Her wistful face haunts my dreams like the rain at night.
But the beauty which Paresh Babu saw in her face was not that of complexion or features, but of the soul which there found its expression, – not just the pleasantness of a faultless shape but the firmness of strength, the brightness of independence, – characteristics which attract a chosen few, but repel most others.
The night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear, “I am death, your mother. I am to give you fresh birth.
Turn a tree into a log and it will burn for you, but it will never bear living flowers and fruit.
In life the one becomes many. In death the many become one.
Reality is the harmony which gives to the component parts of a thing the equilibrium of the whole.
The truth is that the spirit of conflict and conquest is at the origin and in the centre of Western nationalism; its basis is not social co-operation.
The very psychology of men and women about their mutual relation is changing and becoming the psychology of the primitive fighting elements, rather than of humanity seeking its completeness through the union based upon mutual self-surrender.
Light, oh where is the light! Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. The night is black as a black stone. Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.
Clever lies become matters of self-congratulation.
You cannot go on violating these laws in the name of your nation, yet enjoy their advantage as individuals.
Even though from childhood I had been taught that idolatry of the Nation is almost better than reverence for God and humanity, I believe I have outgrown that teaching, and it is my conviction that my countrymen will truly gain their India by fighting against the education which teaches them that a country is greater than the ideals of humanity.
Whenever Power removes all checks from its path to make its career easy, it triumphantly rides into its ultimate crash of death.
Every now and then, their mutual passion would show signs of fading; without the firm support of the world of everyday duty, it was difficult to keep up this fervour. Unless love is rooted in purposeful activity, its delights are neither fulfilling nor lasting.
Life’s memories are not life’s history, but the original work of an unseen artist.
Rajalakshmi would send for Bihari and express her grief. Bihari would tell her, ‘Ma, when the worm weaves a cocoon there is not much to fear, but when it breaks out and flies away, it is hard to make it return. Who would have thought he would break free of his bond with you in such a manner?
The one who plants a tree knowing he may never sit in its shade has learnt a little about life.
Love is the highest bliss that man can attain to, for through it alone he truly knows that he is more than himself, and that he is at one with the All.
It is my Bharatvarsha in all its glory, replete with wealth, knowledge, spiritual faith.
The absence of human company and affection seemed to choke his heart.
The moment you clasp an infant to your heart, you realize that nobody is born into a caste.