Best 38 quotes of Srividya Srinivasan on MyQuotes

A feminist is a woman lover not a man hater

A master learns. A mere student argues

And, when i peel away, I find my superficial layers run deep, and the deep layers are just superficial layers in disguise. And, when i seek depth, all I can find is a gaping hole, a certain hollowness, cleverly painted by my superficial selves to appear important. And, my ego sneers at this feeble attempt at self honesty

Become gloriously comfortable in your own skin, however awkward the fit.

Be very very very gentle with yourself. The world is very very very hard on you

Do not waste your presence where your absence will not be missed

He could not take his eyes off her. Would she recognise him? Were their destinies linked this time? He had begged them to allow him this last chance. His seventh attempt. If he failed, their destinies would be severed forever.

In a relationship, it is not what you ask and receive that delights. It is receiving what you wanted but never asked

I think I will always be the little girl with her nose pressed against the fence, waiting to be taken into the game.

It is finally about the quality of the conversations and silences we share, isn't it? We become strangers when we have nothing to say to each other. We die to each other, when the conversations in us die. Sometimes, a little every day, until one day we go completely silent and we are simply left looking at a stranger whose habits we know

It is highly abnormal today to be happy in this highly abnormal world. It can only come with complete distancing from all things around, all events around and all people and our equations with them. We transact, interact only to the extent of necessity and our well-being.The question is then what remains of us from such acute levels of detachments that we build as safety barriers to safeguard our happiness ? If our happiness is so fragile, then are we truly happy ? If we are immersed in the world and still happy then we must surely possess the highest degree of tolerance for the vilest of things. The picture that emerges of a happy individual is not a happy one.

It requires tremendous discipline to stay free

May every man find the softest and most fragile expression of his personality with the right woman who would treasure and honour the beauty of his femininity and not misuse it and may all women find empowering and supportive men who would exult in her self expression and success without fear of being overshadowed by the power of her masculinity and in that beautiful new world, shall we enter as partners, equal and empowering, supporting and caring, vulnerable and strong.

Most of the conversations we are ever likely to have with people are the things we do not and cannot say

No one is a failure until that is the only definition of themselves that they are willing to see within.

Of all the deep longings, this ache for missing intimacy, cuts through sharply, like a scream in a silent room, like the last gasping breath under a stifling mask, like the huge lump in the throat that one is unable to swallow. This deep ache to be held, to know touch both the casual and intense variety, to catch an eye in answering laughter, to merge into oneness, to sing through existence in resonance with another, to simply be in deep love in openness. to live and die in intimacy and vulnerability in a loved one's arms. And, you ache alone...

Only if I heal, can you heal. Only if you heal, can I heal. Otherwise, we would continue to scar each other.

She did not care what a ludicrous picture she might be painting, a fat happy old lady in her night gown, swinging on a small little swing in the dead of the night.

She had no scars to show for her happiness except her laughter lines

Shine your light unto the night to bring on the dawn

Sometimes, I miss you with an intensity not even your presence can fulfill

The gift of love is in the simplest and utter joy of just being with the other. In coming alive to the present moment, together. In recognizing and being overwhelmingly grateful that among countless other possibilities that the vastness of life throws, the moment was possible. The impatience of love, is to desire a million such moments stretching forever. Small. Beautiful. Profound. Fragile. Floating away like flowers on the flowing brook. How foolish we are sometimes to miss the gift of the present, in our desire to imprison the future?

The nights and days had merged, trapped in that little house held captive by a stubborn old woman.

The number of dead selves we keep alive within us is insane

The people who need to grow, are the ones allowed the least chance to have a say in their own growth.

There are times when you are home to yourself and you long for company.

There are times when you long for answers and you become painfully aware that you are surrounded by people who may not even comprehend your questions

There should be a measure for happiness or sadness, like the width of your smile, the twinkle in your eyes, the depth of your laughter or the salt of your tears.

The stories we pretend do not exist, are the stories that will haunt us till the end.

The Valley Weeps Weep softly o mother, the walls have ears you know... The streets are awash o mother! I cannot go searching for him any more. The streets are awash o mother with blood and tears, pellets and screams. that silently remain locked in the air, while they lock us souless inside. The guns are out o mother, while our boys go armed with stones, I cannot go looking for him o mother, I have no courage to face what i will find. They fill the air o mother, The fragrance of plastic flowers I will place them beside your grave if i ever do survive, flowers that have no soul. and would never fade with time, The sun shines glorious o mother The water sparkles so fine The buds are closed in terror and birds have gone silent with fear There is poison in our heaven o mother I dread for what more is in store. They came for him o mother, yesterday as you slept inside, He went marching o mother with all the others beside. I never told you o mother, I do not know if he would ever return. The streets are awash o mother! I cannot go searching for him any more. Weep softly o mother, the walls have ears you know... If your old blind eyes can see, You will want to see again no more. Our men have lost their spirit Our women have lost their smile, Our children have lost their laughter, The valley has lost its shine, Weep softly O mother For, we still have our pride. 17/07/2016

They prised open the door in the morning. The beatific expression on his face was exactly what one would find in a temple deity or the just dead - an unsmiling smile. The absurdity and humour was there if one could just see it, the question and answer staring one in the face.

We shall forever be battling our scars, healing ourselves from the deep scars of childhood, to the awkward scars of adolescence, the hard scars of adulthood and scars of frail old age. In the answering spark in another's eyes, the cosy laughter of friends, and the circle of family, we rush to heal, heal our scars. In the eyes of a complete stranger, we finally find our balm until they are a stranger no more, and then we scar again, only to bleed again.

What makes you come alive? What keeps you going ? Is there hope in your heart still or has the weariness of the world attached itself to you like a limpet leaving you afraid and passionless? Do you wake up with a smile and stars in your eyes after restless, feverish soul-searching in the night? Do you dream, dream beyond what is possible and beyond the narrow confines of your jaded existence? How old do you feel? How much in love can you fall? How much step is there in your dance, o how many notes left in your song ? Have you decided to sit by and watch others dance or weep at the dying notes of your own swan song? Shake your lethargy. Come alive to innocence once more. Believe past your own jaded cynicism. Pretend you are young once more. Jump up with a spring in your feet, fall breathlessly in love again. Let the colors of the world wash over your walls, brushing the greys away. Let the sunlight of hope flood through your doubting self, o let the music play. Dance till you ache and drop, laugh till you cry. Sing till your lungs burst, and journey till the very road ends and dream by the moonless starless nights. Sleep with a secret smile on your lips, your body flush with the imprints of lips. Come alive, my dearest ...reclaim yourself from the living dead. Life beckons

You are truly home only when you find your tribe

You can demand that I accept who you are, You cannot demand that I should like you too.

You haven't seen for yourself, what I saw in your eyes.

You know you have arrived when you have stopped caring about the destination

You talk of beauty, love, laughter and life like a precious memory. As if the sunshine of love and laughter shall never flow into your life again. You make it sound like your present and future shall promise you nothing but safety and comfort in a sort of dead, dull way. What killed the spirit of madness, the spark of adventure and the sense of delicious fun ? Your aliveness ? Is this what it is to get old ?