Quotes from Arundhati Roy

I would like to write one of those sophisticated stories in which even though nothing much happens there's lots to write about.

Vi?as kv?l?k? v?l?šan?s bija, lai vi?ai b?tu pulkstenis, kam vi?a var?tu main?t laiku, kad vien v?l?tos (tam, vi?aspr?t, Laiks ar? dom?ts).

Kad tu k?dam nodari p?ri, tas s?k tevi maz?k m?l?t. Neapdom?tu v?rdu d??. Tie liek cilv?kiem m?l?t tevi mazliet maz?k.

She thought of Chacko's laugh, and a smile stayed in her eyes for a long time.

Om bhur bhuvah svaha Tat savitur varenyam Bhargo devasya dhimahi Dhiyo yo nah pracodayat O God, thou art the giver of life, Remover of pain and sorrow, Bestower of happiness, O Creator of the Universe, May we receive thy supreme sin-destroying light, May thou guide our intellect in the right direction.

Duniya ke mehfilon se ukta gaya hoon ya Rab Kya lutf anjuman ka , jab dil hi bujh gaya ho Shorish se bhagta hoon, dil dhoondta hai mera Aisa sukoot jis pe taqreer bhi fida ho I am weary of worldly gatherings, O Lord What pleasure in them, when the light in my heart is gone? From the clamour of crowds I flee, my heart seeks The kind of silence that would mesmerize speech itself

History has been unkind to Ambedkar. First it contained him, and then it glorified him. It has made him India's Leader of the Untouchables, the King of the Ghetto. It has hidden away his writings. It has stripped away the radical intellect and the searing insolence.

But for now, it even has a Gandhian approach to sabotage; before a police vehicle is burnt for example, it is stripped down and every part is cannibalized. The steering wheel is straightened out and made into a bharmaar barrel, the rexine upholstery stripped and used for ammunition pouches, the battery for solar charging. Should I write a play I wonder- Gandhi Get Your Gun. Or will I be lynched?

She remembers, for instance (though she hadn't been there), what the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man did to Estha in Abhilash Talkies. She remembers the taste of the tomato sandwiches—Estha's sandwiches, that Estha ate—on the Madras Mail to Madras.

Do you realize what you have just done? D'you know what happens when you hurt people? When you hurt people, they begin to love you less. That's what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.

History in live performance.

Do you make all your life's big decisions based on mobile phone videos?

Foreigners only see what they want to see. Earlier it was snake charmers and sadhus, now it is the superpower things, the Bazaar Raj.

And now this talk of bringing the UN back into the picture. But that old UN girl - it turns out that she just ain't what she was cracked up to be. She's been demoted (although she retains her high salary). Now she's the world's janitor. She's the Filipino cleaning lady, the Indian jamardini, the postal bride from Thailand, the Mexican household help, the Jamaican au pair. She's employed to clean other people's shit. She's used and abused at will.

Mohabbat goliyon se bo rahe ho Watan ka chehra khoon se dho rahe ho Gumaan tum ko ke rasta katt raha hai Yaqeen mujhko ke manzil kho rahe ho

And so, in these ways, in order to please Zainab, Anjum began to rewrite a simpler, happier life for herself. The rewriting in turn began to make Anjum a simpler, happier person.

When the sun sets on the American empire, as it will, as it must, Noam Chomsky's work will survive. It will point a cool incriminating finger at a merciless Machiavellian empire as cruel, self-righteous and hypocritical as the ones it has replaced. (The only difference is that it is armed with technology that can visit the kind of devastation on the world that history has never known and the human race cannot begin to imagine.)

We need an updated insurance plan against our won basic natures

They were State-of-the-Art machines. They could flatten history and stack it up like building material.

The gist of it was the caste (privileged) hindus wanted the power to close the door on untouchables, but on no account could untouchables be given the power to close the door on themselves. The Masters knew that Choice was Power.

Is this Democracy or Demon Crazy?

In the last photograph of her, the bullet wound looked like a cheerful summer rose arranged just above her left ear. A few petals had fallen on her kaffan, the white shroud she was wrapped in before she was laid to rest.

Ja vi?š tai pieskarsies, vi?š nevar?s ar to run?t, ja vi?š to m?l?s, vi?š nevar?s aiziet, ja vi?š run?s, vi?š nevar?s klaus?ties, ja vi?š c?n?sies, vi?š nevar?s uzvar?t.

For one struck down by Cupid's bow Life becomes burdensome, isn't that so?