Quotes by Srividya Srinivasan

We belong where we are most loved

Love dies when the lover in us dies. It snaps when the lover in us gives up in defeat. When the cold, practical us takes over the the self-image of us a lover. When the lover in us wins, the practical us recedes and the magic takes over, and when the lover in us loses, the practical us takes over and the magic recedes and the more the lover in us dies, the less courage we have in magic until we reach a point where we even disbelieve the very notion of magic, and magic within us. Who would believe the madness of moonlight in broad daylight? Love dies from hunger for love that love is unable to feed. If I tell you that just as the cold rays of harsh sunlight shall give away to the silver cool of the moonlight beams, your disbelief can turn to magic,are you going to believe? That the stars are there even during the day, that we are the ones unable to see, would you believe?

A feminist is a woman lover not a man hater

Delayed, unexpressed appreciation is meaningless. The dead need no appreciation. The living do.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

It is finally about the quality of the conversations and silences we share, isnt 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

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

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

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

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.

The Valley WeepsWeep 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 motherwith 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 flowersI will place them beside your graveif i ever do survive,flowers that have no soul.and would never fade with time,The sun shines glorious o motherThe water sparkles so fineThe buds are closed in terrorand birds have gone silent with fearThere is poison in our heaven o motherI dread for what more is in store.They came for him o mother,yesterday as you slept inside,He went marching o motherwith 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 spiritOur women have lost their smile,Our children have lost their laughter,The valley has lost its shine,Weep softly O motherFor, we still have our pride.17/07/2016

You are truly home only when you find your tribe

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?

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.

You havent seen for yourself, what I saw in your eyes.