Urdu Quotes

Abdul and Mohamed sat down, chilling the conversation at the table. They spoke in Urdu, unaware Lily understood them. When her expression changed subtly, Abdul noticed and switched to speaking English with a mundane comment.

Afsoos was the word in Urdu. There was no equivalent in English. It was a specific kind of regret - not wishing he had acted differently, but a helpless sadness at the situation as it was, a sense that it could not have been another way.

Muhabbat apni marzi se khulay pinjray main totay ki tarha bethnay ki salaahiyat hai. Muhabbat is ghulami ka toq hai jo insaan khud apnay ekhtyar se galay main dalta hai

Pride! In English it is a Deadly Sin. But in Urdu it is fakhr and nazish - both names that you can find more than once on our family tree.

Once through this ruined city did I pass I espied a lonely bird on a bough and asked ‘What knowest thou of this wilderness?’ It replied: 'I can sum it up in two words: ‘Alas, Alas!

Partition was a total catastrophe for Delhi,’ she said. ‘Those who were left behind are in misery. Those who were uprooted are in misery. The Peace of Delhi is gone. Now it is all gone.

پتُر! درد وہ ہوتا ہے جو ہمیں دوسروں کو تکلیف میں دیکھ کر محسوس ہو، ورنہ اپنا درد تو جانوروں کو بھی محسوس ہوتا ہے۔

Imtihaan yeh kaisa humari zindagani mein, Woh bheeg rahi hai aag mein Aur main jal raha hun paani mein.

Buht se dukh hamari qismat men likhy hoty hain. woh hamen milny hoty hain. ba'az sach'chaaiyan aisi hoti hain ky woh chahy hamen jitni bhi nagawaar lagen mgr hamen unhy qabool krna parhta hai. insan har waqt khud per taras khata rahy, apni zindagi men aany waly dukhon ky baary men sochta rahy to woh dukh us per haawi hojaty hain. phir uski zindagi men agar khushiyan aati bhi hain to woh unhen daikh nahi patha.

اِنسان حاصل کی تمنا میں لاحاصل کے پیچھے دوڑتا ہے اُس بچے کی طرح جو تتلیاں پکڑنے کے مشغلے میں گھر سے بہت دور نکل جاتا ہے ، نہ تتلیاں ملتی ہیں نہ واپسی کا راستہ ۔۔۔

When a man denies the power of women, he is denying his own subconscious.

Insaano ky, insaano ky saath baahemi tamaam jazbon ko jab Allah ny Roz-e-Awwal takhleeq kia to muhabbat hi woh waahid jazba tha jis ki taqdeer men jeet, jeet aur sirf jeet likhi gai...muhabbat ki qismat men haar nahi aur ye us Rubb ka faisla hai.

خالی پیٹ کا مذہب روٹی ہوتا ہے۔

An Urdu couplet by one of his favorite poets, Mir Taqi Mir: Jis sar ko ghurur aaj hai yaan taj-vari ka Kal uss pe yahin shor hai phir nauhagari ka The head which today proudly flaunts a crown Will tomorrow, right here, in lamentation drown.

You know, Urdu has perhaps the finest word for autobiography. Two words, as a matter of fact. Savanah-e-Umri - the occurrences or accidents of one’s life, literally. I like it over everything else. Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t that what really happens to us all, occurrences, accident?

خرد مندوں سے کیا پوچھوں کہ میری ابتدا کیا ہے کہ میں اس فکر میں رہتا ہوں، میری انتہا کیا ہے خودی کو کر بلند اتنا کہ ہر تقدیر سے پہلے خدا بندے سے خود پوچھے، بتا تیری رضا کیا ہے مقامِ گفتگو کیا ہے اگر میں کیمیا گر ہوں یہی سوزِ نفس ہے اور میری کیمیا کیا ہے نظر آئیں مجھے تقدیر کی گہرائیاں اس میں نہ پوچھ اے ہمنشیں مجھ سے وہ چشمِ سرمہ سا کیا ہے اگر ہوتا وہ مجذوب فرنگی اس زمانے میں تو اقبال اس کو سمجھتا مقام کبریا کیا ہے نوائے صبح گاہی نے جگر خوں کر دیا میرا خدایا جس خطا کی یہ سزا ہے وہ خطا کیا ہے؟

اپنے ساتھیوں کو کبھی اپنے علم سے خوفزدہ مت کرو۔

I never knew what language they'd lapse into when fucked - Urdu or Telugu or a mix of both (only the techies came in English).

یہ تعلق چیز ہی ایسی ہے. انسان کو بھگل کردیتا ہے. ...صوفیا تو کہتے ہیں کہ رستے کا سب سے بڑا حجاب ہی تعلق ہے.نہ تعلق سے دل خالی ہوتا ہے، نہ اصلی قرار دل میں آتا ہے. معمولی سے مہمان کے لئے کمرہ خالی کرنا پڑتا ہے. پھر اوپر والے کے لئے تو چھوٹا سا بت بھی اندر رہ جاۓ تو اسکی سواری نہیں اترتی

Mr Earbrass escaped from Messrs Scuffle and Dustcough, who were most anxious to go into all the ramifications of a scheme for having his novels translated into Urdu, and went to call on a distant cousin.

محبّت اپنی مرضی سے کھلے پنجرے میں طوطے کی طرح بیٹھنے کی صلاحیت ہے. محبّت اس غلامی کا طوق ہے جو انسان خود اپنے اختیار سے گلے میں ڈالتا ہے

She tries to maintain a nondescript exterior; she learns the sideways glance instead of looking at people directly. She speaks in practised, precise sentences so that she is not misunderstood. She chooses her words carefully, and if someone addresses her in Punjabi, she answers in Urdu, because an exchange in her mother tongue might be considered a promise of intimacy. She uses English for medical terms only, because she feels if she uses a word of English in her conversation she might be considered a bit forward. When she walks she walks with slightly hurried steps, as if she has an important but innocent appointment to keep. She avoids eye contact, she looks slightly over people’s heads as if looking out for somebody who might come into view at any moment. She doesn’t want anyone to think that she is alone and nobody is coming for her. She sidesteps even when she sees a boy half her age walking towards her, she walks around little puddles when she can easily leap over them; she thinks any act that involves stretching her legs might send the wrong signal. After all, this is not the kind of thing where you can leave your actions to subjective interpretations. She never eats in public. Putting something in your mouth is surely an invitation for someone to shove something horrible down your throat. If you show your hunger, you are obviously asking for something.

His past, his fears, what was done to him, what he has done to himself—they are subjects that can only be discussed in tongues he doesn't speak: Farsi, Urdu, Mandarin, Portuguese. Once, he tried to write some things down, thinking that it might be easier, but it wasn't—he is unclear how to explain himself to himself.

Speaking two languages may seem a relative affluence, but more often it entails the problems of maintaining a second establishment even though your body can be in one place at a time. When I return to Urdu, I feel shocked at my own neglect of a space so intimate to me: like relearning the proportions of a once-familiar room, it takes me by surprise to recollect that I need not feel grief, I can eat grief; that I need not bury my mother but instead can offer her into the earth, for I am in Urdu now.

ایک بار ڈیرے پر ہم نے بابا جی سے پوچھا... کہ سرکار انسان کو پناہ کہاں پر ملتی ہے...؟ .تو فرمانے لگے... "ماں کی آغوش میں! اگر وہ میسر نہ ہو تو والدین کی دعاؤں میں!! اگر وہ بھی بد قسمتی سے نہ ملے تو علم میں!!! وہ علم کتابی یا حساب الجبرے کا ہی نہیں، ایسا علم جس سے آپ کی ذات، روح اور دوسروں کو فائدہ پہنچے۔ وہ خدا کی مخلوق کے لیے زحمت نہ بنے۔

جب محبت ملے گی تو پھر سب حق خوشی سے ادا ہوں گے، محبت کے بغیر ہر حق ایسے ملے گا جیسے مرنے کے بعد کفن ملتا ہے۔

Difficulty itself may be a path toward concentration — expended effort weaves us into a task, and successful engagement, however laborious, becomes also a labor of love. The work of writing brings replenishment even to the writer dealing with painful subjects or working out formal problems, and there are times when suffering’s only open path is through an immersion in what is. The eighteenth-century Urdu poet Ghalib described the principle this way: ‘For the raindrop, joy is in entering the river — / Unbearable pain becomes its own cure.’ “Difficulty then, whether of life or of craft, is not a hindrance to an artist. Sartre called genius ‘not a gift, but the way a person invents in desperate circumstances.’ Just as geological pressure transforms ocean sediment into limestone, the pressure of an artist’s concentration goes into the making of any fully realized work. Much of beauty, both in art and in life, is a balancing of the lines of forward-flowing desire with those of resistance — a gnarled tree, the flow of a statue’s draped cloth. Through such tensions, physical or mental, the world in which we exist becomes itself. Great art, we might say, is thought that has been concentrated in just this way: honed and shaped by a silky attention brought to bear on the recalcitrant matter of earth and of life. We seek in art the elusive intensity by which it knows.

bay-takalufi.’” He sat up straight and raised his hand like a schoolboy. “I do know that one. It’s informality as an expression of intimacy.” She experienced a brief moment of wonder that a father who hadn’t taught his son basic Urdu had still thought to teach him this word. “I wouldn’t say intimacy. It’s about feeling comfortable with someone. Comfortable enough to forget good table manners. If done right, it’s a sort of honor you confer on the other person when you feel able to be that comfortable with them, particularly if you haven’t known them long.

By afternoon, a dense crowd had gathered around the Bedford as word spread that an enormous infidel in brown pajamas was loading a truck full of supplies for Muslim schoolchildren. ...Mortenson's size-fourteen feet drew a steady stream of bouncing eyebrows and bawdy jokes from onlookers. Spectators shouted guesses at Mortenson's nationality as he worked. Bosnia and Chechnya were deemd the most likely source of this large mangy-looking man. When Mortenson, with his rapidly improving Urdu, interrupted the speculation to tell them he was American, the crowd looked at his sweat-soaked and dirt-grimed shalwar, at his smudged and oily skin, and several men told him they didn't think so.

ایک بے سمجھ اور بے انصاف آدمی ساری عمر یہی سمجھتا رہے گا کہ وہ ایک ٹارگٹ ہے ، ایک نشانہ گاہ ہے - اور اس پر مسلسل تیر اندازی ہو رہی ہے - لیکن جب وہ خود احتسابی کے عمل سے گزرے گا تو اسے پتہ چلے گا وہ ایک نشانہ ہی نہیں ، ایک تیر بھی ہے جو وقت بے وقت چلتا رہتا ہے ......... اور خوب خوب زخم دیتا ہے.....!!

Jahan mein ehle-e-imaan soorat-e-khursheed jeetay hain, Idhar doobey, udhar nikley; udhar doobey, idhar nikley In this world, men of faith and self-confidence are like the sun, They go down on one side to come up on the other.

پرانے وقتوں کو یاد نہیں کرتے زیادہ، نئے دنوں میں گھن لگ جاتا ہے

جب انسان محدود خواہشوں اور ضرورتوں کا پابند ہوتا ہے ، تو اُسے زیادہ جھوٹ بولنے کی ضرورت بھی پیش نہیں آتی ― بانو قدسیہ، حاصل گھاٹ

Nobody has my need So I am desiring myself.

اس کی سخن طرازیاں میرے لیے بھی ڈھال تھیں اس کی ہنسی میں چھپ گیا اپنے غموں کا حال بھی

اس کو بھی جلا دکھتے ہوئے من! اک شعلہ لال بھبوکا بن یوں آنسو بن بہہ جانا کیا؟ یوں ماٹی میں مل جانا کیا؟

He leaned towards the young man, his eyes, mouth and face all round in concentration. ‘“There was a banned crow,”’ he intoned sonorously. ‘“There was a cold day.” Not bad, eh? I learned those on the boat. Sounds like perfect Urdu, I’m told.’ He paused and frowned. ‘The devil of it is remembering which one means, “close the door,” and which one will get someone to open it.

lamppost sex sale naked girl silhouette phone number whats that say I speak Hindi Urdu and Bangla well that leaves me out shiksa Mount Rushmore Ava Gardner Sonja Henie Ann-Margret Yvonne de Carlo strike Ann-Margret Grace Kelly she is the Abraham Lincoln of the shiksas So Sabbath passeth the time, pretending to think without punctuation, the way J. Joyce pretended people thought,

کتابوں سے محبت کرنے والے لوگ اس قدر سنجیدہ ہوجاتے ہیں کہ مزاح ان کی زندگی سے مکمل طور پر نکل جاتا ہے اور وہ سارا وقت لمبا جبہ پہن کر پڑھے ہوئے نظریات کی لاٹھی سے دوسروں کی پٹائی میں مصروف رہتے ہیں.

And it is true you write in Urdu, Kashmiri, and English?” “My daughter talks too much,” he said, evidently pleased. “But she is correct. I find that different languages are useful for different things. For instance, it is best to write poetry in Urdu. Urdu words are made for poetry and songs. For stories, Kashmiri is the best.” “And English?” “English?” He smiled. “English is excellent for signboards and maps.

Hi...ah..." What did she call him? Honey? Babe? Darling? "...Humraaz." The Urdu term of endearment came out before she could stop it. Liam's gaze shifted to her, and his face softened. Before he could ask her what it meant and ruin the performance, she rose up on her toes, pressed her hands against his chest, and kissed him. Without hesitation, Liam wrapped one arm around her waist, pressed his mouth against hers, and bent her over backward in a full-on movie kiss. Her breath hitched and her lips softened. His lips were firm and cool and tasted of coffee and something sweet. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and for a moment she thought her heart had stopped. But it didn't matter. Upside down, in front of her work colleagues, she was the woman she always wanted to be. Then she was up and back on her feet, lips tingling, an ache of desire between her thighs. "What does it mean?" he murmured gently. "The one with whom we share our secrets." "Then I am your humraaz," he said. "And you are mine.

Why didn’t you stay?” she had whispered against the unyielding stone. Why didn’t you stay? She pressed the berry against her lips. Why didn’t I ask you just one more time to stay? Sajjad stood up quietly and walked over to her. “There is a phrase I have heard in English: to leave someone alone with their grief. Urdu has no equivalent phrase. It only understands the concept of gathering around and becoming ‘ghum-khaur’—grief-eaters—who take in the mourner’s sorrow.

They say that it is one of the most terrifying manifestations in nature: a bull elephant in a state of must. Twin streams of vile-smelling liquid flow from the ducts of the temples and into the corners of the jaws. At these times the great beast will gore giraffes and hippos, will break the backs of cringeing rhinoceri. This was male-elephantine heat. Must: it derived via Urdu from the Persian mast or maest—“intoxicated.” But I had settled for the modal verb. I must, I must, I just must.

Kaun bata sakta hai yeh mulaqaat pehli yaan aakhri hai.. Na jaane kitni baar mil chuka hoon tujhse aur kitni baar abhi milna baaki hai... Har daur mein hota hai koi kirdaar mere jaisa.. Na jaane kitne qisson me zikar hai mera aur kitni kahaniyon mein abhi likhna baaki hai... Sadiyon se chal hoon ekk kaafile ke saath saath.. Na Jaane kin Manzilon ki talaash hai aur kahan abhi Pahunchna baaki hai... Suna hai Sau raaste jaate hai usski jaanib ki taraf ... mujhe ek bhi nai mila, lagta hai nasamajh kadmon ka abhi Bhatkna baaki hai... Na thama hai, na hi thamega yeh ranjishon ka silsilaa 'Mehram.. Na jaane kitni dafa toota hoon abhi kitna aur bikhrana baaki hai... Khwabon me khawab dekh raha hai ek mitti ka bhut zameen pe.. Uske Khwabon ki ajal mein bas Palkon ka jhapkana baaki hai... Wajood-e-adam ke dayaron se nikal toh chuki hai zaat meri.. Bas saanson ka rukna aur rooh ka bicharna baaki hai.. Uss roshni ki talaash mein jo phir raha hai dar-ba-dar... Dekh Patangey ney Samait liya haunsla usme Jitnaa abhi baaki hai... Kaun bata sakta hai yeh mulaqaat pehli yaan aakhri hai Na jaane kitni baar mil chuka hoon tujhse aur kitni baar abhi milna baaki hai...

The children in my dreams speak in Gujarati turn their trusting faces to the sun say to me care for us nurture us in my dreams I shudder and I run. I am six in a playground of white children Darkie, sing us an Indian song! Eight in a roomful of elders all mock my broken Gujarati English girl! Twelve, I tunnel into books forge an armor of English words. Eighteen, shaved head combat boots - shamed by masis in white saris neon judgments singe my western head. Mother tongue. Matrubhasha tongue of the mother I murder in myself. Through the years I watch Gujarati swell the swaggering egos of men mirror them over and over at twice their natural size. Through the years I watch Gujarati dissolve bones and teeth of women, break them on anvils of duty and service, burn them to skeletal ash. Words that don't exist in Gujarati : Self-expression. Individual. Lesbian. English rises in my throat rapier flashed at yuppie boys who claim their people “civilized” mine. Thunderbolt hurled at cab drivers yelling Dirty black bastard! Force-field against teenage hoods hissing F****ing Paki bitch! Their tongue - or mine? Have I become the enemy? Listen: my father speaks Urdu language of dancing peacocks rosewater fountains even its curses are beautiful. He speaks Hindi suave and melodic earthy Punjabi salty rich as saag paneer coastal Kiswahili laced with Arabic, he speaks Gujarati solid ancestral pride. Five languages five different worlds yet English shrinks him down before white men who think their flat cold spiky words make the only reality. Words that don't exist in English: Najjar Garba Arati. If we cannot name it does it exist? When we lose language does culture die? What happens to a tongue of milk-heavy cows, earthen pots jingling anklets, temple bells, when its children grow up in Silicon Valley to become programmers? Then there's American: Kin'uh get some service? Dontcha have ice? Not: May I have please? Ben, mane madhath karso? Tafadhali nipe rafiki Donnez-moi, s'il vous plait Puedo tener….. Hello, I said can I get some service?! Like, where's the line for Ay-mericans in this goddamn airport? Words that atomized two hundred thousand Iraqis: Didja see how we kicked some major ass in the Gulf? Lit up Bagdad like the fourth a' July! Whupped those sand-niggers into a parking lot! The children in my dreams speak in Gujarati bright as butter succulent cherries sounds I can paint on the air with my breath dance through like a Sufi mystic words I can weep and howl and devour words I can kiss and taste and dream this tongue I take back.

ख़ामोशी, वैसे तो बहुत ठंडा लफ़्ज़ है मगर इसकी तासीर बहुत गर्म होती है।

SOME PEOPLE KEEP LIONS, BUT ALL THEY DO IS, RUN A CIRCUS. कुछ लोग शेर पालते हैं, पर सर्कस चलाते हैं।

Kabhi tere shehar se guzarein toh parr lena inney, Maine hawaon pe apne kuch safarname likhe hain..

میرے شہر کے معززین کو میرے شہر کی طوائفوں سےزیادہ بہتر کوئی نہیں جانتا۔

All will be annihilated in this age except the one who established in his ways and firm in his thought is

انسان لاحاصل کے پیچھے بھاگ کر کتنی لذت حاصل کرتا ہے۔

کبھی کبھی درست انتخاب راستے کی طوالت کو کم کر دیتا ہے۔

eighteenth-century Urdu poet Mir: It’s just your imagining that There’s a feeble body inside my clothes; In fact, there is nothing there But a mere idea of myself.

Though Urdu is the mother tongue of only 5 percent of Pakistanis, it is the official language of the state and is taught in schools nationwide.

Urdu is an aristocratic language. It was not the language of the working classes. Those who are left—the artisans—speak Karkhana [factory] Urdu. The Urdu of the poets is dead.

محبت میں ذاتی آزادی کو طلب کرنا شرک ہے ۔ ۔ ۔ ۔ ۔ ۔ بیک وقت دو افراد سے محبت نہیں کی جا سکتی۔ ۔ ۔ ۔ محبوب سے بھی اور اپنی ذات سے بھی ۔ محبت غلامی کا عمل ہے اور آزاد لوگ غلام نہیں رہ سکتے ۔

Bhulaney ke liay bhi tujhy yaad tu kerna hoga, Magar her yaad se hain wabasta teri hazaar baatain, Teri in baaton ka kahin tu hisaab hoga, Faqat guzri hain iss fikr mein meri hazaar raatain.

انسان کو غالباً سب سے زیادہ تحکم کا شوق ہے۔ وہ دوسروں پر کبھی رعب، کبھی خوشامد، کبھی سزا دے کر اپنی حکومت کا ثبوت اپنی اناکو پہنچاتا رہتا ہے۔ تحکم زیادہ ہوتا چلا جائے تو خوداعتمادی میں بھی اضافہ ہوتا چلا جاتا ہے، دوسروں کی مرضی پر اپنی مرضی مسلط کرنے کے مواقع کم ہوں تو احساس کمتری بڑھنے لگتا ہے۔

Ba hamdigar huay hain dil-o-deedah phir raqib,  Nazzara-e-khayaal kaa samaan kiyay huay. [The heart and the eyes are competing for the beloved. One,  with the means of sight and the other with the means of imagination].

Wien ist…" Ich versuche mich an die richtigen Vokabeln auf Urdu zu erinnern, merke aber, dass ich nicht mal auf Deutsch so genau wüsste, wie ich fortfahren soll. Wien ist… groß? Ernüchternd. Ermüdend. Irgendwie schäbiger als erwartet, irgendwie schöner auch. Vor allem ist es sehr viel und sehr schnell und ziemlich überwältigend, auch nach den vier Wochen, die ich schon hier bin. "Wien", beende ich meinen in der Luft schwebenden Satz. "Wien eben.

Why do things always sound sadder in Urdu? Prettier too. She likes that they speak to each other in Urdu, how even speaking it feels like access to their secret world, a world where they feel like different people, capable of feelings she could not experience let alone speak of in English. She turns around and faces him. He looks worried and scratches his cheek. He is only six. First grade has just begun and he has had a hard time adjusting to the longer hours.

کہانیاں اور افسانے زندگی سے ہی عبارت ہوتے ہیں اور یہ انسان کو نہ تو ہوشیار بناتے ہیں نہ معصومیت سے عاری کرتے ہیں بلکہ جینے کا شعور اور زندگی کاسلیقہ دیتے ہیں رویوں کو پرکھنا انسانوں کو جاننا سکھاتے ہیں بشرطیکہ انہیں سمجھ کر کچھ حاصل کرنے کی غرض سے پڑھا جاۓ.

Khush hotey hain par vasal mein yun mar nahin jaatey, Aaee shab-e hijra ki tamanna mere aagey. [Vasal: union, shab-e hijra : night of separation] The intense desire to die that I had in the night of separation has been fulfilled today by the intense bliss of union.

فن پارہ یہ کتابوں کی صف صف جلدیں کاغذوں کا فضول استعمال روشنائی کا شاندار اسراف سیدھے سیدھے سے کچھ سیہ دھبّے جن کو توجیہ آج تک نہ ہوئی چند خوش ذوق کم نصیبوں نے بسر اوقات کے لیے شائد یہ لکیریں بکھیر ڈالی ہیں کتنی ہی بے قصور نسلوں نے ان کوپڑھنے کے جرم میں تا عمر لے کے کشکول علم و حکمت و فن کو بہ کو جاں کی بھیک مانگی ہے آہ! یہ وقت کا عذاب الیم وقت، خلاّق، بے شعور، قدیم ساری تعریفیں ان اندھیروں کی جن کی پرتو، نہ کوئی پرچھائی آہ! یہ زندگی کی تنہائی سوچنا اور سوچتے رہنا چند معصوم پاگلوں کی سزا آج میں نے بھی سوچ رکھا ہے وقت سے انتقام لینے کو یونہی تا شام سادے کاغذ پر ٹیڑھے ٹیڑھے خطوط کھینچے جائیں

British officers arriving in India were supposed to spend up to three years in a Calcutta college, where they studied Hindu and Muslim law alongside English law; Sanskrit, Urdu and Persian alongside Greek and Latin; and Tamil, Bengali and Hindustani culture alongside mathematics, economics and geography.

...the fact that Urdu was spoken by taxicab drivers; the presence, only two blocks from my East Village apartment, of a samosa- and channa-serving establishment called the Pak-Punjab Deli; the coincidence of crossing Fifth Avenue during a parade and hearing, from loudspeakers mounted on the South Asian Gay and Lesbian Association float, a song to which I had danced at my cousin’s wedding. In a subway car, my skin would typically fall in the middle of the colour spectrum. On street corners, tourists would ask me for directions. I was, in four and a half years, never an American; I was immediately a New Yorker.

That was the main thing wrong with Mrs. Kamal. She spent such an extraordinary amount of mental energy feeling irritated that it was impossible not to feel irritated in turn. It was oxygen to her, this low-grade dissatisfaction, shading into anger; this sense that things weren't being done correctly, that everything from the traffic noise at night to the temperature of the hot water in the morning to the progress of Mohammed's potty training to the fact that Fatima wasn't being taught to read Urdu, only English, to the fact that Rohinka served only two dishes at dinner the night of her arrival to the cost of the car insurance for the VW Sharan to the fact that Shahid didn't have a 'proper job' and seemed to have no intention of getting one, let alone a wife, to the unfriendliness of London, the fact that it was an 'impossible city,' to the ostentatious way she complained about missing Lahore, especially at dinner time, giving meaningful, sad, reproachful looks at the food Rohinka had cooked.

country in southern Asia occupying the greater part of the Indian subcontinent; pop. 1,045,845,226 (est. 2002); official languages, Hindi and English (fourteen other languages are recognized as official in certain regions; of these, Bengali, Gujarati, Marathi, Tamil, Telugu, and Urdu have most first-language speakers); capital, New Delhi. Hindi name BHARAT.

Ey kitaab-e-hasti tu bhi khul kabhi..Tere kisi safey pe meri khud se mulaqaat ho...

Is saal bhi tamaashe wohi puraane huye Na jaane kitne apne huye kitne anjaane huye

It is difficult for every task to be easy. Similarly, it is not possible for a man to be a human being easily (and display the human qualities of kindness and love).

Qafas mein mujhse rudaad-e-chaman kahte na dar humdam, Giree hai jis pe kal bijli woh mera aashiyaan kyun ho.

جب کبھی کوئی مرد کسی عورت کے عشق میں مبتلا ہوتا ہے تو اسے اس عورت کی بھوک مٹانے کا چسکا پڑ جاتا ہے۔

Ghalib bura na maan jo waiz bura kahe Aisa bhi koi hai sab achha kahen jise

मोहब्बत का ख़ुदा अगर कोई है, तो सिर्फ़ मैं ही हूँ।

कुछ रिश्ते कभी नहीं मरते, क्यूँकि उनकी कोई उम्र ही नहीं होती।

लिखना, मेरी सबसे बड़ी मजबूरी है।

ک تمنا ہے میرے دِل میں ، تم اسے میری حسرت کہہ سکتے ہو . چھوڑ کے جانے کے بعد بھی ، تم مجھے اپنا کہہ سکتے ہو

جان میکس ویل کہتا تھا, "تم پیسے سے نہیں جیت سکتے۔ اس کو کمانے پے فوکس کرو تو مادیت پرست کہلاؤگے۔ کمانا چاہو اور نہ ملا تو لوزر اور بہت کما کے خرچ نہ کرو تو کنجوس ہو۔اگر کما کر خرچ کرتے رہو تو فضول خرچ ہو۔ اگر کمانے کی فکر نہ کرو تو تم unambitious ہو۔ اگر بڑھاپے تک بہت سے پیسے کے مالک ہو تو تم بیوقوف ہو کی اس پیسے کو قبر میں لیکر جانا چاہ رہے تھے۔" "پھر کیا کرنا چاہئے پیسے کے ساتھ؟" "پیسے سے جیتنے کا بس یک ہی طریقہ ہے باس۔ اس کو مٹھی میں نہیں دبا لینا بلکہ ڈھیلی گرفت کے ساتھ اُسکو پکڑنا ہے اور پھر کھلے دل سے اسکو قابلِ قدر چیزوں کو حاصل کرنے په صرف کرنا ہے

The name Urdu, by which this language is usually known, is said to be of Turkish origin, and means literally "camp." But the Moghuls of India first introduced it in the precincts of the Imperial camp; so that as Urdu-i-muali (High or Supreme Camp) came to be a synonym for new Dehli after Shahjahan had made it his permanent capital, so Urdu-ki-zaban meant the lingua franca spoken at Dehli.

Listen: my father speaks Urdu language of dancing peacocks rosewater fountains even its curses are beautiful. He speaks Hindi suave and melodic earthy Punjabi salty rich as saag paneer coastal Kiswahili laced with Arabic, he speaks Gujarati solid ancestral pride. Five languages five different worlds yet English shrinks him down before white men who think their flat cold spiky words make the only reality.

لوگ دوسرے لوگوں کو اتنی تکلیف کیوں دیتے ہیں؟” ” ذرا ایک منٹ ٹھہر کر اس مسلے پر غور کریں. وہ کون سے لوگ ہوتے ہیں جو دوسروں کو آزار نہیں دیتے؟ وہ وہی لوگ ہوتے ہیں جو اپنے آپ کو دکھ نہیں دیتے. ان کے اندر دکھ کا اور آزار کا لاوا اتنا شدید نہی…ں ہوتا کہ وہ ابل کر دوسروں پر گرنے لگے. چناچہ نتیجہ یہ نکلا کہ دوسروں کو حفاظت میں رکھنے کے لئے خود کو حفاظت میں رکھنا بہت ضروری ہے…. اصل میں “خود کریمی” ہی “مخلوق کریمی” ہے. چونکہ اس کا منبع ایک ہی ہے اس لئے یہ سبھی کو ایک سا سیراب کرتی ہے- اور خود کریمی کا اجرا اس طرح ہوتا ہے کہ سچ کو اندر آنے دیا جائے اور اپنے زخموں کی مرہم پٹی کرنے دی جائے تاکہ اپنا اندر صحتمند ہو جائے.

Laag ho to us ko ham samjhein lagaao, Jab na ho kuchh bhee to dhokaa khaaein kyaa (If love/enmity would exist, then we would consider it an attachment, When neither feeling exists, then-- why would we be deceived?)

Nahin Minnatkash-e-Taab-e-Shaneedan Dastan Meri Khamoshi Guftugu Hai, Be-Zubani Hai Zuban Meri My story is not indebted to the patience of being heard My silence is my talk, my speechlessness is my speech Ye Dastoor-e-Zuban Bandi Hai Kaisa Teri Mehfil Mein Yahan To Baat Karne Ko Tarasti Hai Zuban Meri Why does this custom of silencing exist in your assembly? My tongue is tantalized to talk in this assembly Uthaye Kuch Waraq Lale Ne, Kuch Nargis Ne, Kuch Gul Ne Chaman Mein Har Taraf Bikhri Huwi Hai Dastan Meri Some leaves were picked up by the tulip, some by the narcissus, some by the rose My story is scattered around everywhere in the garden Urha Li Qumriyon Ne, Tootiyon Ne, Andleebon Ne Chaman Walon Ne Mil Kar Loot Li Tarz-e-Faghan Meri The turtle‐doves, parrots, and nightingales pilfered away The garden’s denizens jointly robbed away my plaintive way Tapak Ae Shama Ansu Ban Ke Parwane Ki Ankhon Se Sarapa Darun Hun, Hasrat Bhari Hai Dastan Meri O Candle! Drip like tears from the eye of the moth Head to foot pathos I am, full of longing is my story

Samundhar se pooch raha hoon uski dayar kya hai... Jaise aashiq khuda se pooche khumaar-e eshgh ki wajah kya hai... Mudda ek kaash se lekar doosre kaash tak ka hi toh hai.. Toh kabhi zahir kar mijaaz main teri raza kya hai...

بس ماں مجھے کچھ نہیں ہے ۔ میں ایک چھوٹا سا کورا گھڑا ہوں، چھوٹا سا...... اور بڑے سمندر کے پاس بیٹھا ہوں ۔ سمندر مجھ میں سما نہیں سکتا اور میں اپنا گھڑا توڑ کر سمندر میں شامل نہیں ہو سکتا۔یہی میری بیماری ہے اور یہی میرا روگ ہے۔

Ranj se khugar hua insaan to mit jaata hai ranj, Mushkilein mujh par padee Itni ke aasaan ho gaeen. If a human being gets accustomed to grief, then grief disappears. I suffered so many hardships, that they became easy to bear.

जब उदास लम्हों की रंगीन तितलियाँ मेरी आँखों में रक़्स करती हैं, तो सीने की वीरानी में अफ़्सानों का एक जंगल उगने लगता है। दरख़्तों की टहनियों पर गाते हुए परिंदों की बोली में मेरे माज़ी के हसीन होंटों की हँसी साफ़ साफ़ सुनी जा सकती है।

TUJHE WAPIS MEIN LAUN KAISE... Tere bin jeena is dil ko sikhaun kaise, Hoon dil shikasta, tujhe wapis mein laun kaise, Tujhe yaad kar k jo girtay hein aansu mere, Dunya walon se unko chhupaun kaise, Baad tere jo kuch bhi hai beeta mujh par, Dastaan wo mein tujh ko sunaun kaise, Wo jo soya tu us din to na utha kabhi, Raha sochta mein k tujh jo jagaun kaise, Poochtay hein yeh jo mujh se k tu kaisa tha, Teri azmat ka inko bataun kaise, Tujhe bichhray ik arsa ab hone ko hai, Magar is dil ko yeh yaqeen mein dilaun kaise, Chehray ki is hansi pe na jao yaaron, Tum ko dil k zakham mein dikhaun kaise, Tere hone se hi hansta tha yeh dil saadi, Hoon pareshan ab isko hansaun kaise…!

What have you been eating?" "Jalebis." Anika held up a bright orange, pretzel-shaped sweet similar to a funnel cake. "Yesterday, we helped Dadi make chocolate peda," Zaina informed her, using the Urdu term for "paternal grandmother." "And the day before that we made burfi, and before that we made-" "Peanut brittle." Anika grinned. Layla bit back a laugh. Her mother had a sweet tooth, so it wasn't surprising that she'd made treats with her granddaughters in the kitchen.

Use door se hi dekhta raha bas yuhi waqt katta raha Na jaane kyu nigahe thami rahi bas uske chahre pe hi thami rahi Kabhi Chand samajhkar to kabhi chandani Hum use dekhte rahe tarjeeb se par kabhi socha na tha ki unka kabhi didar hoga itne kareeb se

کچھ لمحے بڑے فیصلہ کن ہوتے ہیں۔ اس وقت یہ طے ہوتا ہے کہ کون کس شخص کا سیارہ بنایا جائے گا۔ جس طرح کسی خاص درجہ حرارت پر پہنچ کر ٹھوس مائع اور مائع گیس میں بدل جاتا ہے‘ اسی طرح کوئی خاص گھڑی بڑی نتیجہ خیز ثابت ہوتی ہے، اس وقت ایک قلب کی سوئیاں کسی دوسرے قلب کے تابع کر دی جاتی ہیں۔ پھر جو وقت پہلے قلب میں رہتا ہے وہی وقت دوسرے قلب کی گھڑی بتاتی ہے‘ جو موسم‘ جو رُت‘ جو پہلے دن میں طلوع ہوتا ہے وہی دوسرے آئینے منعکس ہو جاتا ہے۔ دوسرے قلب کی اپنی زندگی ساکت ہو جاتی ہے۔ اس کے بعد اس میں صرف بازگشت کی آواز آتی ہے

IT'S NOT ABOUT HOW MANY THIEFS ARE AROUND THERE'S A DEARTH OF THOSE WHO STEAL GOODNESS बात ये नहीं कि कितने चोर पैदा हो गए हैं यहां अच्छी बात चोरी करने वालों की कमी ही रही - विनीत BAAT YEH NAHIN KI KITNE CHOR PAIDA HO GAYE HAIN YAHAN ACHHI BAAT CHORI KARNE WALON KI KAMI HI RAHI

The Colonel looked at this strange fashion and asked in broken Urdu, ‘Well? You Muslim?’ ‘Half,’ said Ghalib. ‘What does that mean?’ asked the Colonel. ‘I drink wine,’ said Ghalib, ‘but I don’t eat pork.’ The Colonel laughed, and Ghalib then showed him the letter which he had received from the Minister for India [sic] in acknowledgement of the ode to Her Majesty the Queen which Ghalib has sent. The Colonel said, ‘After the victory of government forces why did you not present yourself at the Ridge?’ Ghalib replied, ‘My rank required that I should have four palanquin bearers, but all four of them ran away and left me, so I could not come.

Kare hai baadah tere lab se kasab-e rang-e furogh, Khat-e piyaalah saraasar nigaah-e gul-chee hai. [kasab : acquire; furogh : splendour, radiance] The wine tries to take away from your lips their colour and radiance, Just as the gaze of a flower-picker tries to steal the colour and freshness of flowers. (Lips are like flowers and the line on the wineglass is like the gaze of a flower-picker)

Marriage?” her ladyship said, as if the word had been recently borrowed from Urdu. “Lord Fleming seeks to marry me? I know we’ve flirted and stood up for an occasional dance, but marriage?” “Why not?” Fleming retorted. “I am of suitable rank, you’re a proven breeder, Stapleton’s political influence would stand me in good stead, and you’re a widow. You should be grateful that a man of appropriate rank would take you on when your settlements won’t be that impressive.” “A proven breeder?” Lady Champlain echoed. “A proven breeder?” “And you’re not bad looking,” Fleming added, in what had to be the most ill-advised observation a man ever made. “A bit long in the tooth, but you can still pop out a couple of sons, I’m sure. I will be diligent regarding my marital—” Stephen waggled his cane at Fleming. “If you hold a prayer of living to ensure the succession, cease covering yourself in stupidity. She wouldn’t have you if you were the last exponent of the male gender in all of creation—do I have that right, my lady?” Lady Champlain nodded.

Sitaaron se aage jahaan aur bhee hain Abhi ishq ke imtihaan aur bhee hain Tahi zindagi se naheen ye fizaaein Yahaan saikadon karwaan aur bhee hain Qanaa’at na kar aalam-e rang-o boo per Chaman aur bhi aashiyaan aur bhee hain Agar kho gaya ik nasheman to gham kyaa Maqaamaat-e aah-o fughaan aur bhee hain Tu shaheen hai parwaaz hai kaam tera Tere saamne aasmaan aur bhee hain Isee roz-o shab mein ulajh kar na rah jaa Ke tere zamaan-o makaan aur bhee hain Gaye din ke tanhaa tha mein anjuman mein Yahaan ab mere raazdaan aur bhee hain

Like Manhattan? Yes, precisely! And that was one of the reasons why for me moving to New York felt- so unexpectedly- like coming home. But there were other reasons as well: the fact that Urdu was spoken by taxi cab drivers; the presence, only two blocks from my East Village apartment, of a samosa-and china-serving establishment called the Pak-Punjab Deli; the coincidence of crossing Fifth Avenue during a parade and hearing, from loudspeakers mounted on the South Asian Gay and Lesbian Association float, a song to which I had danced at my cousin's wedding. In a subway car, my skin would typically fall in the middle of the color spectrum. On street corners, tourists would ask me for directions. I was, in four and a half years, never an American; I was immediately a New Yorker. What? My voice is rising? You are right; I tend to become sentimental when I think of that city. It still occupies a place of great fondness in my heart, which is quite something, I must say, given the circumstances under which, after only eight months of residence, I would later depart.

The Hungryalist or the hungry generation movement was a literary movement in Bengali that was launched in 1961, by a group of young Bengali poets. It was spearheaded by the famous Hungryalist quartet — Malay Roychoudhury, Samir Roychoudhury, Shakti Chattopadhyay and Debi Roy. They had coined Hungryalism from the word ‘Hungry’ used by Geoffrey Chaucer in his poetic line “in the sowre hungry tyme”. The central theme of the movement was Oswald Spengler’s idea of History, that an ailing culture feeds on cultural elements brought from outside. These writers felt that Bengali culture had reached its zenith and was now living on alien food. . . . The movement was joined by other young poets like Utpal Kumar Basu, Binoy Majumdar, Sandipan Chattopadhyay, Basudeb Dasgupta, Falguni Roy, Tridib Mitra and many more. Their poetry spoke the displaced people and also contained huge resentment towards the government as well as profanity. … On September 2, 1964, arrest warrants were issued against 11 of the Hungry poets. The charges included obscenity in literature and subversive conspiracy against the state. The court case went on for years, which drew attention worldwide. Poets like Octavio Paz, Ernesto Cardenal and Beat poets like Allen Ginsberg visited Malay Roychoudhury. The Hungryalist movement also influenced Hindi, Marathi, Assamese, Telugu & Urdu literature.

An ancient Hindu Sutra, known as Natha-namavali, which is preserved among the Natha Yogis, has given a different version of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, whom they name as Isha Natha. Isha Natha came to India at the age of fourteen. After this he returned to his own country and began his preaching. Soon however, his brutish and materialistic countrymen conspired against him and had him crucified. After the crucifixion, or perhaps even before it, Isha Natha entered samadhi, or a profound trance, by means of yoga. Seeing him thus, the Jews presumed he was dead and buried him in a tomb. At that very moment, however, one of his gurus, or teachers, the great Chetan Natha, happened to be in profound meditation, in the lower reaches of the Himalayas, and he saw in a vision the tortures which Isha Natha was undergoing. He therefore made his body lighter than air and passed over to the land of Israel. The day of his arrival was marked with thunder and lightning, for the gods were angry with the Jews and the whole world trembled. When Chetan Natha arrived, he took the body of Isha Natha from the tomb and woke him from his samadhi, and later led him off to the sacred land of the Aryans. Isha Natha then established an ashram in the lower regions of the Himalayas, and he established the cult of the Lingam and the Yoni there.131