned inside. She tried to read his face but was met by a look that was indecipherable: the cheerful, cretinously grin at odds with the narrow, half-desperate look in his eyes. A clever look, calculated to fall precisely at the midpoint between mockery and sincerity.

Am Not Ready to Die Yet My death peers at the world through a plumeria tree The tree looks out over the neighbor’s house to the Pacific A blue water spirit commands this part of the earth mind Without question, it rules from the kingdom of secrets And tremendous fishes. I was once given to the water. My ashes will return there, But I am not ready to die yet— This morning I carry the desire to live, inside my thigh It pulses there: a banyan, a mynah bird, or a young impatient wind Until I am ready to fly again, over the pungent flowers Over the sawing and drilling workmen making a mess In the yard of the house next door— It is endless, this map of eternity. Beware the water monster that lives at the borders of doubt— He can swallow everything whole: all the delectable mangoes, dreams, and even the most faithful of planets— I was once given to the water. My ashes will return there, But I am not ready to die yet— And when it happens, as it certainly will, the lights Will go on in the city and the city will go on shining At the edge of the water—it is endless—this earthy mind— There will be flowers. There are always flowers, And a fine blessing rain will fall through the net of the clouds Bearing offerings to the stones, and to all who linger. It will be a day like any other. Someone will be hammering; someone will be frying fish. And at noon the workmen will go home to eat poi, pork, and rice.

There is a tender breeze Wafting around here Feel it from your Soul You will see Magic over here Did I just now hear a beautiful symphony over here ? Or is it just your soothing words murmuring in my ear? Is it the cute mynah bird on my shoulder? Or is it your soft head nestling that I feel so tender? There is a tender breeze Wafting around here Feel it from your Soul You will see Magic over here... Did I just now hear the nightingale sing around here? Or is it the breeze whispering softly to the trees near? Is that you giggling away to glory? Or is that just the flowers mingling with the bees and telling their story? There is a tender breeze Wafting around here Feel it from your Soul You will see Magic over here..

In the silence that followed the end of the call to prayer, the songs of the first Delhi birds could suddenly be heard: the argumentative chuckle of the babblers, the sharp chatter of the mynahs, the alternating clucking and squealing of the rosy parakeets, the angry exclamations of the brain fever bird, and from deep inside the canopy of the fruit trees in Zafar’s gardens at Raushanara Bagh and Tis Hazari, the woody hot-weather echo of the koel.