Listed here are favorite quotes from Family Matters. Quotes that inspire, or give a strong visual image, or
just admiration of the author's words ..... poetic, lyrical,
straightforward, cultural, etc ....
During her girlhood, relatives would scrutinize her and remark sadly that a father's love was sunshine and fresh water without which a daughter could not bloom; a stepfather, they said, was quite useless in this regard.
As he watched them splash and yell, he thought about the eleven years he and Lucy had struggled to create a world for themselves. A cocoon, she used to call it. A cocoon was what they needed, she said, into which they could retreat, and after their families had forgotten their existence, they would emerge like two glistening butterflies and fly away together ...
And how did one acquire such enlightenment, he wondered, here, in a grim ward, collecting feces and urine from the beds of the lame and the halt and the diseased? Or were these the necessary conditions? For learning that young or old, rich or poor, we all stank at the other end?
He gazed at the windows, its glass luminous in the street light. The bars, standing stark, were oddly comforting. Old friends, he knew them well, keeping him company in the hours he had spent holding them while looking out the window, waiting for Lucy.
"If I could put my foot down, everything would be fine," said Nariman with a wry smile. "How can you force people? Can caring and concern be made compulsory? Either it resides in the heart, or nowhere."
And Vilas, writing and reading the ongoing drama of family matters, the endless tragedy and comedy, realized that collectively, the letters formed a pattern only he was privileged to see. He let the mail flow through his consciousness, allowing the episodes to fall into place of their own accord, like bits of coloured glass in a kaleidoscope. He felt that chance events, random cruelty, explainable kindness, meaningless disaster, unexpected generosity, together, form a design that was otherwise invisible. If it were possible to read letters for all of humanity, compose an infinity of responses on their behalf, he would have a God's-eye view of the world, and be able to understand it.
He wondered what magic passed between grown-ups, that they could go from shouting to crying to smiling in such a short time. Whatever it was, he was grateful for its existence, and went to change in the back room.
Housewifery is a most important calling, requiring umpteen talents. Without housewife there is no home; without home, no family. And without family, nothing else matters, everything from top to bottom falls apart or descends into chaos.
"An act of God is no one's fault," said Coomy ... Nariman observed that Coomy was getting into the bad habit of burdening God with altogether too much responsibility: "And that was good for neither God nor us."
There's only one way to defeat the sorrow and sadness of life - with laughter and rejoicing. Bring out the good dishes, put on your good clothes, no sense hoarding them. Where is the cut-glass vase and the rose bowl from your wedding? The porcelain shepherdess with her lamb? Bring them all out, Roxana, and enjoy them.
"Little white lies are as pernicious as big black lies. When they mix together, a great greyness of ambiguity descends, society is cast adrift in an amoral sea, and corruption and rot and decay start to flourish. Such is the time we are now passing through. Everything is disintegrating because details are neglected and nothing is regarded seriously."
Jehangir thought this time the music was more tender, pouring so sweetly out of the violin he could almost taste it. It reminded him of honey pouring from a spoon in delicate golden threads.
Daddy's handwriting was as perfect as pearls. That was how Mummy praised it, and the letters were all joined together by the lustre of royal blue ink. She encouraged him to try and write as beautifully. It was too late for Murad, his handwriting crawled like bedbugs all over the page, she said at the start of each school year, when they brown-papered their books and sat with Daddy at the dining room table while he wrote out their names, classes and subjects. It was the best part of going back to school after the May vacation. Jehangir loved the fresh gloss of the brown paper, the smell of new books, the thrill of his name flowing from the nib of Daddy's fountain pen. And he could tell that Daddy enjoyed it too from the important look on his face. Sometimes Daddy joked that the process of learning couldn't begin till the books bore the students name, for the knowledge inside them wouldn't know whose brain to travel into.
Their eyes, with dark circles under them, met over teacups. She looked wretched, thought Yezad, with her haggard face and slumped shoulders, and it lacerated his heart.
Time passed as he stood on the balcony and saw the clouds assume the colour of the evening. The setting sun was painting copper edges around them. He looked at the chaos of television cables and radio antennae and electrical connections and telephone lines spread out against the sky. Fitting, he thought, for a city that was chaos personified. This mad confusion of wires, criss-crossing between buildings, haphazardly spanning the road, looping crazily around trees, climbing drunkenly to rooftops - this mad confusion seemed to have trapped the neighborhood in its web.
"An actor without awareness is a wooden puppet," declared Gautam grandly .... "In a culture where destiny is embraced as the paramount force, we are all puppets," said Bhaskar.
Curious, he thought, how, if you knew a person long enough, he could elicit every kind of emotion from you, every possible reaction, envy, admiration, pity, irritation, fury, fondness, jealousy, love, disgust. But in the end all human beings became candidates for compassion, all of us, without exception ... and if we could recognize this from the beginning, what a saving in pain and grief and misery ...
In a way thought Jehangir, the Santa Claus story was like the Famous Five books. You knew none of it was real, but it let you imagine there was a better world somewhere. You could dream of a place where there was lots to eat, where children could have a midnight feast and raid the larder that was always full of sumptuous delicacies. A place where they organized picnics to the countryside and had adventures, where even the smugglers and thieves they caught were not too dangerous, just "nasty customers" who were "up to no good," as the kindly police inspector explained at the end of each book. A place where there were no beggars, no sickness, and no one died of starvation. And once a year a jolly fat man brought gifts for good children.
"So nice it would be, if I could write a cheque for you. But government regulations force us into different procedures. Black money is so much a part of our white economy, a tumour in the centre of the brain - try to remove it and you kill the patient."
During her girlhood, relatives would scrutinize her and remark sadly that a father's love was sunshine and fresh water without which a daughter could not bloom; a stepfather, they said, was quite useless in this regard.
ReplyDeleteAs he watched them splash and yell, he thought about the eleven years he and Lucy had struggled to create a world for themselves. A cocoon, she used to call it. A cocoon was what they needed, she said, into which they could retreat, and after their families had forgotten their existence, they would emerge like two glistening butterflies and fly away together ...
ReplyDeleteAnd how did one acquire such enlightenment, he wondered, here, in a grim ward, collecting feces and urine from the beds of the lame and the halt and the diseased? Or were these the necessary conditions? For learning that young or old, rich or poor, we all stank at the other end?
ReplyDeleteNariman cried out softly, like a forgotten door moaning in the wind.
ReplyDeleteHe gazed at the windows, its glass luminous in the street light. The bars, standing stark, were oddly comforting. Old friends, he knew them well, keeping him company in the hours he had spent holding them while looking out the window, waiting for Lucy.
ReplyDelete"If I could put my foot down, everything would be fine," said Nariman with a wry smile. "How can you force people? Can caring and concern be made compulsory? Either it resides in the heart, or nowhere."
ReplyDelete"A letter is like perfume. You don't apply a whole bottle. Just one dab will fill your senses. Words are the same - a few are sufficient."
ReplyDeleteAnd Vilas, writing and reading the ongoing drama of family matters, the endless tragedy and comedy, realized that collectively, the letters formed a pattern only he was privileged to see. He let the mail flow through his consciousness, allowing the episodes to fall into place of their own accord, like bits of coloured glass in a kaleidoscope. He felt that chance events, random cruelty, explainable kindness, meaningless disaster, unexpected generosity, together, form a design that was otherwise invisible. If it were possible to read letters for all of humanity, compose an infinity of responses on their behalf, he would have a God's-eye view of the world, and be able to understand it.
ReplyDelete"You should take a moment, see what the strain has done to your face."
ReplyDelete"Does it matter? My face is no longer my fortune."
He wondered what magic passed between grown-ups, that they could go from shouting to crying to smiling in such a short time. Whatever it was, he was grateful for its existence, and went to change in the back room.
ReplyDeleteHousewifery is a most important calling, requiring umpteen talents. Without housewife there is no home; without home, no family. And without family, nothing else matters, everything from top to bottom falls apart or descends into chaos.
ReplyDelete"An act of God is no one's fault," said Coomy ... Nariman observed that Coomy was getting into the bad habit of burdening God with altogether too much responsibility: "And that was good for neither God nor us."
ReplyDelete"Human beings break, and you can't replace them either. Are dishes more important? All you can do is enjoy the memories."
ReplyDeleteThere's only one way to defeat the sorrow and sadness of life - with laughter and rejoicing. Bring out the good dishes, put on your good clothes, no sense hoarding them. Where is the cut-glass vase and the rose bowl from your wedding? The porcelain shepherdess with her lamb? Bring them all out, Roxana, and enjoy them.
ReplyDelete"Little white lies are as pernicious as big black lies. When they mix together, a great greyness of ambiguity descends, society is cast adrift in an amoral sea, and corruption and rot and decay start to flourish. Such is the time we are now passing through. Everything is disintegrating because details are neglected and nothing is regarded seriously."
ReplyDeleteJehangir thought this time the music was more tender, pouring so sweetly out of the violin he could almost taste it. It reminded him of honey pouring from a spoon in delicate golden threads.
ReplyDeleteDaddy's handwriting was as perfect as pearls. That was how Mummy praised it, and the letters were all joined together by the lustre of royal blue ink. She encouraged him to try and write as beautifully. It was too late for Murad, his handwriting crawled like bedbugs all over the page, she said at the start of each school year, when they brown-papered their books and sat with Daddy at the dining room table while he wrote out their names, classes and subjects. It was the best part of going back to school after the May vacation. Jehangir loved the fresh gloss of the brown paper, the smell of new books, the thrill of his name flowing from the nib of Daddy's fountain pen. And he could tell that Daddy enjoyed it too from the important look on his face. Sometimes Daddy joked that the process of learning couldn't begin till the books bore the students name, for the knowledge inside them wouldn't know whose brain to travel into.
ReplyDeleteTheir eyes, with dark circles under them, met over teacups. She looked wretched, thought Yezad, with her haggard face and slumped shoulders, and it lacerated his heart.
ReplyDeleteTime passed as he stood on the balcony and saw the clouds assume the colour of the evening. The setting sun was painting copper edges around them. He looked at the chaos of television cables and radio antennae and electrical connections and telephone lines spread out against the sky. Fitting, he thought, for a city that was chaos personified. This mad confusion of wires, criss-crossing between buildings, haphazardly spanning the road, looping crazily around trees, climbing drunkenly to rooftops - this mad confusion seemed to have trapped the neighborhood in its web.
ReplyDelete"An actor without awareness is a wooden puppet," declared Gautam grandly .... "In a culture where destiny is embraced as the paramount force, we are all puppets," said Bhaskar.
ReplyDeleteCurious, he thought, how, if you knew a person long enough, he could elicit every kind of emotion from you, every possible reaction, envy, admiration, pity, irritation, fury, fondness, jealousy, love, disgust. But in the end all human beings became candidates for compassion, all of us, without exception ... and if we could recognize this from the beginning, what a saving in pain and grief and misery ...
ReplyDeleteIn a way thought Jehangir, the Santa Claus story was like the Famous Five books. You knew none of it was real, but it let you imagine there was a better world somewhere. You could dream of a place where there was lots to eat, where children could have a midnight feast and raid the larder that was always full of sumptuous delicacies. A place where they organized picnics to the countryside and had adventures, where even the smugglers and thieves they caught were not too dangerous, just "nasty customers" who were "up to no good," as the kindly police inspector explained at the end of each book. A place where there were no beggars, no sickness, and no one died of starvation. And once a year a jolly fat man brought gifts for good children.
ReplyDeleteThey walked down the hill shrouded in dusk and birdsong, the dense foliage looming above them like a huge dark umbrella.
ReplyDelete"So nice it would be, if I could write a cheque for you. But government regulations force us into different procedures. Black money is so much a part of our white economy, a tumour in the centre of the brain - try to remove it and you kill the patient."
ReplyDelete"All I know is, Nariman and Yasmin and Lucy followed their destinies as they were engraved on their foreheads. That's all. All there ever is."
ReplyDelete