Quotes from Shoba Narayan

They can't complain to the police, they say, because their cows roam the streets. The police will only take down an FIR (First Information Report) and register a case if cows are stolen from within someone's property. So these farmers buy Alsatian dogs to guard the cows. They buy roosters to wake them up at dawn for the milking; and then buy hens to give the rooster something to do. Within the compound of an urban dairy farmer lies an entire ecosystem.

This morning I, too, am in a hurry. The plumber who has reneged four times has promised that he will show up to fix the leak in our bathroom. "Mother-promise, Madam," he pronounced solemnly, when I phoned him last night. "God-promise." "Don't say that," I admonished. "If you don't come tomorrow, your mother will die." I didn't know then that his mother was already dead.

The shivering that had started six weeks before has turned into violent paroxysms. Let go, child, I whisper to her, as she drools bile and saliva, as her body rattles so hard I hear the emptiness inside. I want her to die; I want the decision not to be mine.

feeding a pregnant woman was akin to feeding God

As I got older, I began to appreciate eating with my hands, which allowed me to savor the warm food through pliant fingers rather than a cold, hard fork or spoon. In fact, Indians believe that hands add flavor to food.

Indians of my parents' and grandparents' generation never sipped—they thought it unsanitary to be spreading germs by sipping cups, even if the dishes were washed afterward. Instead they used tumblers with rims to pour coffee, tea, water, or rasam down their throat

In all her interactions with me, my grandmother presented herself with ruthless honesty, almost in spite of herself. In this age of political correctness when most people are afraid to voice their opinions and are guarded even with family, Nalla-ma stood out as someone who revealed herself completely, warts and all. What greater gift could she have given to the all-absorbing mind of her first grandchild?

He had also —in a masterstroke of marketing—recently given his cows English names, since his best customers were an American family deployed to the local embassy. So Kamala had become Coffee, Gomu had become Gaby, and Shanti had become Tiger

Even the most timid maami will become a daring smuggler when it comes to carrying curry plants across borders.

We were cousins united by blood but separated by language

KIDS. That's what it eventually boiled down to. My parents' objections, my grandparents' fears, Shyam's lectures all had to do with one thing. Two things, actually. Marriage and kids

I learned that when people greeted me by saying, "Hi! How are you?" the correct response was not to elaborate on how I actually felt but to toss it right back at them with a "Fine. How are you?

Art students didn't care whether I was from India or Botswana; they cared about Van Gogh, Gauguin, and the meaning of life. They didn't see me as a brown- skinned foreigner; they spotted raw sienna, burnt umber, and cadmium yellow shades on my face. They didn't stereotype me because my parents were Hindu and vegetarian; they reminded me not to blow up the studio while welding and cutting

I was stuck, trapped in affection, smothered by love. As Shyam said, I was leading the life of "your average, nice Indian girl." I didn't want to be nice. I wanted to shake the world.

Suddenly, it became very important that he like me, more for my pride than anything else. If anyone was doing the rejecting, I wanted it to be me

I had half hoped that he would be so swayed by my charms that he would propose to me on the spot—even though I had no intention of accepting

Sometimes, predictability and tradition please expectant guests rather than erratic invention and experiments that could fail. ALL INDIAN WEDDINGS HAVE several things in common: noise, food, music, and color. This is why Indians who live in America or any other part of the world go back home to get married. It would be hard to duplicate the color and happy chaos that surrounds an Indian wedding anywhere else in the world.

Indian cooking—indeed, any cooking—is mostly about getting the proportions right

My contention is that cooks who add foreign ingredients to chutneys do so to hide their own ineptitude.

Indians expect to be force-fed when they visit other homes, and they relish the attention. In fact, Indians of my grandmother's generation think it rude and walk away in a huff if the host doesn't entreat them to eat, eat, and eat some more.

The elderly in China play mah-jong. American senior citizens go on cruises and play golf. Europeans visit museums, tour wineries and dine at Michelin-star restaurants. Indian elders visit temples.

Till you experience it, you think that grief is one emotion. It isn't; it is many emotions packaged into one. It's like standing at the top of a tall building and having the floor fall out.