Quotes About Emotions

The herbs and chants weren't working because of my anger towards Ram. In some dark part of my soul, I wanted him to suffer.

And the mother, who through all the years of her hardship had never shed a tear, wept at his trust and her deception.

And if I wasn't able to bar anger, or her insidious cousin, irritation, From my heart, at least some of the time I bit back the sharp comments that I had prided myself on dispensing so freely all these years.

A situation in itself," he said, "is neither happy nor unhappy. It's only your response to it that causes your sorrow. But

Ah, love. Why had Vidhata made its nature so complex? Why did one love conflict, so often, with another?

What is it in us that carves negative impressions so deeply into our brains?

I heard the laments of the people of Hastinapur, their sorrow at losing us. But I no longer required their tears. It baffled me that as a younger women I'd thought that such a thing would make me happy.

It felt as though someone had reached into him and was wresting out his heart. In later life his sorrows would be deep-drawn and bone-aching sad, but never like this. Perhaps only the young can feel such exquisitely intense pain.

Why was it that our holy men who made a big deal of giving up so many things—comfort, fame, family—couldn't seem to give up their tempers?

Nabakumar sighs. 'Ma,' he says. Then he is gone.

Truly love is the strongest intoxicant of them all, the drink of deepest oblivion. Else how could I have forgiven him so quickly for what he'd done? No. Love is the spade with which we bury, deep inside our being, the things that we cannot bear to remember, cannot bear anyone else to know. But some of them remain. And they rise to the surface when we least expect them.

That's love—golden ropes that bind you and pull you in different directions.

The shock I'd felt, standing in the doorway, was a terrible thing. But what was worse was that in a moment it was gone, as though all along a part of me had known that this was where I was headed. That I, too, hadn't been worth a man's faithful loving.

Each word she'd set down in the journals was a gift and a wound.

People get addicted to love. Or just to having someone around. So many times Mr. Mehta gave me grief. I had to get his permission for every little thing: read a book, go to the cinema, even phone my parents. A lot of times he'd say no just because he could. Yet when he died, I wept and wept.

To see awe in a parent's eyes—it is a strange, lonely feeling.

Perhaps that is the miracle of stories. They make us realize that we're not alone in our folly and our suffering.

Because that's the thing about us human beings when we really love someone, we can be happy even while our heart is breaking.

How entangled love is with expectation, that poison vine! The stronger the expectation, the more our anger towards the beloved if he doesn't fulfil it—and the less our control over ourselves.

The life that you're living today is only a bubble in the cosmic stream, shaped by the karma of other lifetimes. The one who is your husband in this birth was perhaps your enemy in the last, and he whom you may hate, may have been your beloved. Why weep for any of them, then?

Most of all we learned to feel without words the sorrows of our sisters, and without words to console them. In this way our lives were not so different from those of the girls we had left behind in our home villages

Weeping is not bad. It clears out the heart, making space in it for growth.

We are the keepers of the heart's dusty corners.

Their voices were excited and self-assured and conspiratorial, the way they used to be in India, when they were political leaders. As she watched them it struck her that America might have saved their lives, but it had also diminished them.