Proudly Indian Quotes

For untold ages the Indian race had not used family names. A new-born child was given a brand-new name. Blue-Star Woman was proud to write her name for which she would not be required to substitute another's upon her marriage, as is the custom of civilized peoples.

These paintings say Mexico is an ancient thing that will still go on forever telling its own story in slabs of color leaves and fruits and proud naked Indians in a history without shame. Their great city of Tenochtitlan is still here beneath our shoes and history was always just like today full of markets and wanting.

Indians are in denial mode and wake up only when foreigners treasure India. They don’t seem to know the value and,therefore, don’t take pride in their tradition, unlike Westerners who take a lot of pride in theirs, even if there is little to be proud of

Friendship is a difficult thing to define. Oscar here is my oldest friend. How would you define friendship, Oscar?" Oscar grunts slightly, as though the answer is obvious. "Friendship is about choice and chemistry. It cannot be defined." "But surely there's something more to it than that." "It is a willingness to overlook faults and to accept them. I would let a friend hurt me without striking back," he says, smiling. "But only once." De Souza laughs. "Bravo, Oscar, I can always rely on you to distill an argument down to its purest form. What do you think, Dayel?" The Indian rocks his head from side to side, proud that he has been asked to speak next. "Friendship is different for each person and it changes throughout our lives. At age six it is about holding hands with your best friend. At sixteen it is about the adventure ahead. At sixty it is about reminiscing." He holds up a finger. "You cannot define it with any one word, although honesty is perhaps the closest word-" "No, not honesty," Farhad interrupts. "On the contrary, we often have to protect our friends from what we truly think. It is like an unspoken agreement. We ignore each other's faults and keep our confidences. Friendship isn't about being honest. The truth is too sharp a weapon to wield around someone we trust and respect. Friendship is about self-awareness. We see ourselves through the eyes of our friends. They are like a mirror that allows us to judge how we are traveling." De Souza clears his throat now. I wonder if he is aware of the awe that he inspires in others. I suspect he is too intelligent and too human to do otherwise. "Friendship cannot be defined," he says sternly. "The moment we begin to give reasons for being friends with someone we begin to undermine the magic of the relationship. Nobody wants to know that they are loved for their money or their generosity or their beauty or their wit. Choose one motive and it allows a person to say, 'is that the only reason?'" The others laugh. De Souza joins in with them. This is a performance. He continues: "Trying to explain why we form particular friendships is like trying to tell someone why we like a certain kind of music or a particular food. We just do.

Empurpled rapturous hills I guess and the long day brushstroke by brushstroke enfeebling into darkness and then the fires blooming on the pitch plains. In the beautiful blue night there was plenty of visiting and the braves was proud and ready to offer a lonesome soldier a squaw for the duration of his passion. John Cole and me sought out a hollow away from prying eyes. Then with the ease of men who have rid themselves of worry we strolled among the Indian tents and heard the sleeping babies breathing and spied out the wondrous kind called by the Indians winkte or by white men berdache, braves dressed in the finery of squaws. John Cole gazes on them but he don’t like to let his eyes linger too long in case he gives offence. But he’s like the plough-horse that got the whins. All woken in a way I don’t see before. The berdache puts on men’s garb when he goes to war, this I know. Then war over it’s back to the bright dress. We move on and he’s just shaking like a cold child. Two soldiers walking under the bright nails of the stars. John Cole’s long face, long stride. The moonlight not able to flatter him because he was already beautiful.

aboriginal sin We each begin in innocence. We all become guilty. In this life you find yourself guilty of being who you are. Being yourself, that's Aboriginal Sin, the worst sin of all. That's a sin you'll never be forgiven for. We Indians are all guilty, guilty of being ourselves. We're taught guilt from the day we're born. We learn it well. To each of my brothers and sisters, I say, be proud of that guilt. You are guilty only of being innocent, of being yourselves, of being Indian, of being human. Your guilt makes you holy.

Wild roved an Indian maid, Bright Alfarata, Where flow the waters Of the blue Juniata. Strong and true my arrows are In my painted quiver, Swift goes my light canoe Adown the rapid river. “Bold is my warrior good, The love of Alfarata, Proud wave his sunny plumes Along the Juniata. Soft and low he speaks to me, And then his war-cry sounding Rings his voice in thunder loud From height to height resounding. “So sang the Indian maid, Bright Alfarata, Where sweep the waters Of the blue Juniata. Fleeting years have borne away The voice of Alfarata, Still flow the waters Of the blue Juniata.

home, alone in my room, with the sounds of #2 and #5 trains rumbling in the distance, I started with a letter to myself. Dear Juliet, Repeat after me: You are a bruja. You are a warrior. You are a feminist. You are a beautiful brown babe. Surround yourself with other beautiful brown and black and indigenous and morena and Chicana, native, Indian, mixed race, Asian, gringa, boriqua babes. Let them uplift you. Rage against the motherfucking machine. Question everything anyone ever says to you or forces down your throat or makes you write a hundred times on the blackboard. Question every man that opens his mouth and spews out a law over your body and spirit. Question every single thing until you find the answer in a daydream. Don’t question yourself unless you hurt someone else. When you hurt someone else, sit down, and think, and think, and think, and then make it right. Apologize when you fuck up. Live forever. Consult the ancestors while counting stars in the galaxy. Hold wisdom under tongue until it’s absorbed into the bloodstream. Do not be afraid. Do not doubt yourself. Do not hide Be proud of your inhaler, your cane, your back brace, your acne. Be proud of the things that the world uses to make you feel different. Love your fat fucking glorious body. Love your breasts, hips, and wide-ass if you have them and if you don’t, love the body you do have or the one you create for yourself. Love the fact that you have ingrown hairs on the back of your thighs and your grandma’s mustache on your lips. Read all the books that make you whole. Read all the books that pull you out of the present and into the future. Read all the books about women who get tattoos, and break hearts, and rob banks, and start heavy metal bands. Read every single one of them. Kiss everyone. Ask first. Always ask first and then kiss the way stars burn in the sky. Trust your lungs. Trust the Universe. Trust your damn self. Love hard, deep, without restraint or doubt Love everything that brushes past your skin and lives inside your soul. Love yourself. In La Virgen’s name and in the name of Selena, Adiosa.

And Dirk van Dyck the Dutchman realized that he never had been, and never would be, as proud of any child as he was of his elegant little Indian daughter at that moment.

Native Americans cured Cartier's men of scurvy near Montreal in 1535. They repaired Francis Drake's Golden Hind in California so he could complete his round-the-world voyage in 1579. Lewis and Clark's expedition to the Pacific Northwest was made possible by tribe after tribe of American Indians, with help from two Shoshone guides, Sacagawea and Toby, who served as interpreters. When Admiral Peary discovered the North Pole, the first person there was probably neither the European American Peary nor the African American Matthew Henson, his assistant, but their four Inuit guides, men and women on whom the entire expedition relied. Our histories fail to mention such assistance. They portray proud Western conquerors bestriding the world like the Colossus at Rhodes. So long as our textbooks hide from us the roles that people of color have played in exploration, from at least 6000 BC to to the twentieth century, they encourage us to look to Europe and its extensions as the seat of all knowledge and intelligence. So long as they say "discover," they imply that whites are the only people who really matter. So long as they simply celebrate Columbus, rather than teach both sides of his exploit, they encourage us to identify with white Western exploitation rather than study it.

And I'm filled with an aching sorrow, too, for the loss to my own family because, in a very real way, I also died that day. I died to my family, to my children, to my grandchildren, to myself. I've lived out my death for more than two decades now. Those who put me here and keep me here knowing of my innocence can take grim satisfaction in their sure reward — which is being who and what they are. That's as terrible a reward as any I could imagine. I know who and what I am. I am an Indian — an Indian who dared to stand up to defend his people. I am an innocent man who never murdered anyone nor wanted to. And yes, I am a Sun Dancer. That, too, is my identity. If I am to suffer as a symbol of my people, then I suffer proudly. I will never yield.

The Dead Father was slaying, in a grove of music and musicians. First he slew a harpist and then a performer upon the serpent and also a banger upon the rattle and also a blower of the Persian trumpet and one upon the Indian trumpet and one upon the Hebrew trumpet and one upon the Roman trumpet and one upon the Chinese trumpet of copper-covered wood. Also a blower upon the marrow trumpet and one upon the slide trumpet and one who wearing upon his head the skin of a cat performed upon the menacing murmurous cornu and three blowers on the hunting horn and several blowers of the conch shell and a player of the double aulos and flautists of all descriptions and a Panpiper and a fagotto player and two virtuosos of the quail whistle and a zampogna player whose fingering of the chanters was sweet to the ear and by-the-bye and during the rest period he slew four buzzers and a shawmist and one blower upon the water jar and a clavicytheriumist who was before he slew her a woman, and a stroker of the theorbo and countless nervous-fingered drummers as well as an archlutist, and then whanging his sword this way and that the Dead Father slew a cittern plucker and five lyresmiters and various mandolinists, and slew too a violist and a player of the kit and a picker of the psaltery and a beater of the dulcimer and a hurdy-gurdier and a player of the spike fiddle and sundry kettledrummers and a triangulist and two-score finger cymbal clinkers and a xylophone artist and two gongers and a player of the small semantron who fell with his iron hammer still in his hand and a trictrac specialist and a marimbist and a maracist and a falcon drummer and a sheng blower and a sansa pusher and a manipulator of the gilded ball. The Dead Father resting with his two hands on the hilt of his sword, which was planted in the red and steaming earth. My anger, he said proudly. Then the Dead Father sheathing his sword pulled from his trousers his ancient prick and pissed upon the dead artists, severally and together, to the best of his ability-four minutes, or one pint. Impressive, said Julie, had they not been pure cardboard. My dear, said Thomas, you deal too harshly with him. I have the greatest possible respect for him and for what he represents, said Julie, let us proceed.

I am pain-stricken to say, since the moment I was born, I have found nothing extraordinary in this ancient land of greatness to be exceptionally proud of. I am not a proud Indian. India at its present condition has given me no reason to feel proud. However, I do feel proud of the ancient Indians, just like I feel proud of the ancient Greeks, the Mayans, the ancient Egyptians, the Babylonians and so on. Scientists are beyond borders, just like the ancient scientists of India, whom you prefer to call as sages.

Indians are racist. They will not admit it, but paradoxically they are proud of it. While North Indians are classified as brash, undignified and vulgar with wealth, Southerners are deemed bookish, backward and black – wholly undesirable in a country where Clarins White Plus face cream is advertised as ‘the magic wand you have been waiting for’.

It is not sufficient to tell native kids to be proud of who they are if we do not also at the same time tell them who they are. The struggle in connecting young people to their traditions is compounded by a school system that consistently provides opportunities to learn about others but very few for native kids to learn about themselves. We have a lot of work to do.

The joy of killing! the joy of seeing killing done--these are traits of the human race at large. We white people are merely modified Thugs; Thugs fretting under the restraints of a not very thick skin of civilization; Thugs who long ago enjoyed the slaughter of the Roman arena, and later the burning of doubtful Christians by authentic Christians in the public squares, and who now, with the Thugs of Spain and Nimes, flock to enjoy the blood and misery of the bull-ring. We have no tourists of either sex or any religion who are able to resist the delights of the bull-ring when opportunity offers; and we are gentle Thugs in the hunting-season, and love to chase a tame rabbit and kill it. Still, we have made some progress--microscopic, and in truth scarcely worth mentioning, and certainly nothing to be proud of--still it is progress: we no longer take pleasure in slaughtering or burning helpless men. We have reached a little altitude where we may look down upon the Indian Thugs with a complacent shudder; and we may even hope for a day, many centuries hence, when our posterity will look down upon us in the same way.

We're both of the invented Caribbean, Nesto says, a Nuevo Mundo alchemy of distilled African, Spaniard, Indian, Asian, and Arab blood, each of us in varying mixtures. He likes to compare our complexions, putting his arm next to mine, calls me 'canelita, ni muy tostada ni muy blanquita' showing off his darkness, proof, his mother told him, of his noble Yoruba parentage and brave cimarron ancestors, la raza prieta of which he should be proud no matter how much others have resisted mestizaje, hanging onto the milky whiteness of their lineage like it's their most precious commodity.

Return America to the Native Americans! I'm all for returnin' America to the Native Americans. No siree bub, I'm not talking about them featherhead Indians with the casinos. Fuck them greedy mixed breed tomahawk chuckers. I'm talking about the real Native Americans ~ a proud people who came from a tiny mountainous region in Siberia that walked across the ice 13,000 years ago to get here and probably froze their balls off. Native Americans, whatever's left of y'allz, take my country...please. You deserve it ~ but on one condition: You name the country Texas and all the Christian white folk here get to have our own friggin' casinos.

I spend hours in the bathroom with a magazine that has one thousand pictures of naked movie stars: Naked woman + right hand = happy happy joy joy Yep, that’s right, I admit that I masturbate. I’m proud of it. I’m good at it. I’m ambidextrous. If there were a Professional Masturbators League, I’d get drafted number one and make millions of dollars. And maybe you’re thinking, “Well, you really shouldn’t be talking about masturbation in public.” Well, tough, I’m going to talk about it because EVERYBODY does it. And EVERYBODY likes it. And if God hadn’t wanted us to masturbate, then God wouldn’t have given us thumbs. So I thank God for my thumbs. But,

India had a very long independence movement. It started in 1886, [with] the first generation of Western-educated Indians. They were all liberals. They followed the Liberal Party in Britain, and they were very proud of their knowledge of parliamentary systems, parliamentary manners. They were big debaters. They [had], as it were, a long apprenticeship in training for being in power. Even when Gandhi made it a mass movement, the idea of elective representatives, elected working committees, elected leadership, all that stayed because basically Indians wanted to impress the British that they were going to be as good as the British were at running a parliamentary democracy. And that helped quite a lot.

The squaw on the hippo? In his mind's eye, Darbishire pictured the wife of a red indian chief, resplendent in feathered head-dress, riding proudly on the tribal hippopotamus. But how could she be equal to the squaws on the other two sides of the animal? equal in weight? . . . In height? . . . in importance? He stared at the diagram wondering whether it was meant to represent a three sided hippopotamus, but it wasn't easy to imagine what such an animal would look like in real life, Determined to please Mr Wilkins, he tried again. perhaps the theorem meant she was equal in weight. Supposing you had a very fat squaw, weighing, say, fifteen stone; and two thinner squaws weighing, say, eight stone and seven stone respectively . . . What then? the scholar's eyes shone with inspiration. He'd got it! seven and eight made fifteen! So the squaw on one side of the hipppotamus would be equal in weight to the sum of the squaws on the other two sides. That meant that the animal would be properly balanced and wouldn't topple over.

For a while I considered dropping out of Barnard to help. It felt unbearably selfish, just downright wrong, to be indulging myself with an education in the liberal arts at a fancy private college while Mom and Dad were on the streets. But Lori convinced me that dropping out was a lamebrained idea. It wouldn’t do any good, she said, and besides, dropping out would break Dad’s heart. He was immensely proud that he had a daughter in college, and an Ivy League college at that. Every time he met someone new, he managed to work it into the first few minutes of conversation. Mom and Dad, Brian pointed out, had options. They could move back to West Virginia or Phoenix. Mom could work. And she was not destitute. She had her collection of antique Indian jewelry, which she kept in a self-storage locker. There was the two-carat diamond ring that Brian and I had found under the rotten lumber back in Welch; she wore it even when sleeping on the street. She still owned property in Phoenix. And she had the land in Texas, the source of her oil-lease royalties.

Prayer of Peace I offer this prayer of peace Not to the Christian God Nor to the Buddhist God Nor to the Islamic God Nor to the Jewish God But to the God of all humanity. For the peace that we wish for Is Not a Christian peace Nor a Buddhist peace Nor an Islamic peace Nor a Jewish peace But a human peace For all of us. I offer this prayer of peace To the God that lives within all of us That fills us with happiness and joy To make us whole And help us understand life As an expression of love for all human beings. For no religion can be better Than any other religion For no truth can be truer Than any other truth For no nation can be bigger Than the earth itself. Help us all go beyond Our small limits And realize that we are one That we are all from the earth. That we are all earth people Before we are Indians, Koreans, or Americans. God made the earth We humans have to make it prosper By realizing that we are of the earth And not of any nation, race, or religion, By knowing that we are truly one In our spiritual heritage. Let us now apologize To all humanity For the hurt that religions have caused, So that we can heal the hurt Let us now promise to one another To go beyond egotism and competition To come together as one in God. I offer this prayer of peace To you the almighty To help us find you within all of us So that we may stand proudly One day before you As one humanity. I offer this prayer of peace With all my fellow earth people For a lasting peace on earth. Ilchi Lee originally wrote and read this prayer at the United Nations Millennium World Peace Summit of Religious and Spiritual Leaders on August 28th, 2000.

Such a marvelous opportunity wasted. I mean for us, by us. Indians feel it too, don’t they? I mean, in spite of the proud chests and all the excitement of sitting down as free men at their own desks to work out a constitution. Won’t that constitution be a sort of love letter to the English—the kind an abandoned lover writes when the affair has ended in what passes at the time as civilized and dignified mutual recognition of incompatability? In a world grown suddenly dull because the beloved, thank God, has gone, offering his killing and unpredictable and selfish affections elsewhere, you attempt to recapture, don’t you, the moments of significant pleasure—which may not have been mutual at all, but anyway existed. But this recapture is always impossible. You settle for the second-rate, you settle for the lesson you appear to have learned and forget the lesson you hoped to learn and might have learned, and so learn nothing at all, because the second-rate is the world’s common factor, and any damned fool people can teach it, any damned fool people can inherit it.

Amid the echoes of the roar of the guns in Flanders, the world is inclined to overlook India's share in it all and the stout proud loyalty of Indian hearts. May this tribute to the gallant Indian gentlemen who came to fight our battles serve to remind its readers that they who give their best, and they who take, are one.

When I visit schools, I explain that modern Indians dress like everybody else and speak English. That our tribal regalia, the buckskin and feathers, are not everyday garb but are reserved for special events. I say that we are proud of our beautiful, colorful clothing, which is important in our traditions, but it is only a part of being Indian. The part that they can’t see, our beliefs, our values, make us Indian even though we no longer wear buckskins, beads, and feathers and don’t live in teepees. As an adult I can handle the stereotypes, and as an author I try to correct the misconceptions and tell the truth about American Indians. Unfortunately, Indian children can have negative feelings about themselves because they don’t fit this false image. Educators have found that the way children view themselves is important to their success in school and how they relate to others. But an unrealistic idea of what and who Indians are supposed to be confuses a child when he or she compares those images to his or her parents and other relatives. Some

Then, sadly, Dan died. It was a loss to me and to everyone who knew him. It seemed like an appropriate time for me to withdraw and let the book make its own way. But it was not so simple. Dan had captured peoples’ hearts and imaginations. His story had touched readers who had never before given a thought to Native America. He had articulated the feelings of many Native people who had been seeking a voice by which to explain themselves to their non-Native friends. Most important, his story had contributed in some small fashion to the reshaping of the American cultural narrative that for too long has depicted Native peoples as savages on horseback, drunks in gutters, and wisdom-bearing elders possessed of some mystical earth knowledge. People wanted to hear more from Dan and more about him. They wanted me to tell more of his story. I resisted. I was proud of what we had accomplished. But Dan was gone, and I was uncomfortable serving as a spokesman for a Native point of view and weary of trying to explain the literary method of the project we had undertaken. The book spoke for itself. There was no need to say more. But then came that chance meeting in the café. In that old man’s simple, off-handed comment, I heard the echoes of all the

But I am glad to be able to leave this record of the doings more than sixty years (or two generations) ago of an amazing set of individuals. They were not perfect; they were unable to prevent the great tragedies associated with Partition; but they made a mark on the world; and they left for us a house of which we can be proud, and where we can grow, if we want, in liberty, justice and order.

Ratan Tata was already well known in the investment community, but it was a new and interesting experience for me. Inevitably perhaps, on the road show we were always being compared and evaluated against Infosys and a lot of complimentary things were said about Infosys. Although we were competitors, to hear good things said in international forums about an Indian company made us very happy. When Ratan Tata returned from the road show he wrote a leter to Infosys’s management saying, ‘I must tell you that I felt so proud that here is an Indian company which is considered a benchmark in governance and transparency.

He sat head and shoulders above the others, and his shoulders reminded her of a bull they had in the paddock. Her eyes were always drawn to those few men who stood taller than she, but the size of this one was intimidating. Then she realized why the men back at the store had laughed at her. They had told her about the one man in the territory who could make her look small. Anger welled, as it always did when someone made fun of her height. She should have been born a man, she had been told more than once. Well, she had done her best to turn herself into one. She would behave as one now. She sat tall in her saddle and waited to see the rest of the joke that had been perpetrated on her. The man's long black hair was straight as a stick but evidently clean. With a shock she realized his bronzed features and angular cheekbones were undoubtedly Indian, although she suspected something of the Spanish in his heritage also, if for no other reason than the proud arrogance of his nose and the jut of his square jaw. This was not a man she could control with a few sharp words. Lily

Fly’ Generation We stand tall, we stand proud, we are the ‘fly’ generation We think what we learn to think and dream with our eyes open We keep our hearts on our sleeves for it to be broken but we can take it, we are the ‘fly’ generation. We question things when we need to understand Its important we know, how it works, where we stand Why all this pain and no explanation? we need answers, we are the ‘fly’ generation. We love to hate and hate to love, what have we become? Since when is that the norm? when did we succumb? The victims will be forgotten and culprits will change face But we will still be running, running to win the invisible race. So here’s to the untold stories and six degrees of separation we can take it, after all… we are the ‘fly’ generation.

Fly Generation We stand tall, we stand proud, we are the ‘fly’ generation We think what we learn to think and dream with our eyes open We keep our hearts on our sleeves for it to be broken but we can take it, we are the ‘fly’ generation. We question things when we need to understand Its important we know, how it works, where we stand Why all this pain and no explanation? we need answers, we are the ‘fly’ generation. We love to hate and hate to love, what have we become? Since when is that the norm? when did we succumb? The victims will be forgotten and culprits will change face But we will still be running, running to win the invisible race. So here’s to the untold stories and six degrees of separation we can take it, after all… we are the ‘fly’ generation.

During the years it took to remove the Five Civilized Tribes, the Indians underwent great hardships. By 1838 the bulk of the proud Cherokee Nation had been rounded up, often at gunpoint, from their farms in Georgia and Tennessee and herded west. More than 14,000 Cherokees were relocated. Most were forced to make the 800-mile trek on foot. During the six-month journey one-fourth of the Cherokees died. Forever, this infamous forced march would be known as “the Trail of Tears.

DR. Raj Raman, MBBS, MD (Dermatology), is a proud associate and International fellow of American Academy of Dermatology, USA. Experienced in his fieldwork, DR Raj holds excellence in the practice of hair transplantation, and with years of experience, he has been successfully treating patients around the globe. He is a renowned member of the Indian Association of Dermatology & claims the Best Hair Transplantation services in Panipat.

But when a woman gets proud and conceited and carries on like this one did she is hard to cure. The fact was, her husband was too kind to her. He did not give her plenty of work to keep her busy and out of mischief. Instead of making her chop the wood and carry the water, and do other hard things, he did it for her, for he was very proud of her and she was indeed a beautiful woman. He did, however, make her stay in their wigwam instead of allowing her to go about wherever she liked.

I think he would be very proud of the continuing legacy of Britain in those places around the world, and particularly I think he would be amazed at India, the world’s largest democracy - a stark contrast, of course, with other less fortunate countries that haven’t had the benefit of British rule. If I can say this on the record - why not? It’s true, it’s true.’ - Boris Johnson of Winston Churchill, on whom he has just finished writing a book ‘I am strongly in favour of using poison gas against uncivilized tribes. It would spread a lively terror.’ ‘I hate Indians. They are a beastly people with a beastly religion.’ - Winston Churchill

From a very early age I remember a phrase being quietly passed around among our relatives at Six Nations: "Be proud you are an Indian, but be careful who you tell.

I am NOT a PROUD INDIAN, I am NOT a PROUD TAMIZHAN, I am NOT a PROUD HUMAN, I am HUMBLE GOD

hey're doing, and figure out how to do more. The biggest thing that white people can do is really get comfortable having conversations about race and racism in this country. And the way you get comfortable is that first you get awkward by putting yourself in the middle of it. Read books—actually read Ta-Nehisi Coates's Between the World and Me instead of just putting it on your shelf. Read Michelle Alexander's The New Jim Crow. Go to websites like The Root, Colorlines, Very Smart Brothas, Blavity, and also The Establishment and Indian Country Today, and read Lindy West, wherever she's writing at currently. And support the artists, TV shows, and films that support the America that most Americans want. Don't take any of these choices for granted. And finally, white people reading this book right now (and the people of color who believe in them and want to help them), you need to confront the white people in your life who you think don't exist but actually do exist.

In my first writing classes, my professor told me that the human condition was misery. I'm a river widened by misery, and the potency of my language is more than human. It's an Indian condition to be proud of survival, but reluctant to call it resilience. Resilience seems ascribed to a human conditioning in white people.

The last capital of the Burmese kings was at Mandalay in central Burma. Mandalay is not, however, a very old city as it was founded only in 1857 by King Mindon. The name is taken from a sacred hill near by. According to tradition, the Lord Buddha had prophesied more than two thousand years earlier that a great city would be founded at the foot of the hill. (The Lord Buddha was a north Indian prince whose teachings were to form the basis of one of the world’s great religions, Buddhism.) Mandalay has a special place in the hearts of the Burmese, and remains a symbol of the proud days when Burmese kings ruled the country. Unfortunately, the palace of Mandalay was destroyed during the Second World War. Only the walls are left and a few of the gates, topped by graceful pavilions of carved wood.

The next morning, Francine, Muffy, and Buster stood before Arthur. They weren’t taking any chances. “Do we have a turkey?” they asked. Arthur just smiled. The whole school filed into the auditorium. “OOOoo!” said the kids when the lights went out. “Shhhh!” said the teachers as the curtain went up. “In 1620, we sailed to America on the Mayflower,” recited Buster, proudly. “Phew!” said Arthur. The play continued smoothly. Muffy didn’t drop the cranberries. The Brain had his costume on correctly. Sue Ellen said her lines in a loud, clear voice. And Francine had even taken off her movie-star glasses. Then it came time for Francine’s big speech. She crossed her fingers and began. “When the Indians and Pilgrims finally found a turkey, there was great rejoicing. Today, when we think of Thanksgiving, we think of turkey.” There was a lot of fumbling behind the curtain. Arthur took a deep breath. He walked onstage. As soon as he did, the audience began to laugh. Arthur turned bright red. This was going to be even worse than he had thought it would be. “The turkey,” Arthur began, “is a symbol, a symbol of…of…” “Of togetherness and Thanksgiving!” said a chorus of voices behind him. Arthur turned around and smiled. “I guess Mom was right. The world is full of turkeys! Okay, turkeys, all together now. Let’s hear that last line, loud and clear.” “Happy Thanksgiving!

The New England wilderness March 1, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees She had no choice but to go to him. She set Daniel down. Perhaps they would spare Daniel. Perhaps only she was to be burned. She forced herself to keep her chin up, her eyes steady and her steps even. How could she be afraid of going where her five-year-old brother had gone first? O Tommy, she thought, rest in the Lord. Perhaps you are with Mother now. Perhaps I will see you in a moment. She did not want to die. Her footsteps crunched on the snow. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The Indian handed Mercy a slab of cornmeal bread, and then beckoned to Daniel, who cried, “Oh, good, I’m so hungry!” and came running, his happy little face tilted in a smile at the Indian who fed him. “Mercy said we’d eat later,” Daniel confided in the Indian. The English trembled in their relief and the French laughed. The Indian knelt beside Daniel, tossing aside Tommy’s jacket and dressing Daniel in warm clean clothing from another child. Nobody in Deerfield owned many clothes, and if she permitted herself to think about it, Mercy would know whose trousers and shirt these were, but she did not want to think about what dead child did not need clothes, so she said to the Indian, “Who are you? What’s your name?” He understood. Putting the palm of his hand against his chest, he said, “Tannhahorens.” She could just barely separate the syllables. It sounded more like a duck quacking than a real word. “Tannhahorens,” he said again, and she repeated it after him. She wondered what it meant. Indian names had to make a picture. She smiled carefully at the man she had thought was going to burn her alive as an example and said, “I’ll be right back, Tannhahorens.” She took a few steps away, and when he did nothing, she ran to her family. Her uncle swept her into his arms. How wonderful his scratchy beard felt! How strong and comforting his hug! “My brave girl,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “Mercy, they won’t let me help you.” In a voice as childish and puzzled as Daniel’s, he added, “They won’t let me help your aunt Mary, or Will and Little Mary either. I tried to help your brothers and got whipped for it.” He stammered: Uncle Nathaniel, whose reading choices from the Bible were always about war, and whose voice made every battle exciting. He needed her comfort as much as she needed his. “Uncle Nathaniel,” she said, “if I had done better, Tommy and Marah--” “Hush,” said her uncle. “The Lord set a task before you and you obeyed. Daniel is your task. Say your prayers as you march.” In a tight little pack behind Uncle Nathaniel stood her three living brothers. How small and cold they looked. Sam lifted his chin to encourage his sister and said, “At least we’re together. Do the best you can, Mercy. So will we.” They stared at each other, the two closest in age, and Mercy thought how proud their mother would be of Sam. “Mercy,” cried her brother John, panicking, “you have to go! Go fast,” he said urgently. “Your Indian is pointing at you.” Tannhahorens was watching her but not signaling. He isn’t angry, thought Mercy. I don’t have to be afraid, but I do have to return. “Find out your Indian’s name,” she said to her brothers. “It helps. Call him by name.” She took the time to hug and kiss each brother. How narrow their little shoulders; how thin the cloth that must keep them from freezing. She had to go before she wept. Indians did not care for crying. “Be strong, Uncle Nathaniel,” she said, touching the strange collar around his neck. “Don’t tug it,” he said wryly. “It’s lined with porcupine quill tips. If I don’t move at the right speed, the Indians give my leash a twitch and the needles jab my throat.” The boys laughed, pantomiming a hard jerk on the cord, and Mercy said, “You’re all just as mean as you ever were!” “And alive,” said Sam. When they hugged once more, she felt a tremor in him, deep and horrified, but under control.

Leaving the Connecticut River March 8, 1704 Temperature 40 degrees The only good thing about this rough land was firewood. No human had ever gathered a fallen branch here. So they could stay warm, but they had nothing to cook over the flames. It seemed to Eben the Indians ought to worry more about this than they did. They spent every daylight hour looking for game, found nothing and did not mention it. Instead, they sat by the fire, smoked and told war stories. It was the captives who discussed food, describing meals they had had a month ago or hoped to have in the future. They discussed pancakes, maple syrup and butter. Stew and biscuits and apple pie. Ruth said to Mercy, “You and Eben and Joseph are so proud of your savage vocabulary. Tell them they’re Indians, they’re supposed to know how to find deer.” “There aren’t any deer,” said Joseph. Ruth snorted. “We just have stupid Indians.” Suddenly the whole thing seemed hilarious to Mercy: a little circle of starving white children, crouching in the snow, and a little circle of apparently not starving Indian men, sitting in the snow, all of them surrounded by hundreds of miles of trees, while Ruth spat fire. “Ruth,” said Mercy, “do you know what your name means?” “My name is Ruth.” “Your name is Mahakemo,” Mercy told her. “And it means ‘Fire Eats Her’.” Mercy began to laugh, and Joseph and Eben and Sarah laughed with her. Even Eliza looked interested, but Ruth, furious to find that the Indians were laughing at her instead of being respectful of her, began throwing things at Mercy. Mercy rolled out of range while Ruth pelted her with Joseph’s hat and Tannhahorens’s mittens and then with snowballs; finding them too soft, Ruth grabbed her Indians powder horn. Mercy jumped up and ran away from Ruth and out into the snow, and in front of her were a pair of yellow eyes. The eyes were level with Mercy’s waist. They were not human eyes. No deer for humans also meant no deer for wolves. Mercy meant to scream, but Tannhahorens got there first, in the form of a bullet. Wolf for dinner. It turned out that the English could eat anything if they were hungry enough.

The Connecticut River March 2, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees “Oh, Eben!” breathed Mercy, thrilled and astonished. “Guess what?” The glare off the ice was bothering him, and as the temperature rose, the snow on the frozen river was turning to slush. His moccasins were soaked and his feet were so cold he could hardly bear the pressure of each step. “What?” “I can figure out Mohawk words, Eben!” she said excitedly. “Sun was one of the first words Tannhahorens taught us. And we learned to count, so I know the number two. Thorakwaneken means ‘Two Suns.’ Your master’s name is Two Suns! And cold--that’s the word we use most. Eunice’s master is Cold Sun.” She turned her own sunny smile on him. Eben was unsettled by how proud she was. He did not want to compliment her. Uneasily, he said, “What does Tannhahorens mean?” “I haven’t figured that out. He’s told me, but I can’t piece together whatever he’s saying. I don’t know what Munnonock means either.” Mercy darted across the slush to her Indian master, and although they were too far away for Eben to hear, he knew she was asking Tannhahorens to explain again the meaning of his name and hers. He knew, everyone on the frontier knew, how quickly captive English children slid into being Indians, but he had not thought he would witness it in a week. He had thought it would be three-year-olds, like Daniel, or seven-year-olds, like Eunice. But it was Mercy. Ruth walked next to Eben. For once their horror was equal. A mile or so of silence, and then Ruth spoke. “The Indians have a sacred leader. Their powwow. He has a ceremony by which all white blood is removed. They say it is a wondrous thing and never fails.” They walked on. The temperature had dropped again and each of Eben’s moccasins was solid with ice. Every time he set his foot down, he stuck to the congealing slick of the river and had to tear himself free. Soon the moccasins would be destroyed and he would be barefoot. “I know now why it never fails,” said Ruth. “The children arrive at the ceremony ready to be Indian.

Don’t shoot,” Tom cautioned again. “That brave in the lead has a crooked lance with a white flag. Whatever it is they’re wantin’, it ain’t a fight. You speak any Comanch’?” “Not a word,” Henry replied. “I don’t know much. If they do a lot of tradin’, they can probably talk English, but if they don’t--all we can do is hope my Injun will get us by.” Tom spat a glob of chew onto Rachel’s bleached floor. Then he bellowed, “What do you want?” Loretta’s nerves were strung so taut, she leaped. Nausea surged into her throat as the brown tobacco juice soaked into the floor. Was she losing her mind? Who cared if the puncheon got stained? Before this was over, the house might be burned to the ground. She heard Rachel crying, a soft, irregular whimpering. Terror. The metallic taste of it shriveled her tongue. “What brings you here?” Tom cried again. “Hites!” a deep voice called back. “We come as friends, White-Eyes.” The lead warrior moved some twenty feet in front of his comrades, holding the crooked lance high so the dusty white rag was clearly visible. He sat proudly on his black stallion, gleaming brown shoulders straight, leather-sheathed legs pressed snugly to his mount. A rush of wind lifted his mahogany hair, wisping it across his bronzed, sharply chiseled face. Loretta’s first thought when she saw him was that he seemed different from the others. A closer look told her why. He was unquestionably a half-breed, taller on horseback than the rest, lighter-skinned. If not for his sun-darkened complexion and long hair, he might have passed for a white man. Everything else about him was savage, though, from the cruel sneer on his mouth to the expert way he balanced on his horse, as if he and the animal were one entity. Tom Weaver stiffened. “Son of a--Henry, you know who that is?” “I was hopin’ I was wrong.” Loretta inched closer to get a better look. Then it hit her. Hunter. She had heard his name whispered with dread, heard tales. But until this moment she hadn’t believed he existed. A blue-eyed half-breed, one of the most cunning and treacherous adversaries the U.S. Army had run across. Now that the war had pitted North against South, the homesteaders had no cavalry to keep Hunter and his marauders at bay, and his raiders struck ever deeper into settled country, advancing east. Some claimed he was far more dangerous than a full-blooded Comanche because he had a white man’s intelligence. As vicious as he was, there were stories that he spared women and children. Whether that was coincidence, design, or a lie some Indian lover had dreamed up, no one knew. Loretta opted for the latter.

You know, I should start thinking on names. I have to be over two months gone. A name is important. Especially for this baby.” “Why especially this one?” Rachel asked, looking up from the bread she was kneading. “Names are important for everybody.” Loretta sighed. “Well, with Hunter as the father, I have to think of names he’d approve of.” “You call that child Running Water and I’ll disown you.” Loretta giggled. “I don’t know. After hemming all those diapers, maybe Running Water wouldn’t be so far off mark.” Rachel rolled her eyes, then shook her head, her eyes sad. “Unless this baby’s papa comes straggling back to collect his baggage, the child’s gonna be stuck in white society. Being a breed is bad enough. A nice, normal name is a must.” Amy flipped the page in her spelling book. “What you need is a nice white-folk name with an Indian meaning that’ll make Hunter proud.” Concerned about her child’s future, Loretta forced a smile. “Why, Amy, that’s a champion idea!” Rachel paused in her kneading and frowned. “I’m quite a hand on names. Let me think on it.” “Something impressive for a boy, Ma.” Amy pursed her lips. “You know--like Mighty Fighter. Or Wise King. You gotta remember how Hunter thinks. They give boys grand names.” “Swift Antelope, for example?” Loretta grinned. “Makes him sound like he oughta have a tail to wag, don’t it?” Amy dimpled her cheek. “Of course, he hates the name Amy, so we’re even. He says it sounds like a sheep baaing.” “The way he says it, it does sound like a sheep baaing.” “How about naming a boy after his papa and his uncle Warrior?” Rachel asked. “Chase Kelly. Chase means hunter, Kelly means warrior.” Loretta lowered her sewing to her lap, her gaze dreamy. “Chase Kelly--Chase Kelly. It has a nice ring, doesn’t it?” “Be nicer with a proper surname,” Rachel commented. “Wolf!” Amy cried. “That’s as close to a last name for Hunter as you’ll get.

I knew they were my people, but it didn't feel like it. I was pushing against any first-generation narrative, while all the people in that area were seemingly proud of it. Aunties wore salwars to go grocery shopping, and little kids had those silver or gold bangles we were all given at birth...We were different from them, and I was determined to keep us different. Every piece of gold jewelry ever given to me was hidden in my dresser; I refused to wear any of it, because it made me feel I was being marked as an Other. (I now wear all of it, sometimes at the same time, a signal to other Others that I'm an Other too.)

Dad’s favorite subject was history, but he taught it with a decidedly west-of-the-Pecos point of view. As the proud son of an Irishman, he hated the English Pilgrims, whom he called “Poms,” as well as most of the founding fathers. They were a bunch of pious hypocrites, he thought, who declared all men equal but kept slaves and massacred peaceful Indians. He sided with the Mexicans in the Mexican-American war and thought the United States had stolen all the land north of the Rio Grande, but he also thought the southern states should have had as much right to leave the union as the colonies had to leave the British Empire. “Only difference between a traitor and a patriot is your perspective,” he said. * * * I loved my lessons, particularly science and geometry, loved learning that there were these invisible rules that explained the mysteries of the world we lived in. Smart as that made me feel, Mom and Dad kept saying that even though I was getting a better education at home than any of the kids in Toyah, I’d need to go to finishing school when I was thirteen, both to acquire social graces and to earn a diploma. Because in this world, Dad said, it’s not enough to have a fine education. You need a piece of paper to prove you got it. MOM DID HER BEST to keep us kids genteel.

India has the deepest philosophy still expressed in a vibrant religion, a huge body of literature, amazing art, dance, music, sculpture, architecture, delicious cuisine and yet Indians are in denial mode and wake up only when foreigners treasure India,’ wrote Wirth. ‘They don’t seem to know the value and, therefore, don’t take pride in their tradition, unlike Westerners who take a lot of pride in theirs, even if there is little to be proud of.

The youth of today are the children of the liberalisation era. They will come of age and one day make us proud. They will make India a great nation once again. We have seemingly insurmountable challenges. With the right attitude, we'll crack them all.

Soon the flamingos will paint our Indian skies with flying colors as bright as a million saris!” he announced. He rolled his head from side to side and honked in a voice like a trumpet; he was so delighted and proud of Gray.

Go tell it to the white men! They're lookin' for Indians that stay proud even when they hurt... just so long's they don't ask for their rights!" (113)

You speak Quichua better than we do,” said Wakcha, a proud young Indian who always wore a pith helmet, a sign of great prestige among his people. “You hear us too well. We are talking away, saying to ourselves, ‘They do not hear,’ and then you answer us!

told me about once. If a visitor comes to your lodge and admires something out loud, you are supposed to give it to them. Charles says there are three reasons for the custom. The first”—I held up a finger—“is because generosity is a virtue to be encouraged. The second”—I put up another finger—“is to teach you not to be too attached to or too proud of things. Family, friends, community are important. Things are not. Can you guess the third one?” He smiled. “Charles told me that one. Be careful who you invite into your lodge. I didn’t think of it until after Seeker was already in the trailer. Maybe he was the Indian version of a witch. Medicine man.

According to Karl May, the Indian was “initially a proud, daring, valiant, upright, truth loving huntsman, loyal to his fellow tribesmen, he became, through no fault of his own, a slinking, lying, mistrustful, murderous, redskin. The white man is to blame for that transformation.”29 In May’s novels, there are two distinct elements to whiteness. There is the racial category, based on skin color and genetic origins, to which all Europeans and Euro-Americans belong. In addition, however, he has a moral yardstick for race definitions, a categorization that creates an opposition between two primal groups of “whites”: Germans and Americans. Both belong to the white race, but the mercilessness of the Americans toward the Indians, the former’s cowardice, underhandedness, and other physical and moral defects, prompt Old Shatterhand to question his allegiance to his own racial identity, and to cry out in horror: “I felt ashamed to be a paleface.

Soon after the marriage of Miss Meg, George, the third son, and youngest of the family, was placed in the counting house of one of the most eminent West Indian merchants at that period in Glasgow. This incident was in no other respect important in the history of the Lairds of Grippy, than as serving to open a career to George, that would lead him into a higher class of acquaintance than his elder brothers: for it was about this time that the general merchants began to arrogate to themselves that aristocratic superiority over the shopkeepers, which they have since established into an oligarchy, as proud and sacred, in what respects the reciprocities of society, as the famous Seignories of Venice and Genoa.

On the next page, in the weekly small-ad marriage market, the parents of young men still demanded, and the parents of young women proudly offered, brides of ‘wheatish’ complexions. Chamcha remembered Zeeny’s friend, the poet Bhupen Gandhi, speaking of such things with passionate bitterness. ‘How to accuse others of being prejudiced when our own hands are so dirty?’ he had declaimed. ‘Many of you in Britain speak of victimization. Well. I have not been there, I don’t know your situation, but in my personal experience I have never been able to feel comfortable about being described as a victim. In class terms, obviously, I am not. Even speaking culturally, you find here all the bigotries, all the procedures associated with oppressor groups. So while many Indians are undoubtedly oppressed, I don’t think any of us are entitled to lay claim to such a glamorous position.

Lineage does not make a person's character The character of a person makes a lineage dignity. Although Yazid was also from the family of Hazrat Muawiyah but His character destroyed the dignity of his lineage forever.

What “Terra Nova” means, all the articles are proud to reveal, is “New World.” What one of the incoming residents said, kind of famously, was that when there are no more frontiers, you have to make them yourself, don’t you?

The exodus of this whole people from the land of their fathers is not only an interesting but a touching sight. They have fought us gallantly for years on years; they have defended their mountains and their stupendous canyons with a heroism which any people might be proud to emulate; but when, at length, they found it was their destiny, too, as it had been that of their brethren, tribe after tribe, away back toward the rising of the sun, to give way to the insatiable progress of our race, they threw down their arms, and, as brave men entitled to our admiration and respect, have come to us with confidence in our magnanimity, and feeling that we are too powerful and too just a people to repay that confidence with meanness or neglect—feeling that having sacrificed to us their beautiful country, their homes, the associations of their lives, the scenes rendered classic in their traditions, we will not dole out to them a miser’s pittance in return for what they know to be and what we know to be a princely realm.

I am an Indian. My timeline is slowly going down from 'I am proud to be an Indian' to 'I may not be...' because of the rich-poor difference

Noble Praise of INDIA, The Pledge "India is my property and I am a property of India, Service is my Identity Card and Bharat Mahan is my designation, Indian is my template and citizen is my nameplate, Let the sunset in the west, I will be the light for my nation, Respect thy my country and thy my people, I shall practice any potential risk to seek peace for my country and my people, I shall sustain my nation's culture pertaining to my personal rights and freedom, I shall esteem human values regardless of the prevailing diversity in my country, I shall never bribe my fellowmen to corrupt my country, I shall stand straight to keep my nation tall, I shall be ready to sacrifice my life to live in my country, I shall wish to be the richest citizen than to be the richest man, I shall be a milestone in the history of my country, I shall be determined to obey the law and order of my country, I shall be proud to salute my tricolor national flag, I shall live finite to make my country infinite, My first breath is from my mother and my last breath is for my motherland, This body belongs to my country until I am a dead body, Even if it is my last day, I will pledge for my country, Jai Hind, Vande Mataram, Jai Bharat Mata

At the same time, when addressing Indians who are proud of their heritage he is not forthright in articulating this agenda explicitly. Pollock presents different aspects of himself to resonate with different types

it was a fine line for me between making fun of my culture—which is a fine line I straddled the entire show—and just allowing it to be as silly and ridiculous as it is. How much can I get away saying without insulting, you know? I still get emails from people saying, “You really insulted your culture by saying this and that,” but that’s the nature of comedy. You’re never going to make everyone laugh, and someone’s going to be offended by all the colloquiums that you bring to light about your own cultures. So the dance sequence was one of those moments where I was like, Oh, this could go really badly, but it ended up being really fun. And there were certain things that I said on the show that I wish I could unsay now, given the current political climate, but it’s nothing so life-changing. It was a different time where people were not so sensitive to the divisiveness around us… and there was a lot more tolerance between people. We were not so offended by making fun of each other. Everything we said was not the end of the world. There’s only one line—and I don’t even remember it [entirely], but it was something about a prostitute—I wish I could take back. [Ed. note: It is “Madhuri Dixit is a l-leperous prostitute! ” in an exchange with Sheldon from season two, episode one, “The Bad Fish Paradigm.”] But even though Raj made fun of India, he was very [proud to be] Indian. He wore his culture on his sleeve. There’s a scene that rarely ever gets brought up, but it’s a very beautiful scene where Howard and Raj are sitting in a car together in front of a Hindu temple and talking about religion and science. Raj wants to show Howard how he can make an amalgamation between spirituality and science and what that means to him. I thought, Why don’t more people talk about that instead of him insulting his culture? But that’s just the nature of things.

I am overcome with a mixture of emotions. Sad that their [Pauline's and Perry's] innocent eyes are open to the trauma that still impacts our community today. Angry they must learn these truths in order to be strong Anishinaabeg in a world where Indians are thought of only in past tense. Proud that they—smart, sturdy, and loved—are the greatest wish our ancestors had, for our nation to survive and flourish.

While the Indian media is proud of reaching the moon, it ignores hateful acts that bring India's reputation to the bottom, such as this rude teacher who insults a student in front of his colleagues in a way that is rejected by any religion, custom, morality & law.

Had Washington’s military career ended with the French and Indian War, he would have earned scarcely more than a footnote in history, yet it is impossible to imagine his life without this important preamble. The British Empire had committed a major blunder by spurning the talents of such a natural leader. It said something about the imperial system that it could find no satisfactory place for this loyal, able, and ambitious young subject. The proud Washington had been forced to bow and scrape for a regular commission, and it irked him that he had to grovel for recognition. Washington’s military career would be held in abeyance until June 1775, but in the meantime he had acquired a powerful storehouse of grievances that would fuel his later rage with England.

Neeraj Chopra is a Legend. He is one reason for all Indians to feel proud of being an Indian.

booth and called her best friend from F.I.T., Kit Callendar. “She said she wanted to start me off small, but she took eighteen pieces!” Victory exclaimed. The order seemed enormous to both of them, and at that moment, she couldn’t have ever imagined that someday she’d get orders for ten thousand… Three more weeks of sewing late into the night completed her first order, and she showed up at Myrna’s office with the pieces in three supermarket shopping bags. “What are you doing here?” Myrna demanded. “I have your things,” Victory said proudly. “Don’t you have a shipper?” Myrna asked, aghast. “What am I supposed to do with these bags?” Victory smiled at the memory. She’d known nothing about the technical aspects of being a designer back then; had no idea that there were cutting and sewing rooms where real designers had their clothing made. But ambition and burning desire (the kind of desire, she imagined, most women had for men) carried her forward. And then she got a check in the mail for five hundred dollars. All the pieces had sold. She was eighteen years old, and she was in business. All through her twenties, she just kept going. She and Kit moved into a tiny two-bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side, on a street that was filled with Indian restaurants and basement “candy stores” where drugs were sold. They would cut and sew until they couldn’t see anymore, and then they

The most weird human nature is. A human feels proud to be an Indian, an American, a Russian, an European, an African, an Arab or a Muslim, a Hindu, a Christian and a Jew or an atheist, but not as being a human first of all.

Hindu Rashtra

Cricket must be proud, "I played by Sachin Tendulkar".

To preserve the benefits of what is called civilized life, and to remedy at the same time the evil which it has produced ,ought to be considered as one of the first objects of reformed legislation. Whether that state that is proudly, perhaps erroneously, called civilization, has most promoted or most injured the general happiness of man is a question that may be strongly contested. On one side, the spectator is dazzled by splendid appearances; on the other, he is shocked by extremes of wretchedness; both of which it has erected. The most affluent and the most miserable of the human race are to be found in the countries that are called civilized. To understand what the state of society ought to be, it is necessary to have some idea of the natural and primitive state of man; such as it is at this day among the Indians of North America. There is not, in that state, any of those spectacles of human misery which poverty and want present to our eyes in all the towns and streets in Europe. Poverty, therefore, is a thing created by that which is called civilized life. It exists not in the natural state. On the other hand, the natural state is without those advantages which flow from agriculture, arts, sciences and manufactures. -Agrarian Justice

The use of rape as a weapon of war was conscious and emphatic. On every side, proud tales were told of the degradation of enemy women.

The results of the UP elections make me proud of my countrymen. It is a clear verdict against hereditary prime ministership, and has spared us a humiliation hundred times more excruciating than the one we suffered in 1962 at the hands of Rahul’s great grandfather. It is unfortunate that the young Rahul Gandhi became a victim of a grand hallucination of dynastic rule and a pawn in la famiglia’s grand design—abetted by an army of self-serving, deceitful, back-stabbing sycophants—to secure what they consider is their Indian inheritance. I hope Rahul has learnt that India is not a monarchic or hereditary democracy and does not recognise birthright to prime ministership merely because s/he is descended from the Nehru-Gandhi family.

Even Rising Hawk looked upset then, and he usually doesn’t show things,” he added thoughtfully. “Is Rising Hawk teaching you those words?” Eph turned red. “He’s been showing me how to follow a trail. He’s teaching me about the plants and things, too. You needn’t look like that, Livy. It’s not a crime.” “Your father would be real proud, Eph. You can’t even read through a sermon on Sunday, but you manage to learn a heathen tongue.” “It’s only a few words . . .” “Every day I worry about keeping us together, covering up for you when you run off to the woods with that stupid bow of yours.” “It’s not stupid.” “I’m endangering my immortal soul with all these near-lies I have to tell, all so you can run off and play Indian. We never have been close, and I don’t expect you to actually love me, Eph, but I do think you could show some loyalty.” “But I do love you, Livy,” Eph said in a small voice. “Even when you get to nagging on me. It reminds me of Mother.” Livy turned redder than he. “I didn’t mean to make you say that.” “You didn’t. It’s all right.

In Abraham I had found a staunch Indian nationalist, who was discarded by independent India, like many other freedom fighters in the North East. He had understood the futility of waging a war against the government of India. But he insisted that the Nagas, a proud people, should be helped to come out of the stranglehold of some of the Pakistan and China inspired leaders and the machination of the certain Church functionaries owing allegiance to the American Baptist Foreign Missionary Society (ABFMS), which was headed by Billy Graham.

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On the day Roja released, Rahman’s younger sister Fathima was sitting in a theatre in Chennai with her friends, all set to watch the movie. The opening credits rolled, the film began and the first song—‘Chinna Chinna Aasai’ as you might guess—played with the movie’s heroine singing the song, scaling Chalakudy’s waterfall and playing in the verdant fields of the South Indian countryside. The song was already a hit and by the intermission, Fathima heard a very drunk man sitting in a seat behind her say, ‘Evano semayaa paattu pottu vachchurukaan da.’ (Whoever did the music for this has done a great job.) ‘That’s when I knew,’ she says with a laugh. ‘That’s when I knew my brother had got it right. I was so proud.

Agniveer Army symbolizes a formidable force committed to upholding the ideals of valor, discipline, and patriotism. Rooted in the Agniveer Scheme, it attracts and raises dedicated individuals aspiring to serve in the Indian Armed Forces. With a focus on rigorous training and character building, Agniveer Army stands as an indication to the unwavering spirit of those who aspire to safeguard the nation. Join the Agniveer Army and become a proud defender of our independence and values.

Laxmi Nagar, a heaven for sweet tooths, boasts an array of renowned mithai shops. But amidst these gems, Shagun Sweets shines brightly, captivating hearts with its delectable offerings. For generations, we've crafted authentic Indian sweets using time-honored recipes and the finest ingredients. Step into our welcoming space and be greeted by the irresistible aroma of freshly prepared pedas, soan papdis, and barfis. Explore our diverse selection, from melt-in-your-mouth kalakhands to rich and creamy rasgullas. We proudly present traditional favorites like kaju katlis and ladoos alongside innovative creations that tantalize your taste buds. Visit us today and discover why we're a beloved name among the famous sweet shops in Laxmi Nagar.