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b573610 After Hatuey, a fifteenth-century Indian insurrectionist, had been fixed to the stake, his Spanish captors extended him the choice of converting to Christianity and ascending to Heaven of going unrepentantly to Hell. Gathering that his executioners expected to go to heaven, Hatuey chose the other heaven expected hatuey indian hell Kathy Acker
9b5b359 [Chief White Halfoat:] Racial prejudice is a terrible thing, Yossarian. It really is. It's a terrible thing to treat a decent, loyal Indian like a nigger, kike, wop, or spic. racism indian Joseph Heller
fd282cf "The Indian danced on alone. The crowd clapped up the beat. The Indian danced with a chair. The crowd went crazy. The band faded. The crowd cheered. The Indian held up his hands for silence as if to make a speech. Looking at the band and then the crowd, the Indian said, "Well, what're you waiting for? Let's DANCE." -- indian dancing waiting Robert Fulghum
b2d8c0d They say every dog has its day, Ganapathi, but for this terrier twilight came before tea-time. humor mahabharata indian Shashi Tharoor
1ddc560 I don't put much stock in remembering things. Being able to forget is a superior skill. fiction indian-american divakaruni immigrant-fiction indian mothers-and-daughters houston novel Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
f887b8f Bent double, groaning with the weight, an old lame Indian was carrying on his back, by means of a strap looped over his forehead, another poor Indian, yet older and more decrepit than himself. He carried the older man and his crutches, trembling in every limb under this weight of the past, he carried both their burdens. indian méxico Malcolm Lowry
444796a She lifts her eyes, and there is Death in the corner, but not like a king with his iron crown, as the epics claimed. Why, it is a giant brush loaded with white paint. It descends upon her with gentle suddenness, obliterating the shape of the world. india indian-american immigrant-fiction indian mothers-and-daughters novel Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
acf02dc "Would you like to come in?" I said. My hands were sweaty. Inside my chest an ocean heaved and crashed and heaved again. "I would," he said. I saw his Adam's apple jerk as he swallowed. "Thank you." I was distracted by that thank you. We had moved past the language of formality long ago. It was strange to relearn it with each other." fiction divakaruni immigrant-experience immigrant-fiction indian-authors love-mothers-and-daughters indian women-s-fiction mothers-and-daughters novel Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni