Go to Old Delhi, behind the Jama Masjid, and look at the way they keep chickens there in the market. Hundreds of pale hens and brightly colored roosters, stuffed tightly into wire mesh cages, packed as tightly as worms in a belly, pecking each other and shitting on each other, jostling just for breathing space; the whole cage giving off a horrible stench—the stench of terrified, feathered flesh. On the wooden desk above this coop sits a grinning young butcher, showing off the flesh and organs of recently chopped-up chicken, still oleaginous with a coating of dark blood. The roosters in the coop smell the blood from above. They see the organs of their brothers lying around them. They know they’re next. Yet they do not rebel. They do not try to get out of the coop.<p>The very same thing is done with human beings in this country.

Curses are like chickens, they always come home to roost.

I have great admiration for market women. The incredible thing that we don't know is that they are holding up a large sector of the economy of this country. These women that sell tomatoes, pepper, onions; that is how they raise their children. That is how they train their children up to university level. That is how they hold their families together.

I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.

Curses are like young chickens, they always come home to roost.

I went about the market confused by many voices that could have been Mum's, many faces that could have been hers, and I saw that her tiredness and sacrifice were not hers alone but were suffered by all women, all women of the marketplace.

They called her 'the chicken', for she had in truth the soft flesh and country freshness of a chicken.

We've made hyper motherhood a measure of female success.

I want to be strapped to a table, while a family of chickens argues over who gets to eat my legs.

Women who work in markets can become MPs, as many of them are educated, just like I am.

Always has woman crouched close to earth like a partridge hen mothering her young; always has my wantonness of roving led me out on the shining ways; and always have my star paths returned me to her, the figure everlasting, the woman, the one woman, for whose arms I had such need that clasped in them I have forgotten the stars.

For her I accomplished Odysseys scaled mountains crossed deserts; for her I led the hunt and was forward in battle; and for her end' to her I sang my songs of the things I had done. All ecstasies of life and rhapsodies of delight have been mine because of her. And here, at the end, I can say that I have known no sweeter, deeper madness of being than to drown in the fragrant glory and forgetfulness of her hair.

You are born to one mother, but if you are lucky, you will have more than one. And among them all you will find most of what you need.

I can be twenty women, one hundred, if that's what you want, all women. Ride with me behind you, I weigh nothing, your horse will not feel me. I want to be your whorehouse!

When you reduce a woman to writing, she makes you think of a thousand other women