• You can buy ‘They Go to Sleep’ at: https://www.amazon.in/They-Go-Sleep-Saugata-Chakraborty/dp/168466361X

    Before that, you may like to see what the leading book bloggers of India have to say about the book. This post will highlight such independent blogs with brutal honesty.

    1. The following excerpt is from the bookworld.in review by Ritu Maheshwari. Please don’t go by her Amazon reviewer rank (679) alone. A look at her profile will tell you that she does not mince her words even for books by celebrities. Read the complete review that talks in length about pros and cons of the book at: https://bookworld.in/they-go-to-sleep-saugata-chakraborty-short-stories/

    “The stories are not theme based hence each one is unique and
    independent in itself. In this way the author manages to avoid
    monotonous voice in the collection.

    Endings are unpredictable. So you have to read till the end when you
    start one. The climax of The Short Lives of Shazia Sultana was completely out of the box. It took me by surprise.

    The stories are not an easy breezy read. It is a short book of only
    100 pages or so, but it took me five days to complete it. The stories
    are not soul searching or heavy read that you have to take breaks
    every now and then. Somehow the writing style of the author, too many characters, sub stories, multiple plots made it difficult to read the
    book in a flow. You have to keep going back as you have lot the track.”

    2. From the haloofbooks.com review by Sheetal Maurya (Amazon reviewer rank #1483), her perception about the book is reproduced below. If you wish to have a synopsis of the book, please read the full review at https://www.haloofbooks.com/they-go-to-sleep-by-saugata-chakraborty-book-review/

    “This book runs to 100 pages but this is not a vague read and the readers have to fully concentrate on the story. Each story belongs to a different genre and they give different essence. All the stories are wonderful but it is meant for the serious readers which is a kind of drawback to the book. I just loved the last story of the book ‘What’s in the name?’ and the paranormal story of ‘it was time’. ‘The man of letters’, ‘Aperture’, ‘The short life of Shazia Sultana’ are also an engaging read. The story formation needed to be simple as it would have increased the joy of reading.

    In the nutshell, this book is a bit complicated to read, but surely worth to read as the readers find 12 different genre and clever stories in one platter.”

    3. Tarundeep Singh, author of three highly acclaimed books, has noted:

    ” When I started reading the book I was impressed by author’s prowess of conveying the message. I think author’s writing style is tailor-made for thriller stories. He keeps his readers guessing and twists in stories are good. If you miss one line, you may miss the twist so you have to remain focused. “

    Read the full review at: http://tdsbooks.com/40-book-review-9-they-go-to-sleep-by-saugata-chakraborty/

    4. Rakhi Jayashankar, leading book blogger and Amazon Reviewer Rank #266 has termed ‘They Go to Sleep’ as a ‘Literary Delight’. She writes:
    “The style of narration is something that needs special mention. Author’s capability to play with words is impeccable.”

    Read her well measured review at: https://rakhijayashankar.blogspot.com/2019/03/they-go-to-sleep-by-saugata-chakraborty.html

    5. Ankita Singh (Anky’s Book Bubble), a teenage poet and book blogger from Aurangabad, Maharashtra, however, have found the ” writing to be too formal for a narrative fiction in some places, which made that particular story drag on.” As a result, some stories could not hold her interest for longer than a couple of minutes. Ankita’s Goodreads review of the book can be accessed at: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/43655707-they-go-to-sleep

    6. Alice Singh aka Sputnik, a medical student currently based in Meerut, on the other hand, found the book to be lovable. Her verdict: ” Overall, I would strongly recommend this book to all who want to read something different while rejuvenating the gears of your brain”.

    Link to the full review:
    https://sputnikstron.wordpress.com/2019/03/25/they-go-to-sleep/

    7. Dr. Aishwarya Rathor alias Dr. Snob from Raipur, Chhatisgarh opines that ” The author has written the plots Creatively and not a single story is boring.” Her blog hosts a brief review here:

    https://snob26.wordpress.com/2019/03/26/they-go-to-sleep-by-saugata-chakraborty/

    8. The other doctor, Dr. Ruchi Patel from Mumbai felt that the book isn’t filled with same concept of monotonous stories. Her glowing review for the book can be found at:

    They Go To Sleep by Saugata Chakraborthy Book Review

    9. Grishma Nivane (Amazon Reviewer Rank 238) from Nagpur wrote the most elaborate review so far. That is some effort. I am not trying to highlight a part of the review that requires a full reading. Here it is:

    My Review of the Book “THEY GO TO SLEEP” by Saugata Chakraborty

    10. Swapna Peri from Hyderabad finds the use of difficult vocabulary a put off. In her blog, she however, has recommended the book for abstract book lovers.

    https://betareadingbysappy.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/they-go-to-sleep/

    11. Ritika Chhabra, a student of English Literature, found the book to be a decent read which she had thoroughly enjoyed. By a “nice” read she meant that none of the stories was uninteresting in any sense. One can read her full review at:

    https://justagirlhighonbooks.wordpress.com/2019/03/28/they-go-to-sleep-by-saugata-chakraborty-a-book-review/

    12. Diti Shah, a foodie, traveler, and a bibliophile from Ahmedabad, has felt that each of the stories in the book has the ability to be a own standalone story or quite a long story that will take a few hours to finish and compiling those in a few pages is a task superbly done. She is quite effusive in praising the book in her blog post. Here is the link:


    https://foodntraveljournal.wordpress.com/2019/03/29/they-go-to-sleep-by-saugata-chakraborty/

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    (āχāĻ¸ā§āϟāĻŦ⧇āĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ āĻ•ā§āϞāĻžāĻŦ⧇āϰ āĻĒāĻ•ā§āώ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ ⧍ā§Ļā§§ā§ŽāϤ⧇ āωāĻ¤ā§āϤāĻŽ āϚāĻ•ā§āϰāĻŦāĻ°ā§āϤ⧀āϰ āĻšāĻžāϤ⧇ āϤ⧁āϞ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ āĻ•ā§ƒāϤāĻŋ āϏāĻŽā§āĻŽāĻžāύāĨ¤ āĻŽāϝāĻŧāĻĻāĻžāύ⧇ āĻŽā§‹āĻšāύāĻŦāĻžāĻ—āĻžāύ āĻŦāĻž āχāĻ¸ā§āϟāĻŦ⧇āĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ āĻŽāĻžāϠ⧇ āĻ“āρāϰ āĻšāĻžāϤ āϧāϰ⧇āχ āϗ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāĨ¤ āϏ⧇āχ āĻĒāĻžāϞāĻž āϏāĻžāĻ™ā§āĻ— āĻšāϞ⧋ āφāϜāĨ¤)

  • ‘They Go to Sleep’ is my debut collection of short stories. The title of this post has been suitably modified to include contrarian views to the popular perception about the book.

    They Go To Sleep by Mr.Saugata Chakraborty consists of multiple short stories, each very DISTINCTIVE and ATTRACTIVE. The stories have great twist and turns which keeps the reader engaged in the book. This book should not be read in a hurry. The 12 short stories are very UNIQUE in themselves, with each part opening up a new door of thinking.

    The writer has maintained a flow in the reading, with twists and thrills happening; some readers may need to occasionally take use of a dictionary to correctly understand the meaning of some words used.

    Overall, for the price of the book, I think this books is WORTH IT, and will be a great collection in your book reads. Thank you for reading my review, if you have any questions, please mention them below in the ‘Comments Section’ and I will surely answer them.”

    — Shikhar Panwar (Amazon.in Reviewer Ranked 35)

    “This is a book of multiple short stories. If you do not like short stories and like to go for a lengthy novel type read, this book is not for you.

    The main highlight of the book is its diversity and ‘sting in the tail’. One story is totally different from another but has a single linkage – they all have quite unexpected twists which might have been totally overlooked by all.

    It is “not” a casual read as you cannot enjoy and feel the twist being in that attitude. In addition to that, the whole book is written in simple, easy-to-follow pattern, except for the twists.

    Overall, it is quite a good one and not a book to be hurried upon.”

    — Shahrukh Ahmed (Amazon.in Reviewer Ranked 80)

    ” There are some books that you can breeze through with half a mind, whereas there are some that need your complete attention. “They Go to Sleep” not only belongs to the latter category, it also requires the reader to absorb each detail of the narrative before moving on to the next scene. Even if you miss a tiny item, you are bound to lose the thread of the story.

    Saugata Chakraborty unleashes tale upon tale with a tightly-woven narrative which often takes such hairpin bends that the reader has to turn back a few pages just to get a grip on it. I found myself re-reading portions of several stories because I was baffled by the rapid turn of events.

    Perhaps the most complex of all the short stories is “The Man Who Sold His Gods,” which spans locations as far flung as Chennai, Washington D.C., and Singapore. “Six Days, Seven Lives” is almost a shortened version of a novella as it laces together characters from Gujarat, Ernakulam, Paris, Mumbai, West Bengal, and New Delhi. When the denouement arrives, you cannot help but feel overwhelmed when you realize the lost potential of the artists. “P for Payback” is equally intricate and I admit I took quite a bit of time to understand what was going on.

    “It was Time” is the shortest story, barely two pages long but it packs a mighty punch. I kept turning the page wondering if there could be more—I felt a sudden sense of loss at the end. The stories aren’t all meant to thrill. There are some light, heart-warming ones, too, like “A Man of Letters” and “What’s in a Name?” A topical tale with a heart-rending end is “The Short Lives of Shazia Sultana,” which deals with the issue of fake profiles on social media and the boredom of middle-aged housewives. I found the depiction of death in “Blowing in the Wind” quite disturbing and it was the only time when I felt that I needed to put down the book and recover a bit.

    My least favorite stories were “The Other Side,” which I felt had unnecessary sub-plots and a predictable finale and “Aperture,” which I simply did not enjoy.

    Chakraborty does not let up the pace at any point in the book. You feel unsatisfied when one story comes to an end and you want to pick up the next one quickly. I even read through the glossary at the end although I didn’t need to since most of the foreign words were familiar. I just wanted the roller-coaster ride to continue for a bit longer.

    “They Go to Sleep” demands that you engage all your senses and immerse yourself in the myriad plots, characters, and cultures. It’s also a book that begs to be re-read, if only to experience the thrill, the joy, and the pain all over again. “

    — Satabdi Mukherjee, Blogger and Amazon.in Reviewer Ranked 186, Bengaluru

    ” The stories are not theme based hence each one is unique and
    independent in itself. In this way the author manages to avoid
    monotonous voice in the collection.

    Endings are unpredictable. So you have to read till the end when you
    start one. The climax of The Short Lives of Shazia Sultana was completely out of the box. It took me by surprise.

    The stories are not an easy breezy read. It is a short book of only
    100 pages or so, but it took me five days to complete it. The stories
    are not soul searching or heavy read that you have to take breaks
    every now and then. Somehow the writing style of the author, too many characters, sub stories, multiple plots made it difficult to read the
    book in a flow. You have to keep going back as you have lot the track.

    You have to read it like drinking wine, slowly and attentively. Even
    then I think you have to reread it, especially the ones which have
    huge ensemble of characters and constant change in location. And if
    you manage to do so then all the stories are amazing.”

    — From the Bookworld review by Ritu Maheshwari. Please don’t go by her Amazon reviewer rank (679) alone. A look at her profile will tell you that she does not mince her words even for books by celebrities. Read the complete review that talks in length about pros and cons with the book at https://bookworld.in/they-go-to-sleep-saugata-chakraborty-short-stories/

    ” A book of 12 short stories, each of them unique in their styling and story, with a common thread of unexpected outcomes at the end. I found the stories really refreshing from the regular run of the mill thrillers that we come across these days. My personal favorite being “They Go to Sleep” because of the storyline as well as the historical link which made me reach out to Google uncle. “A Man of Letters” is another one that I liked, for its unusual human touch coming from a robot! Similarly I lked many other stories for various reasons, and this space is not enough to mention them all. In short, this is one unputdownable book that you’ll definitely like, and has become a prized possession for me…”

    — Debarati Ganguly, IT Professional, Bengaluru

    “The most notable feature of this book is the writing pattern followed by Saugata here that has made it an attractive read. None of the stories are told in a straight line. Hence, the reader has to go back and forth in order to connect the dots thus engaging him in the storyline.

    Some of the reviewers have termed the book as a thriller. I am not in agreement with such an observation. The author, whom Saugata has paid a tribute to by keeping a dozen of stories in the book, Satyajit Ray also used to keep stories belonging to different genres in his ‘Ek Dozen’ series.

    There are not only the drug mafia, murderers and idol offenders prowling all over the world in the ‘They Go to Sleep’ and ‘The Man who Sold his Gods’ or the political thriller ‘P for Payback’ and the mysteries ‘Blowing in the Wind’ and ‘The Short Lives of Shazia Sultana’ but also stories with the hint of a beginning of an affair such as ‘What’s in a Name’ or one with the spine-chilling climax in ‘It was Time’. A science-fiction in ‘A Man of Letters’, the heart-rending ‘The Other Side’ or a turbulent Kashmir as seen through the lens of a photojournalist in ‘Aperture’ provides altogether different perspectives of human emotions while the poised storytelling of ‘Rare’ and ‘Six Days, Seven Lives’ has an appeal of a different kind.

    The book, it appears, has sold like hot cakes on its debut. Those who have not read it so far are highly recommended to pick up this slender paperback with a brilliant cover to match its contents and get familiar with Juanita, Ananth Ramanujan, Chayanika, Promod Moitra aka Pramod Mhatre, Khusnuma, Sazia Sultana and of course, the Kolkata Police Detective Sutanu Deb!”

    — Priyankar Chakrabarty, Police Officer, Kolkata

    ” THEY GO TO SLEEP is a collection of 12 electrifying short stories which will keep your brain running and your heart pumping. It is said that “The Brain is wider than the Sky” and this book will test your limits of imagination. With its thrilling and unpredictable endings, each story takes you to another level. It is like stepping into a room full of mysteries and with every page passing by, you go deeper and deeper into the puzzle. Once you reach page 97, the end, you are already part of the puzzle. The book blurb quotes, “They Go To Sleep will surely compel the readers to keep their midnight lamps burning” but I believe it has the power of keeping you awake even if you close the lamps. Overall, They Go To Sleep is a must read for everyone who loves unexpected thrilling twists and turns.”

    — Shafaque Iqbal, Blogger and owner, Salismania.com, New Delhi

    ” I bought this product from Notion press and got it in four days.
    I appreciate the writing and the twists and turns as well as the deep insight into the topics of the author.
    If you have started reading once, you can’t keep it until you have read all the stories.
    A healthy and a nerve chilling thriller, keeps you in the curiosity and you are always wanting more from it.
    Thanks to Saugata for such an excellent book.
    Definitely waiting for the next one.👍”

    — Abhishek Naithani, School Teacher, Rishikesh

    They Go to Sleep is a gripping debut thriller that will keep you hooked. Dealing with human psyche and their instincts, the protagonists will appear familiar yet enigmatic.Stories are kept short and each one with a twist in the end, will leave you longing for more.
    The fluidity of the language used in writing helps thoroughly in the flow. The detailing in each story deserves special mention.
    However, what intrigued me most, is that the writer claimed to have lifted most of the characters and incidences from his real life situations with a pinch of creative liberty. Waiting for more such stuff from him in future.

    — Ruplekha Mitra, Doctor, Kolkata

    ” Very beautiful writing style, kept me awake flipping pages through out the night. Looking forward to more from the author. “

    — Bodhisatta, Lawyer, Kolkata

    ” This book has 12 short stories which is written in a very crisp manner. Those who don’t like long narrative will enjoy this book to the utmost.”

    –Sangeeth Moses, Chennai

    ” Wonderful. Page turner. You will feel yourselves smiling at the end of the story – with the unexpected twists. U will take many moments in between to stop and guess the ending and I think that was intended. But u fail to and continue reading along to find out. Good choice of words and channeling the story from different perspectives. Looking forward to the next book (from the author). “

    — Ganesh Kumar R, Central Banker, Mumbai

    “One dozen stories, each totally different from the other, shows the superb story telling skills of the writer. Just when I felt that I had gotten a hang of the plot and could predict the end, the story would take an unpredictable twist, leaving me confounded. One then feels the impulse to read and re-read each story to understand what is written between the lines and what is left to the interpretation of the reader. The stories are definitely not meant for light reading and they force one to exercise one’s grey cells. Each plot, with its gripping twists and turns, stays with you for a long time. Waiting for the next book by Mr.Chakraborty.”

    — Shweta S, Central Banker, Mumbai

    (sic) “Out of 12 , 5 of them are there i loved and enjoy throughlly those are:
    six day seven lifes, the man who sold his gods, it was time,short life of Shazia sultana, what in a name…. They were good as all of them talk about different aspects of life,
    Each story has its life, true but these 5 have something special, how lifes of people changes in 6 days events after committee of summer Olympics Mexico want to honour so painting, another is of a guy who sold artificial of god or say smuggle them in the world, story of a dead man was in , it was time, life of ladies in society whose husband’s are disloyal to them , is Shazia Sultana story who find happiness in online sites without any strings attached, and what’s in a name is a story on co-incidence

    â–ļcover looks awesome
    â–ļ Some stories are good
    â–ļplots of some are to read carefully
    â–ļ mysterious nature of book provoke you to read it fast.
    â–ļ All are from 3 person perspective. “

    — Poonam Bindra, Ludhiana

    “This book came in a good condition where I was really bemused with the cover it has a certain kind of sadness and a certain amount of feeling happy in the solitude. The black and white picture really brings in all the feels for extremes of emotions. The book is a collection of amazing stories which had different themes and the moral of every story was cryptic. This book will only be understood well if you read it properly because of the way it has been written. I really liked the way narration has been done. I somewhere felt every story said something about cities and it’s people. Easy words have been used to make it more reachable to everyone.

    The majority essence of the book is in the way it has been written in a mysterious way.”

    — Deepali Gupta (Amazon Reviewer Rank#653), Mumbai

    ” They Go to Sleep by Saugata Chakraborty is a collection of short stories with suspense and thriller intake. Each story has their own uniqueness. The author’s writing style is good yet at certain places the language was difficult to adhere.
    Writing a short story involving suspense and maintaining the visibility of all the characters throughout is a difficult task yet the author written it so beautifully and made us involve completely into it.
    Stories I liked the most are, “It was time” and “What’s in a name? were really good. The author could have given a shot of expanding the 12 stories in a brief manner and publish them as a separate book filling more suspense and thrilling effect, a suggestion that crept my mind.
    The title of each story is mind-blowing and apt matching their plot’s exactly. To write a suspense thriller, creativity is required and putting all those knots and removing the same without dissolving the essence of the story must have great effort and efficiency, and the author mastered the same in a magnificent way.
    Overall the book was good, and I would recommend it to all readers who love short stories mixed with suspense and thriller effect.”

    — Priya Arun, Chennai

    ” I was intrigued by the title and thought it would be an amazing read but I was disappointed. It is a collection of few stories. I could just connect to 3-4 stories and rest just didn’t connect.
    I didn’t see theme on which all the stories were based. Every story was way different from each other that’s OK but connection was missing. The ones which I liked where – It was time, what’s in a name, the short lives of Shazia Sultana. I was not very impressed by how the stories where penned down few of them were hard for me to understand. Just didn’t met my expectation.”

    Hema Talreja, Mumbai

    The mandatory marketing pitch. You can buy the book at: https://www.amazon.in/They-Go-Sleep-Saugata-Chakraborty/dp/168466361X

  • “You spoke Russian”, Richard Strickland said to the wounded Dr. Hoffstetler aka Dimitri before pulling him by his shirt collar in a successful bid to derive information from the dying man. In the Academy Award-winning ‘The Shape of Water’ (USA, 2017), that one dialogue would have sufficed to express the hatred and suspicion that played in the mind of an American soldier for his Russian counterpart during the Cold War.

    ‘Timur and his Squad’ (‘Timur o tar Dolbol’ in Bengali), a semi-biographical novella by Arkadi Gaider was set against the backdrop of World War I. Written for the young adults, the book was not a part of the school curriculum in the Communist West Bengal where I grew up but a lucid translation in the Raduga Publishers, Moscow paperback had nonetheless become a household name. Given that the book was written in 1940 about an alien culture, its popularity among schoolgoing children of the state was little surprising. The storyline revolved around Timur, in his early teens, who transformed his friends into a squad that would help the elders and minors alike while fighting a group of village bullies using their intelligence. As a means of emergency communication among the squad members, Timur had developed an indigenous telephone network where matchboxes were converted into receivers connected by hollow wires. I am sure, some of us or maybe most had employed the same trick in our childhood with varying degrees of success.

    On an idle Sunday afternoon in 2016, I was watching the Adam Sandler starrer ‘Grown Ups’ (USA, 2010), a reunion movie, where the main protagonists had attended their college at the time of the Cold War. Yet, in a bid to establish a connection among their children, these grown-ups decided to employ the same trick with matchboxes and straws, and voila, it did work! I was instantly transported to that part of my growing up years when unknowingly a village urchin from Russia had become a superhero in my eyes.

    At that moment, I realised that childhood is a great leveller.

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    āĻŦāĻŋāĻļāĻžāϞ āĻ­āϰāĻĻā§āĻŦāĻžāĻœā§‡āϰ ‘āĻĒāϟāĻžāĻ–āĻž’ āĻ›āĻŦāĻŋāϟāĻŋāϰ āĻāχ āĻĻ⧃āĻļā§āϝ āϖ⧁āĻŦ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻ•āĻˇā§āϟāĻ•āĻ˛ā§āĻĒāĻŋāϤ āύāϝāĻŧ āĻ­āĻžāϰāϤ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧇āĨ¤ āωāĻ¤ā§āϤāϰ-āĻĒā§‚āĻ°ā§āĻŦāĨ¤ āĻāĻ•āĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϝ⧇āĻŽāύ āϏ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āφāϛ⧇ āĻŽā§‡āϘāĻžāϞāϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻžāϤ⧃āϤāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰāĻŋāĻ• āϏāĻŽāĻžāϜ, āϤ⧇āĻŽāύāĻŋ āφāϛ⧇ āĻ…āϰ⧁āĻŖāĻžāϚāϞ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĻ⧇āĻļ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āϜāύāϜāĻžāϤāĻŋ, āϝāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻŋāύāĻŋāĻŽāϝāĻŧāĻŽā§‚āĻ˛ā§āϝ āύāĻŋāĻ°ā§āϧāĻžāϰāĻŋāϤ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϝāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϖ⧁āĻŦ āϛ⧋āϟ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āϤ⧇āχāĨ¤ āĻŦāĻžāĻĒ⧇āϰ āĻĻ⧇āĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āĻ•āĻĨāĻžāϰ āϖ⧇āϞāĻžāĻĒ āĻ•āϰāĻž āϏāĻŽā§āĻ­āĻŦ āύāϝāĻŧ āϕ⧋āύ⧋āĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇āχ, āϤāĻžāχ āύāĻžāϰ⧀āĻ¤ā§āĻŦ⧇āϰ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇ āϤāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŽā§‡āύ⧇ āύāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋāϰāĻ­āĻžāĻ— āĻ•ā§āώ⧇āĻ¤ā§āϰ⧇āχ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āĻŦ⧃āĻĻā§āϧ⧇āϰ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāĻŦāĻžāĻš āĻ“ āϏāĻšāĻŦāĻžāϏāĨ¤ āĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŖ āϏ⧇āχ āĻŦ⧃āĻĻā§āϧ āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώāϟāĻŋāχ āϤ⧋ āϏāĻŦāĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋ āĻ…āĻ°ā§āĻĨāĻŽā§‚āĻ˛ā§āϝ āĻĻ⧇āĻŦ⧇āύ āĻĒāĻŋāϤāĻžāϕ⧇ āϤāĻžāρāϰ āĻ•āĻ¨ā§āϝāĻžāϏāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻžāύāϟāĻŋāϕ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāĻŦāĻžāĻšāϝ⧋āĻ—ā§āϝāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϤ⧋āϞāĻžāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ⧇āĨ¤ āĻ…āύ⧇āĻ•āϟāĻžāχ ‘āĻĒāϟāĻžāĻ–āĻž’āϰ āĻĒā§āϝāĻžāĻŸā§‡āϞ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋, āϝ⧇ āĻāĻ• āĻĻ⧁āχ āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻžāĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϚāĻžāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āĻŦāύāĻĻāĻĢāϤāϰ⧇āϰ āφāϧāĻŋāĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŋāϕ⧇āϰ āϘ⧁āώ⧇āϰ āϟāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻŦāĻŋāύāĻž āĻĒā§āϰāĻļā§āύ⧇ āϤ⧁āϞ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āϝāĻŧ. āϝ⧇āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ•āϰāĻžāϰ āĻ…āĻ—ā§āϰāĻŋāĻŽ āϝ⧌āϤ⧁āĻ• āĻšāĻŋāϏ⧇āĻŦ⧇āĨ¤

    āĻ…āϰ⧁āĻŖāĻžāϚāϞ⧇āϰ āĻāĻŽāύāχ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻœā§‡āϞāĻžāĻļāĻšāϰ āϕ⧋āϞ⧋āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāĻ‚āĨ¤ āύāĻžāĻŽā§‡āχ āĻœā§‡āϞāĻžāĻļāĻšāϰ, āĻ­āĻžāϰāϤāĻŦāĻ°ā§āώ⧇āϰāχ āĻ…āύ⧇āĻ• āĻŦāĻ°ā§āϧāĻŋāĻˇā§āϪ⧁ āĻ—ā§āϰāĻžāĻŽā§‡āϰ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇āχ āĻĻāϰāĻŋāĻĻā§āϰ āϏ⧇āĨ¤ āχāϟāĻžāύāĻ—āϰ āĻŦāĻž āϜāĻŋāϰ⧋ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ—āĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϤ⧇ ‘āĻŽāĻžāĻ¤ā§āϰ’ āĻŦāĻžāϰ⧋ āϘāĻ¨ā§āϟāĻžāϰ āĻĒāĻĨāĨ¤ āϏ⧇āχ āϕ⧋āϞ⧋āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāĻ‚-āĻāϰ āχāϝāĻŧāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ (āύāĻžāĻŽ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāĻŦāĻ°ā§āϤāĻŋāϤ) āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽ āĻšāϞ⧋ BRO-āĻāϰ āϜāύ⧈āĻ• āϜāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāύ⧇āϰ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇āĨ¤ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϟāĻŋ āĻŦāĻŋāĻšāĻžāϰ⧇āϰāĨ¤ āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽāĻŋāĻ•āĻžāϰ āĻĒāĻžāϞāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϝāĻžāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻžāĻŦ⧇ āϰāĻžāϜāĻŋ āĻšāϝāĻŧāύāĻž āϏ⧇āĨ¤ ‘āĻĻāĻŋāϞāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāϞ⧇ āĻĻ⧁āϞāĻšāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻž āϞ⧇ āϜāĻžāϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ™ā§āϗ⧇’ āĻĻ⧇āϖ⧇ āĻĢ⧇āϞ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧋ āϝ⧇āĨ¤ āχāϝāĻŧāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āĻŦāĻžāĻĒ⧇āϰ āϏāĻžāĻŽāύ⧇ āĻ—āĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ⧇ āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻšāĻžāϤ āϚāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϜāĻ—āύāĨ¤

    āĻŦāĻžāĻĒ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇ āĻ–āĻŦāϰ āĻ›āĻŋāϞ āφāϗ⧇āϰ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇āχāĨ¤ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻļāĻšāϰ⧇āϰ āϏāĻŦāĻšā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻŦāĻĄāĻŧāϞ⧋āĻ•, āĻŦ⧁āĻĄāĻŧā§‹ āϤāĻžāϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāĻ• āχāϝāĻŧāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāϕ⧇ āϤāĻžāρāϰ āĻ¸ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰ⧀ āĻšāĻŋāϏ⧇āĻŦ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ⧇ āĻ…āĻ—ā§āϰāĻŋāĻŽ āĻĻāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϗ⧇āϛ⧇ āϝāĻ–āύ āχāϝāĻŧāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āĻŽāĻžāĻ¤ā§āϰ āĻĒāĻžāρāϚ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ āĻŦāϝāĻŧāϏ, āĻāĻ–āύ āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻŦāĻĄāĻŧ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻŦāĻžāχāϰ⧇āϰ āϕ⧋āύ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϕ⧇ āϤ⧁āϞ⧇ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āφāϏāϞ⧇āχ āĻšāϞ⧋! āϤāĻž āϏ⧇ āĻšā§‹āĻ• āύāĻž āϏāϰāĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŋ āϚāĻžāĻ•āϰāĻŋāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāϞāĻž āĻāĻ• āϟāĻ—āĻŦāϗ⧇ āϝ⧁āĻŦāĻ•, āϝ⧇ āĻ•āĻŋāύāĻž āĻĒāĻžāĻšāĻžāĻĄāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ­ā§‹āĻ— āύāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇āĻ“ āĻŦāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϝ⧇āϤ⧇ āϚāĻžāϝāĻŧ! āφāϜāĻŦ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāϕ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇ āĻ–āĻŦāϰāϟāĻž āĻĒ⧌āρāĻ›āύ⧋āϰ āφāϗ⧇āχ āĻāϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻšā§‡āĻ¸ā§āϤāύ⧇āĻ¸ā§āϤ āĻ•āϰāϤ⧇ āĻšāϤ⧋ āĻŦāĻžāĻĒāϕ⧇āĨ¤ āϜāĻ—āύāϕ⧇ āĻŦāϏāϤ⧇ āĻŦāϞ⧇ āϭ⧇āϤāϰ⧇ āϝāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϏ⧇āĨ¤ āĻĒ⧇āĻ›āύ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϟāĻžāĻ™ā§āĻ—āĻŋāϰ āĻāĻ• āϕ⧋āĻĒ⧇ āϝ⧇ āϤāĻžāρāϰ āĻŽāĻžāĻĨāĻž āϧāĻĄāĻŧ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āφāϞāĻžāĻĻāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻŦ⧇ āχāϝāĻŧāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āĻŦāĻžāĻĒ, āϏ⧇ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āϜāĻ—āύ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻžāĻĨāĻžāϝāĻŧ āφāϏ⧇āύāĻŋāĨ¤

    āĻ•āϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ•āĻĻāĻŋāύ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇āχ āχāϝāĻŧāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āύāĻžāĻŽ āϝ⧋āĻ— āĻšāϝāĻŧ āϤāĻžāϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāϕ⧇āϰ āĻ¸ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰ⧀āĻĻ⧇āϰ āϤāĻžāϞāĻŋāĻ•āĻžāϝāĻŧ, āĻĒāύ⧇āϰ⧋ āύāĻŽā§āĻŦāϰ⧇āĨ¤

    āĻĻā§āĻŦāĻŋāϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻŋ

    āφāĻŦāĻžāϰ āϟāϏ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻŋ āĻ•āϝāĻŧ⧇āύ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻĒāĻŋāĻ āĨ¤

    “āĻāĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻŽā§‡āϘ āĻ—āĻžāĻ­ā§€āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āϚāϰ⧇”, āϤāĻ–āύāĻ“ āĻŦā§‹āϧāĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻŦā§āϝāĻžāĻ™ā§āϕ⧇āϰ āĻļāĻŋāϞāĻ™ āφāĻĒāĻŋāϏ āĻ–ā§‹āϞ⧇āύāĻŋāĨ¤ āĻāĻ• āĻ–āĻžāϏāĻŋ āϝ⧁āĻŦāĻ•, āύāĻžāĻŽ āϧāϰāĻž āϝāĻžāĻ• āĻĢāĻŋāϰāύāĻžāχ, āĻ¸ā§āĻŸā§‡āĻļāύ āϰ⧋āĻĄ āϗ⧁āϝāĻŧāĻžāĻšāĻžāϟāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻ…āĻŦāĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻŋāϤ āĻ­āĻžāϰāϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āϰāĻŋāϜāĻžāĻ°ā§āĻ­ āĻŦā§āϝāĻžāĻ™ā§āϕ⧇āϰ āϏāĻžāϤ āϤāĻžāϰāĻž āĻ•āĻžāĻ°ā§āĻ¯ā§āϝāĻžāϞāϝāĻŧ⧇ (āϏ⧇āϭ⧇āύ āϏāĻŋāĻ¸ā§āϟāĻžāĻ°ā§āϏ-āĻāϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻ¤ā§āϝ⧇āĻ•āϟāĻŋāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϤāĻžāϰāĻž) āĻ•āĻžāĻœā§‡ āϞ⧇āϗ⧇ āĻĒāĻĄāĻŧ⧇āĨ¤ āύāĻž, āϤāĻžāχ āĻŦāϞ⧇ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāĻŦ⧇āύ āύāĻž āϝ⧇ āĻĢāĻŋāϰāύāĻžāχ āϏ⧇āχ āĻ…āϏāĻ‚āĻ—āĻ āĻŋāϤ āĻ•ā§āώ⧇āĻ¤ā§āϰ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻ—āĻŖāĻŋāϤ āĻļā§āϰāĻŽāĻŋāĻ•āĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āϕ⧇āω, āϝāĻžāϰ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻ•āĻžāϜ āĻĒāĻžāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āύāĻŋāĻļā§āϚāϝāĻŧāϤāĻž āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤ āĻĻāĻŋāĻ˛ā§āϞāĻŋ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦāĻŦāĻŋāĻĻā§āϝāĻžāϞāϝāĻŧ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ¸ā§āύāĻžāϤāϕ⧋āĻ¤ā§āϤāϰ āĻĒāϰ⧀āĻ•ā§āώāĻžāϝāĻŧ āωāĻ¤ā§āϤ⧀āĻ°ā§āĻŖ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāϝ⧋āĻ—āĻŋāϤāĻžāĻŽā§‚āϞāĻ• āĻĒāϰ⧀āĻ•ā§āώāĻžāϰ āĻŽāĻžāĻ§ā§āϝāĻŽā§‡ āϏ⧇ āĻŦā§āϝāĻžāĻ™ā§āϕ⧇ āĻŽā§āϝāĻžāύ⧇āϜāĻžāϰ āĻĒāĻĻ⧇ āύāĻŋāϝ⧁āĻ•ā§āϤ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇āϛ⧇āĨ¤ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āĻĒā§‹āĻ¸ā§āϟāĻŋāĻ‚ āĻ—ā§ŒāĻšāĻžāϟāĻŋāĨ¤ āĻŦāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇āχ, āϏāĻĒā§āϤāĻžāĻšāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧇ āϏ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋ āϜāĻŽāĻžāύ⧋ āĻŽā§‹āĻŸā§‡āχ āĻ•āĻ āĻŋāύ āύāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āϏāĻ¤ā§āĻŦ⧇āĻ“ āĻ“āϰ āĻŽā§āϖ⧇ āĻšāĻžāϏāĻŋ āύ⧇āχāĨ¤ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļ⧇āώ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϏ⧋āĻŽāĻŦāĻžāϰāϗ⧁āϞ⧋āϤ⧇ āĻŽā§āĻ– āĻ•āĻžāϞ⧋ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻ…āĻĢāĻŋāϏ⧇ āĻĸā§‹āϕ⧇āĨ¤ “Monday morning blues” āĻŦāϞ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽāĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āωāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āϗ⧇āϞ⧇āĻ“ āϝāĻ–āύ āϏ⧋āĻŽ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻŽāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻŦ⧁āϧ⧇ āĻ›āĻĄāĻŧāĻžāϤ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ“āϰ āĻŽāύāĻ–āĻžāϰāĻžāĻĒ, āϏ⧇āϟāĻžāϕ⧇ āφāϰ āĻ…āĻŦāĻšā§‡āϞāĻž āĻ•āϰāĻž āϚāϞ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤

    “āϕ⧀ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇āϛ⧇, āĻ¸ā§āϝāĻžāϰ āĻāĻ•āϟ⧁ āĻŦāϞāĻŦ⧇āύ?” āĻĒāĻžā§āϚāĻžāĻļā§‹āĻ°ā§āϧ āϜāύ⧈āĻ• āϏāĻšāĻžāϝāĻŧāĻ• āĻāĻ•āĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻĒā§āϰāĻļā§āύ āĻ•āϰ⧇āχ āĻŦāϏ⧇āύāĨ¤ 
    “āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻ āϚāĻžāĻ•āϰāĻŋ āφāϰ āĻ•āϰāĻŦā§‹ āύāĻžāĨ¤ “
    “āϏ⧇ āϕ⧀? āϕ⧇āύ? āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āϚāĻžāĻ•āϰāĻŋ āĻĒ⧇āϞ⧇āύ?”
    “āύāĻžāĨ¤ āĻ—ā§āϰāĻžāĻŽā§‡ āĻĢāĻŋāϰ⧇ āϝāĻžāĻŦā§‹āĨ¤”
    “āĻŦāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϤ⧇ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āϏāĻŽāĻ¸ā§āϝāĻž? āĻŦāĻžāĻŦāĻž āĻŽāĻž āĻ āĻŋāĻ• āφāϛ⧇āύ āϤ⧋?”
    “āϏāĻŦāĻžāχ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋ āφāϛ⧇, āφāĻŽāĻŋāĻ“ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻŦā§‹āĨ¤ āϚāĻžāĻ•āϰāĻŋ āĻ•āϰāĻž āϏāĻŽā§āĻ­āĻŦ āύāĻžāĨ¤”
    āϏ⧇āĻĻāĻŋāύ āφāϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŦāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻžāύāύāĻŋ āĻ­āĻĻā§āϰāϞ⧋āĻ•āĨ¤

    āĻĢāĻŋāϰāύāĻžāχāϕ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻŋ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻāĻ•āχ āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ⧇, āϤāϤāĻĻāĻŋāύ⧇ āĻļāĻŋāϞāĻ™ āĻ…āĻĢāĻŋāϏ āϖ⧁āϞ⧇ āϗ⧇āϛ⧇, āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āϕ⧇āĻ¨ā§āĻĻā§āϰ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻ•āĻžāĻ°ā§āϝāĻžāϞāϝāĻŧ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϗ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ āϜāĻžāϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻ¸ā§āϕ⧁āϞ āĻ•ā§āϝ⧁āχāϜ ‘RBIQ’-āĻāϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ⧇āĨ¤ āĻ—ā§ŒāĻšāĻžāϟāĻŋ āφāϰ āĻļāĻŋāϞāĻ™-āĻ āĻāĻ•āĻĻāĻŋāύ⧇āϰ āĻŦā§āϝāĻŦāϧāĻžāύ⧇ āϕ⧁āχāϜāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āφāϗ⧇āχ āϕ⧁āχāϜāĻŽāĻžāĻ¸ā§āϟāĻžāϰ āĻŦā§āϝāĻžāϰāĻŋ āĻ“’āĻŦā§āϰāĻžāϝāĻŧ⧇āύ āĻ“ Somnath Dasguptaāϰ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇ āϜāĻŽā§‡ āωāϠ⧇āϛ⧇ āφāϞāĻžāĻĒ, āχāĻŽā§āĻĢāϞ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āϕ⧁āχāĻœā§‡āϰ āϏ⧁āĻŦāĻžāĻĻ⧇āĨ¤ āĻŦāϰāĻ‚ āĻ—ā§ŒāĻšāĻžāϟāĻŋ āĻ…āĻĢāĻŋāϏ⧇āϰ āϜāύāĻžāĻĻāĻļ⧇āĻ• āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώ āĻ›āĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻž āφāϰ āĻ•āĻžāϰ⧋ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāϚāϝāĻŧ āĻšāϝāĻŧāύāĻŋāĨ¤ āĻāĻŦāĻžāϰ⧇ āϏ⧇āχ āϏ⧁āϝ⧋āĻ—āϟāĻž āĻĒāĻžāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āϗ⧇āϞ⧋āĨ¤ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ—āϤ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ āĻĻ⧁āϝāĻŧ⧇āϕ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āϚāĻžāĻ•āϰāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻĸā§‹āĻ•āĻž āĻ•āϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ•āϜāύ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āĻĢāĻŋāϰāύāĻžāχāϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻŋāώāĻŖā§āĻŖ āĻŽā§āĻ–āϟāĻžāĻ“ āĻšā§‹āϖ⧇ āĻĒāĻĄāĻŧ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰāĻĒāϰ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ¤ā§āϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ­āĻžāϗ⧇ āĻ•āĻžāϜ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻ•āϰāĻžāϰ āĻĒāϰ āϝ⧋āĻ—āĻžāϝ⧋āĻ— āĻ•ā§āώ⧀āĻŖ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āφāϏ⧇ āĻ•ā§āώ⧇āĻ¤ā§āϰ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻ…āĻĢāĻŋāϏāϗ⧁āϞ⧋āϰ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇āĨ¤

    ⧍ā§Ļā§§ā§ŦāϤ⧇ āωāĻ¤ā§āϤāϰ-āĻĒā§‚āĻ°ā§āĻŦ⧇ āĻŦāĻĻāϞāĻŋāĨ¤ āϏ⧇āχ āĻ—ā§ŒāĻšāĻžāϟāĻŋāϤ⧇āχ āϘāĻžāρāϟāĻŋ, āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āϚāϰāĻ•āĻŋāϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āϘ⧁āϰāϤ⧇ āĻšāĻšā§āϛ⧇ āϏāĻžāϤ āϰāĻžāĻœā§āϝ⧇āĨ¤ āĻļāĻŋāϞāĻ™-āĻāϰ āĻĒ⧁āϞāĻŋāĻļ āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ⧇ āĻāĻ• āϏāĻšāĻ•āĻ°ā§āĻŽā§€āϕ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āϞāĻžāĻŽ āĻāĻ• āĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāύ⧀āϝāĻŧ āϝ⧁āĻŦāϕ⧇āϰ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŦāϞāϤ⧇āĨ¤ āĻ…āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāĻ­āĻžāĻŦāĻŋāĻ• āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āύāϝāĻŧ, āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϟāĻŋāϕ⧇ āĻšā§‡āύāĻž āĻšā§‡āύāĻž āϞāĻžāĻ—āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧋ āϤāĻžāχ āϚāϞ⧇ āϝ⧇āϤ⧇ āϜāĻŋāĻœā§āĻžā§‡āϏ āĻ•āϰāϞāĻžāĻŽ āĻ“āύāĻžāϕ⧇āĨ¤

    “āĻ“ āϤ⧋ āĻ¸ā§āϝāĻžāϰ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻĢāĻŋāϏ⧇ āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧋āĨ¤ āĻ—ā§āϰ⧇āĻĄ āĻŦāĻŋ āĻĄāĻŋ āφāϰāĨ¤ āϰ⧇āϜāĻŋāĻ—āύ⧇āĻļāύ āĻĻāĻŋāϞ⧋āĨ¤ āĻāĻ–āύ āĻāĻ–āĻžāύ⧇āχ āφāϛ⧇, āĻŦāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ•āϰ⧇āϛ⧇āĨ¤”
    “āϕ⧀ āĻ•āϰāϛ⧇ āĻāĻ–āύ?”
    “āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āύāĻžāĨ¤ āĻŦ⧌ āĻŦāϞ⧇ āĻĻāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧋ āϚāĻžāĻ•āϰāĻŋ āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āĻ•āϰāϤ⧇āχ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻļāĻŋāϞāĻ™-āĻ āĻ•āϰ⧋āĨ¤ āφāϰ āĻ—ā§ŒāĻšāĻžāϟāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻ—āĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĒāϰ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āϞ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ•āϰāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āϭ⧁āϞ⧇ āϝāĻžāĻ“āĨ¤ āĻāĻ–āύ āĻŦ⧌āϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇āχ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇āĨ¤ āĻĢāĻžāχ āĻĢāϰāĻŽāĻžāĻļ āĻ–āĻžāĻŸā§‡, āύ⧇āĻļāĻž āĻ­āĻžāĻ™ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻāχ āφāϰ āϕ⧀āĨ¤”

    āĻŦ⧁āĻāϞāĻžāĻŽ āϝ⧇ āĻĒāĻŋāϤ⧃ āĻšā§‹āĻ• āĻŦāĻž āĻŽāĻžāϤ⧃, āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āϤāĻ¨ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰāχ āĻŦā§āϝāĻ•ā§āϤāĻŋāĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāϧ⧀āύāϤāĻžāϰ āϧāĻžāϰ āϧāĻžāϰ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤


    āϤ⧃āϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻŋ

    āϤāĻž āϏ⧇ āϝ⧇ āϤāĻ¨ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰāχ āĻŽā§‡āύ⧇ āϚāϞ⧁āĻ•, āχāĻŽā§āĻĢāϞ⧇āϰ āχāĻŽāĻž āĻŽāĻžāĻ°ā§āϕ⧇āϟ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽāĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻĻ⧇āϖ⧇ āϤāĻžāĻ• āϞ⧇āϗ⧇ āϝāĻžāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āĻĒ⧁āϰ⧋āĻĒ⧁āϰāĻŋ āĻŽāĻšāĻŋāϞāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻĻā§āĻŦāĻžāϰāĻž āĻĒāϰāĻŋāϚāĻžāϞāĻŋāϤ āϰ⧇āĻ¸ā§āϤ⧋āϰāĻžāρ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻļāĻšāϰ⧇āχ āφāϛ⧇, āϏ⧁āϰ⧁āϚāĻŋāϰ āĻāρāĻšā§‹āĻĄāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻžāϟāϞ⧇āĻŸā§‡āϰ āϏ⧁āĻ–ā§āϝāĻžāϤāĻŋ āĻļ⧁āύ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ āĻ…āύ⧇āĻ•, āĻšā§‡āϖ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧāύāĻŋāĨ¤ āĻŽāĻšāĻŋāϞāĻžāϰāĻž āĻ āĻļāĻšāϰ⧇āϰ āĻŦ⧇āĻļ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āĻĻ⧁āĻ°ā§āĻ—āĻžāĻĒā§‚āϜāĻž, āĻĻāĻžāϤāĻŦā§āϝ āϚāĻŋāĻ•āĻŋā§ŽāϏāĻžāϞāϝāĻŧ āχāĻ¤ā§āϝāĻžāĻĻāĻŋ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻŽāĻŋāϤ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāϚāĻžāϞāύāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇ āφāϏāϛ⧇āύ, āϤāĻžāĻ“ āύ⧇āĻšāĻžāϤ āĻ•āĻŽ āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ āϧāϰ⧇ āύāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āĻŽā§āĻŽā§āĻŦāĻžāχāϤ⧇ āĻ“āϞāĻž āωāĻŦāĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āĻĒāĻžāĻļāĻžāĻĒāĻžāĻļāĻŋ āϚāϞ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻĻāĻ°ā§āĻļāύ⧀ āĻ•ā§āϝāĻžāĻŦ, āϚāĻžāϞāĻ• āĻ“ āϝāĻžāĻ¤ā§āϰ⧀ āĻĻ⧁āϜāύ⧇āχ āϝ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āύāĻžāĻŽ āĻ­ā§‚āĻŽāĻŋāĻ•āĻžāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻāϰ āϏāĻŦāĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁āχ āϕ⧇āĻŽāύ āϝ⧇āύ āφāϰ⧋āĻĒāĻŋāϤ, āĻ—ā§‹āĻĻāĻž āĻŦāĻžāĻ‚āϞāĻžāϝāĻŧ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āϝāĻžāϕ⧇ inorganic āĻŦāϞ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻŋāĨ¤

    āĻāĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŦāϞāĻ›āĻŋ āύāĻž āϝ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻšā§€āύāĻ¤ā§āĻŦāχ organic āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ“āĻ āĻžāϰ āĻāĻ•āĻŽāĻžāĻ¤ā§āϰ āĻļāĻ°ā§āϤ, āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āϝāĻ–āύ āϕ⧇āω āĻ āĻŋāĻ•āĻ āĻžāĻ• āϭ⧇āĻŦ⧇āχ āωāĻ āϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇āύ āύāĻž āĻ āĻŋāĻ• āϕ⧋āύ āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻŽā§‡āχāϤ⧇āχ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒā§āϰāĻĻāĻžāϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻšāĻŋāϞāĻžāϰāĻž āĻŦāϏāϤ⧇ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻ•āϰ⧇āύ āĻāχ āϚāĻ¤ā§āĻŦāϰ⧇ āϤāĻžāρāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻžāĻĒāĻĄāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻ—āĻžāĻ āϰāĻŋ āĻŦāĻž āĻŽāĻžāϚāĻžāύ⧇āϰ āϕ⧁āĻŽāĻĄāĻŧā§‹āĻļāĻžāĻ• āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇, āĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŖ āϏ⧇ āϤ⧋ āĻŦā§āϰāĻŋāϟāĻŋāĻļāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻšāĻžāϤ⧇ āϟāĻŋāϕ⧇āĻ¨ā§āĻĻā§āϰāϜāĻŋāϤ⧇āϰ āĻĢāĻžāρāϏāĻŋāϰ (ā§§ā§Žā§¯ā§§) āĻ…āύ⧇āĻ• āφāϗ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž, āĻāĻŽāύāĻ•āĻŋ āĻŦā§āϰāĻŋāϟāĻŋāĻļāϰāĻž āĻāĻĻ⧇āĻļ⧇ āφāϏāĻžāϰāĻ“ āφāϗ⧇āχ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϗ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧋ āχāĻŽāĻž āϕ⧇āχāĻĨ⧇āϞ āĻŦāĻž ‘āĻŽāĻžāϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ’, āϤāĻ–āύ āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āĻĻ⧇āϰ āϏāĻŽāĻžāύāĻžāϧāĻŋāĻ•āĻžāϰ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāϚāϞāĻŋāϤ āĻĒā§āϰāĻļā§āύāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āĻĒāĻžāĻ¤ā§āϤāĻž āĻĒāĻžāϝāĻŧ āύāĻž āφāϰāĨ¤ āĻ•āĻŽāĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋ ā§Ģā§Ļā§Ļ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ āĻāĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻŽāĻŖāĻŋāĻĒ⧁āϰ⧇āϰ āĻāχ āϏāĻ‚āĻ–ā§āϝāĻžāϗ⧁āϰ⧁ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒā§āϰāĻĻāĻžāϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻšāĻŋāϞāĻžāϰāĻž, āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁āχ āϤāĻžāρāϰāĻž āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻ—ā§‹āϟāĻž, āĻœā§āϝāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻāĻ–āύ⧋ āĻŦāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāϤ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ āϚāĻžāϞāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āφāϏāϛ⧇āύ, āĻĒāĻžāĻ˛ā§āϟāĻžāϤ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ⧇ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāϏāĻ™ā§āĻ—āĻŋāĻ•āϤāĻž āĻŦāϜāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϰ⧇āϖ⧇āχāĨ¤

    āĻŦāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāϤ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻŦāϞāϞāĻžāĻŽ āĻŦ⧁āĻāĻŋ? āύāĻŋāĻļā§āϚāϝāĻŧ āϭ⧁āϞ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĢ⧇āϞ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ, āĻ āϤ⧋ āφāϰ ⧍ā§Ģ āϞāĻ•ā§āώ āĻ¸ā§āϕ⧋āϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āĻĢāĻŋāĻŸā§‡āϰ āϞ⧁āϞ⧁ āφāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻ°ā§āϜāĻžāϤāĻŋāĻ• āĻļāĻĒāĻŋāĻ‚ āĻŽāϞ āύāϝāĻŧ, āϝ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻĻā§āĻŦāĻŋāĻļāϤāĻžāϧāĻŋāĻ• ‘āĻ āĻŦāϞ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻĻā§āϝāĻžāĻ–’ āĻŦā§āĻ°ā§āϝāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻĄā§‡āϰ āĻŦāĻŋāĻĒāĻŖāĻŋ; āĻāĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ āĻŦāϞāϤ⧇ āĻ›āĻžāωāύāĻŋ āĻĻ⧇āĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āϟāĻžāύāĻž āĻ•āĻ‚āĻ•ā§āϰāĻŋāϟ āĻ¸ā§āĻ˛ā§āϝāĻžāĻŦ⧇āϰ āωāĻĒāϰ āϤāĻžāρāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϤ⧇ āϤ⧈āϰ⧀ (āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āĻŽā§‡āĻĄ āχāύ āϞ⧁āϧāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāύāĻž āϏāĻžāĻŽāĻ—ā§āϰ⧀āĻ“ āĻĒāĻžāĻŦ⧇āύ āύāĻŋāσāϏāĻ¨ā§āĻĻ⧇āĻšā§‡) āĻĒāĻŖā§āϝ āϏāĻžāϜāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āύāĻŋāĻ¤ā§āϝāĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻ•ā§āϰ⧇āϤāĻžāϰ āĻ…āĻĒ⧇āĻ•ā§āώāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻŦāϏ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻĒāĻžāρāϚ āĻšāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ āϰāĻŽāĻŖā§€āĨ¤ āχāĻšā§āϛ⧇ āĻ•āϰ⧇āχ āĻļāĻŦā§āĻĻ⧇ āϞāĻŋāĻ–āϞāĻžāĻŽ, āĻĒāĻžāϛ⧇ āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āĻŽāύ⧇ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻļā§‚āĻŖā§āϝ āĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋ āĻŦāϏāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĢ⧇āϞ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāĨ¤ āĻāĻšā§‡āύ āχāĻŽāĻž āϕ⧇āχāĻĨ⧇āϞ⧇ āĻĸ⧁āĻ•āϞ⧇ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āϜāĻžāύāĻŋ āύāĻž, āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϰ⧋āĻŽāϕ⧂āĻĒāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āĻšāϰāώāĻŋāϤ āĻšāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āφāϰ āĻ­āĻžāϰāϤ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āφāϏāĻž āĻļāϖ⧇āϰ āĻĒāĻ°ā§āϝāϟāĻ• āĻŦāϞ⧁āύ āĻŦāĻž āĻĒāĻžāχāĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŋ āĻšāĻžāϰ⧇ āϚāĻžāĻĻāϰ āĻ•āĻŋāύāϤ⧇ āφāϏāĻž āĻ­āĻŋāύāϰāĻžāĻœā§āϝ⧇āϰ āϚāĻžāϕ⧁āϰ⧇, āϝāĻ–āύ āĻĻāϰāĻžāĻĻāϰāĻŋ āĻ•āϰāϤ⧇ āĻ—āĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ ‘āĻŽāĻžāϝāĻŧ⧇āĻĻ⧇āϰ’ āĻšāĻžāϤ⧇āϰ āφāĻĻ⧁āϰ⧇ āϚāĻžāĻĒāĻĄāĻŧ āϖ⧇āϝāĻŧ⧇ āϝāĻžāύ āĻšā§‹āϖ⧇āϰ āϏāĻžāĻŽāύ⧇, āϤāĻ–āύ āĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāύ āĻ•āĻžāϞ āĻĒāĻžāĻ¤ā§āϰ⧀ āϭ⧁āϞ⧇ āĻĻ⧁āχ āĻĒāĻ•ā§āώ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻŽāϞāĻŋāύ āĻšāĻžāϏāĻŋāϤ⧇ āϝ⧋āĻ— āĻĻāĻŋāχāĨ¤ āϤāĻŦ⧇ āϏāĻŦ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ•ā§āϰ⧇āϤāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŽā§‡āϜāĻžāϜ āϝ⧇ āĻāĻ• āϤāĻžāϰ⧇ āĻŦāĻžāρāϧāĻž āϤāĻž āϤ⧋ āύāϝāĻŧ, āϤāĻžāχ āĻ—āĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāĻšāĻžāĻŸā§‡āϰ āĻĢ⧁āϟāĻĒāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ āĻ•āϰāĻžāϰ āĻŽāĻžāύāϏāĻŋāĻ•āϤāĻž āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āχāĻŽāĻž āϕ⧇āχāĻĨ⧇āϞ⧇ āύāĻž āĻĸā§‹āĻ•āĻžāχ āĻļā§āϰ⧇āϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āϕ⧇āύ āϏ⧇ āϤāĻž āĻŦā§āϰāĻŋāϟāĻŋāĻļāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϜāĻŋāĻœā§āĻžā§‡āϏ āĻ•āϰ⧁āύāĨ¤

    āĻāχ āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āϏāĻŽā§āĻ­āĻŦāϤāσ āĻāĻŽāύ āĻāĻ• āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ⧇, āϝāĻ–āύ āĻŽā§‡āχāĻĨ⧇āχ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒā§āϰāĻĻāĻžāϝāĻŧ āφāĻļ⧇āĻĒāĻžāĻļ⧇āϰ āĻšāĻŋāĻ‚āĻ¸ā§āϰ āĻĒāĻžāĻšāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋ āωāĻĒāϜāĻžāϤāĻŋāϗ⧁āϞ⧋āϰ āφāĻ•ā§āϰāĻŽāĻŖ āϏāĻžāĻŽāϞ⧇ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻļāĻžāϏāύāϕ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāĻ•āĻžāĻĒā§‹āĻ•ā§āϤ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āϛ⧇āύ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āϚāĻŋāĻ¤ā§āϰāĻžāĻ™ā§āĻ—āĻĻāĻžāϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āĻĻ⧁- āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϚāϰāĻŋāĻ¤ā§āϰ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāĻšā§āĻ›āĻŋ āϰāĻžāϜāĻĒāϰāĻŋāĻŦāĻžāϰ⧇āĨ¤ āĻŽā§āĻļāĻ•āĻŋāϞ āĻšāϞ⧋ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽā§‡ āφāĻ¤ā§āĻŽāϰāĻ•ā§āώāĻž āĻ“ āϤāĻžāϰāĻĒāϰ⧇ āϰāĻžāĻœā§āϝ⧇āϰ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāϧāĻŋ āĻŦāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻžāύ⧋āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ⧇ āϝ⧁āĻĻā§āϧ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ—ā§āϰāĻšā§‡ āύāĻžāĻŽāϤ⧇ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻŽāĻŖāĻŋāĻĒ⧁āϰāϰāĻžāĻœā§‡āĻĻ⧇āϰ, āφāϰ āϏ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāϝāĻŧā§‹āϜāύ āĻĒāĻĄāĻŧ⧇ āĻļāĻ•ā§āϤāϏāĻŽāĻ°ā§āĻĨ āϏ⧈āύāĻŋāĻ•āĻĻ⧇āϰāĨ¤ āĻāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻŦāĻ°ā§āϤāĻŽāĻžāύ⧇ āϚāĻžāώāĻŦāĻžāϏ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ—ā§āϰāĻžāϏāĻžāĻšā§āĻ›āĻžāĻĻāύ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝāϤāϰ āϝāĻžāĻŦāϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻŦā§āϝāĻŦāĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻž āĻ•āϰāϤ⧇ āĻšāϤ⧋ āĻŦāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϰ āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āĻĻ⧇āϰāχ, āĻ…āĻ—āĻ¤ā§āϝāĻž āχāĻŽāĻž āϕ⧇āχāĻĨ⧇āϞāĨ¤ āϤ⧋ āϏ⧇āχ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝāϝ⧁āĻ— āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āύāĻžāύāĻžāύ āĻ“āĻ āĻžāĻĒāĻĄāĻŧāĻžāϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āĻĻāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻāĻ•āχ āϜāĻžāϝāĻŧāĻ—āĻžāϝāĻŧ āϚāϞāϤ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇ āϕ⧇āύāĻžāĻŦ⧇āϚāĻž, āχāĻŽā§āĻĢāϞ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧇ āϤ⧈āϰ⧀ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āφāĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻ§ā§āĻŦāĻ‚āϏāĻ“ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻ•āĻžāĻ‚āϞāĻž āĻĻ⧁āĻ°ā§āĻ— (āĻŦāĻ°ā§āϤāĻŽāĻžāύ⧇ āĻāϰ āĻ­āĻ—ā§āύāĻžāĻŦāĻļ⧇āώāϟāĻŋ āϰāĻžāĻˇā§āĻŸā§āϰ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻ¸ā§āĻŽā§ƒāϤāĻŋāϏ⧌āϧāϰ āĻŽāĻ°ā§āϝāĻžāĻĻāĻž āĻĒ⧇āϝāĻŧ⧇āϛ⧇), āĻŽāĻžāĻāĻ–āĻžāύ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ—ā§‹āϞ āĻŦāĻžāϧāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻŦā§āϰāĻŋāϟāĻŋāĻļ⧇āϰāĻžāĨ¤ āĻ”āĻĒāύāĻŋāĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋāĻ•āĻĻ⧇āϰ āϏ⧇āχ āĻāĻ• āĻŦā§€āϜāĻŽāĻ¨ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰ, āĻĻāĻžāĻ“ āĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāύ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻ…āĻ°ā§āĻĨāĻŦā§āϝāĻŦāĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ˜ā§‡āρāĻŸā§‡āĨ¤ āϟāĻŋāϕ⧇āĻ¨ā§āĻĻā§āϰāϜāĻŋāϤāϕ⧇ āϏāϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āĻĒāϰ āĻŽāύāĻŋāĻĒ⧁āϰ⧇āϰ āϏāĻŋāĻ‚āĻšāĻžāϏāύ⧇ āĻŦāϏāĻžāύ⧋ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻāĻ• āĻ•ā§āϰ⧀āĻĄāĻŧāĻŖāĻ•āϕ⧇āĨ¤ āϤāĻžāρāϰ āĻŽāĻĻāϤ⧇ āĻŦā§āϰāĻŋāϟāĻŋāĻļāϰāĻž āĻŽāύāĻŋāĻĒ⧁āϰ⧇āϰ āϧāĻžāύ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϤ⧈āϰ⧀ āϚāĻžāϞ āĻĒāĻžāĻ āĻžāϤ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āĻĻ⧇āϰ āϏāĻžāĻŽāϰāĻŋāĻ• āĻļāĻŋāĻŦāĻŋāϰāϗ⧁āϞ⧋āϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāĻŦāĻžāĻĻ⧇ āĻ—āĻ°ā§āĻœā§‡ āĻ“āϠ⧇āύ āχāĻŽāĻž āϕ⧇āχāĻĨ⧇āϞ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻšāĻŋāϞāĻž āĻŦā§āϝāĻŦāϏāĻžāϝāĻŧā§€āϰāĻžāĨ¤ āύ⧁āĻĒā§€ āϞāĻžāύ āĻŦāĻž āĻŽāĻšāĻŋāϞāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϝ⧁āĻĻā§āϧ āĻĻāĻŽāύ āĻ•āϰāϤ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāĻļāĻžāϏāĻ• āĻšā§‡āĻˇā§āϟāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇āύ āχāĻŽāĻž āϕ⧇āχāĻĨ⧇āϞ⧇āϰ āϜāĻŽāĻŋāĻŦāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋ āĻŦāĻšāĻŋāϰāĻžāĻ—āϤāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ•ā§āϰāĻŋ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĻāĻŋāϤ⧇āĨ¤ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāϰ⧋āϧ āφāϰ⧋ āĻļāĻ•ā§āϤ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ“āϠ⧇ āĻāχ āφāĻ•ā§āϰāĻŽāϪ⧇āĨ¤ āϤāϤāĻĻāĻŋāύ⧇ āĻĻā§āĻŦāĻŋāϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦāϝ⧁āĻĻā§āϧ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϗ⧇āϛ⧇, āĻ…āĻ—āĻ¤ā§āϝāĻž āĻŦā§āϰāĻŋāϟāĻŋāĻļ⧇āϰāĻžāχ āϰāϪ⧇ āĻ­āĻ™ā§āĻ— āĻĻ⧇āύāĨ¤

    āĻļāĻžāϏāĻ• āĻŦāĻĻāϞāĻžāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āĻŦāĻĻāϞāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϏ⧇āύāĻžāĻŦāĻžāĻšāĻŋāύ⧀āϰ āωāĻ°ā§āĻĻāĻŋāϰ āϰāĻ™, āĻ…āĻ¸ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰāĨ¤ āχāĻŽāĻž āϕ⧇āχāĻĨ⧇āϞ āφāϰ āĻŽāĻŖāĻŋāĻĒ⧁āϰ⧇āϰ āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āϰāĻž āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϝāĻžāύ āϤāĻžāρāĻĻ⧇āϰ āύāĻŋāϜāĻ¸ā§āĻŦ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāϚāϝāĻŧ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āĨ¤ ⧍ā§Ļā§§ā§ŦāĨ¤ āχāϰāĻŽ āĻļāĻ°ā§āĻŽāĻŋāϞāĻž āϚāĻžāύ⧁āϰ āĻ…āύāĻļāύ āϚāϞāϛ⧇ āϤāĻ–āύ⧋āĨ¤ āĻšāĻ āĻžāϤāχ āϤāĻŋāύāĻĻāĻŋāύ⧇āϰ āĻšāϰāϤāĻžāϞ⧇āϰ āĻĄāĻžāĻ• āĻĻ⧇āϝāĻŧ āĻŽāĻŖāĻŋāĻĒ⧁āϰ⧇āϰ āύāĻžāĻ—āϰāĻŋāĻ• āϏāĻ‚āĻ—āĻ āύāϗ⧁āϞāĻŋāĨ¤ āĻāĻ–āĻžāύ⧇āĻ“ āφāϞāĻžāĻĻāĻž āĻŽāĻŖāĻŋāĻĒ⧁āϰāĨ¤ āĻŽā§‚āϞāĻ¸ā§āϰ⧋āϤ⧇āϰ āϰāĻžāϜāύ⧈āϤāĻŋāĻ• āĻĻāϞāϗ⧁āϞāĻŋāϰ āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āϧ⧇āϰ āĻĄāĻžāĻ• āϏāĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻž āĻĢ⧇āϞ⧇ āύāĻž āĻāĻ–āĻžāύ⧇āĨ¤ āϤ⧋ āϏ⧇āχ āĻ­āϰāĻž āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āϧ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻžāϜāĻžāϰ⧇ āϰāĻžāĻœā§āϝ āϏāϰāĻ•āĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ¤ā§āϰ⧈āĻŽāĻžāϏāĻŋāĻ• āĻŦ⧈āĻ āĻ•āĨ¤ āφāϗ⧇āϰāĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻĻ⧁āχ āĻœā§€āĻĒ āĻ­āĻ°ā§āϤāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŽā§āϝāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻĄā§‹āĻŦāĻžāĻšāĻŋāύ⧀āϰ āĻĒāĻžāĻšāĻžāϰāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻŦāĻŋāĻŽāĻžāύāĻŦāĻ¨ā§āĻĻāϰ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻšā§‹āĻŸā§‡āϞ⧇ āĻāϏ⧇ āĻĒ⧌āρāϛ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāĨ¤ āĻŽāĻŋāϟāĻŋāĻ‚ āϏāĻ•āĻžāϞ āĻāĻ—āĻžāϰ⧋āϟāĻžāϝāĻŧ, āĻšāĻžāϤ⧇ āĻŦ⧇āĻļ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁āϟāĻž āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāχāϞāϟ āĻŦāĻžāĻšāύāϕ⧇ āϏāĻžāĻŽāύ⧇ āϰ⧇āϖ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ•āύāĻ­āϝāĻŧ āĻŦ⧇āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĒāϰ⧇ āĻšā§‹āĻŸā§‡āϞ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇āĨ¤ āĻŦāĻĄāĻŧā§‹ āϰāĻžāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻĒāϰ⧇ āĻŦāĻžāρāĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āĻŽāĻŋāϟāĻžāϰ āĻĒāĻžā§āϚāĻžāĻļ⧇āĻ• āĻĻā§‚āϰ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āχāω -āϟāĻžāĻ°ā§āύ āύāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻšāĻŦ⧇āĨ¤ āĻ āĻŋāĻ• āϏ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āϰāĻžāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻžāϰ āĻŽāĻžāĻāĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āωāĻŦ⧁ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻŦāϏ⧇ āĻāĻ• āĻ…āĻļā§€āϤāĻŋāĻĒāϰ āĻŦ⧃āĻĻā§āϧāĻžāĨ¤ āĻ•āύāĻ­āϝāĻŧ āϝāĻ–āύ āϕ⧁āĻĄāĻŧāĻŋ āĻŽāĻŋāϟāĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āĻĻā§‚āϰāĻ¤ā§āĻŦ⧇, āĻŦ⧃āĻĻā§āϧāĻž āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϰ āĻĄāĻžāύ āĻšāĻžāϤ āϤ⧁āϞ⧇ āϚāĻžāϰ āφāĻ™ā§āϗ⧁āϞ⧇āϰ āĻ­āĻžāώāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻĢāĻŋāϰ⧇ āϝ⧇āϤ⧇ āĻŦāϞ⧇āύāĨ¤ āĻŽāĻ¨ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻžāϜ āĻšāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āϜāύāĻž āĻĒāύ⧇āϰ⧋ āϏāĻļāĻ¸ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰ āĻĒ⧁āϞāĻŋāĻļ āĻ•āĻŽā§āϝāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻĄā§‹ āĻ“ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻŦāĻžāĻ§ā§āϝ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āϘ⧁āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āύāĻŋāχ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ—āĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϰ āĻŽā§āĻ–āĨ¤ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāϧ⧀āύ āĻĻ⧇āĻļ⧇ āϏāĻŽā§āĻŽāĻžāύāϜāύāĻ• āĻĒāĻļā§āϚāĻžāĻĻāĻĒāϏāϰāĻŖ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒāĻ¨ā§āύ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻŦāĻŋāύāĻž āϰāĻ•ā§āϤāĻĒāĻžāϤ⧇ āϤ⧋ āĻŦāĻŸā§‡āχ, āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋāĻ“ āĻļāĻŦā§āĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻĒāϚāϝāĻŧ āύāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇āĨ¤

    āϚāϤ⧁āĻ°ā§āĻĨ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻŋ

    “āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āϝ⧁āĻĻā§āϧāχ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŽāĻžāĻŖ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āύāĻž āϕ⧇ āĻ¨ā§āϝāĻžāϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻĒāĻ•ā§āώ⧇ āĻ›āĻŋāϞ, āϝ⧁āĻĻā§āϧ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŽāĻžāĻŖ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϕ⧇ āĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋ āĻœā§‹āϰ āĻ–āĻžāϟāĻžāϤ⧇ āĻĒ⧇āϰ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧋”- āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻšā§€āύ āϚ⧈āύāĻŋāĻ• āĻĒā§āϰāĻŦāĻžāĻĻ

    āĻĒāĻļā§āϚāĻžāĻĻāĻĒāϏāϰāĻŖ āϏ⧇āχ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āĻŦāĻž āĻļ⧇āώ āύāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āĻļāĻšāϰ⧇ āύāϝāĻŧ, āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇āϰ āφāχāύ āϝ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻŽāĻžāύāĻžāύāϏāχ, āϏ⧇āχ āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇āĻ“ āύāϝāĻŧāĨ¤

    āĻŦāĻžāĻ˜ā§‡āϰ āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āϏāĻžāϧāĻžāϰāĻŖ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻŽ āφāϛ⧇āĨ¤ āĻŦāĻšāĻŋāϰāĻžāĻ—āϤāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝāĨ¤ āϏāĻžāϧāĻžāϰāĻŖāϤ āϏ⧇ āϏāĻŦ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻŽā§‡āύ⧇ āϚāϞāĻŋāĨ¤ āĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŖ āĻŽā§‡āύ⧇ āύāĻž āϚāϞāĻžāϰ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāϧ⧀āύāϤāĻž āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇āύāĻž āϏāĻŦāϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āϏ⧇āĻŦāĻžāϰ⧇ āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĨ¤

    āĻ­āĻžāϰāϤ⧇āϰ āϝ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇āχ āĻŦ⧇āĻĄāĻŧāĻžāϤ⧇ āϝāĻžāύ, āĻ…āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ, āĻ…āĻ°ā§āϧ āĻ…āĻĨāĻŦāĻž āĻ…āĻļāĻŋāĻ•ā§āώāĻŋāϤ āĻ—āĻžāχāĻĄ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒā§āϰāĻĻāĻžāϝāĻŧ āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ āĻŋāĻ•āχ āϖ⧁āρāĻœā§‡ āύ⧇āĻŦ⧇āĨ¤ āĻŽāύ⧋āϰāĻžā§āϜāύ⧇āϰ āύāĻžāĻŽā§‡ āĻāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ…āϤāĻŋāϰāĻžā§āϜāύ āχāĻĻāĻžāύāĻŋāĻ‚āĻ•āĻžāϰ āϜāύ⧈āĻ• āϰāĻŦāĻŋāĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧀āĻ•āĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŽāύ⧇ āĻ•āϰāĻžāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āφāϗ⧇āϰāĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻŦāύāĻŦāĻŋāĻ­āĻžāϗ⧇āϰ āϕ⧁āĻļāϞ āĻ•āĻ°ā§āĻŽāϚāĻžāϰ⧀āĻĻ⧇āϰ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇ āϏāĻŋāϤāĻžāϰāĻžāϕ⧇ āϧāĻžāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āĻ•āϰāĻž āϗ⧇āϛ⧇āĨ¤ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻļāϰ⧀āϰ⧇ āϝ⧇āϟāĻž āϞāĻŽā§āĻŦāĻžāĻŸā§‡ āĻĄā§‹āϰāĻž, āĻāχ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ āĻĻ⧁āϝāĻŧ⧇āϕ⧇āϰ āϰāϝāĻŧā§āϝāĻžāϞ āĻŦ⧇āĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ āϟāĻžāχāĻ—āĻžāϰāϟāĻŋāϰ āĻŦāĻžāρ āĻšā§‹āϖ⧇āϰ āωāĻĒāϰ⧇ āϏ⧇āχ āĻ•āĻžāϞ⧋āĻĻāĻžāĻ— āĻāĻ•āĻĻāĻŽ āĻˇā§āϟāĻžāϰ āĻ…āĻĢ āĻĄā§‡āĻ­āĻŋāĻĄā§‡āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋āĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇āχ āύāĻžāĻŽ āϏāĻŋāϤāĻžāϰāĻžāĨ¤ āĻĒāϰāĻŦāĻ°ā§āϤ⧀āϤ⧇ āχāύāĻŋ āϰāĻŖāĻĨāĻŽā§āĻ­ā§‹āϰ āϜāĻžāϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āωāĻĻā§āϝāĻžāύ⧇āϰ āφāϞāĻĢāĻž āĻŽā§‡āϞ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āωāĻ āĻŦ⧇āύ āϕ⧀ āύāĻž āϏ⧇ āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧāχ āĻŦāϞāĻŦ⧇, āφāĻĒāĻžāϤāϤāσ āϤāĻžāρāϰ āĻāĻ• āĻĒā§‚āĻ°ā§āĻŦāϤāύ⧇āϰ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ āĻļā§‹āύāĻžāĻšā§āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧇āύ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϏ⧇āĻĻāĻŋāύāĻ•āĻžāϰ āĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāύ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻ—āĻžāχāĻĄ āϰāĻŖāϛ⧋āĻĄāĻŧāĻĻāĻžāϏāĨ¤

    āĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāύ⧀āϝāĻŧ āĻĻ⧁āĻ°ā§āĻ— āĻĒāϰāĻŋāϏāϰ⧇āχ āϰāϘ⧁āύāĻžāĻĨ āĻŽāĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻŋāϰāĨ¤ āĻŽāĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻŋāϰ⧇āϰ āĻāĻ•āĻĻāĻŋāĻ• āĻ–ā§‹āϞ⧇ āϜāĻžāϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āωāĻĻā§āϝāĻžāύ⧇āϰ āϕ⧋āϰ āĻāϞāĻžāĻ•āĻžāϰ āĻŽā§āϖ⧇āĨ¤ āϰāĻŖāϛ⧋āĻĄāĻŧ āĻ“āĻŦāĻžāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻšā§‡āύ⧇āύ āύāĻž, āĻ•āύāĻŋāĻˇā§āĻ  āĻŦ⧁āĻļāϕ⧇āĻ“ āύāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāρāϰ āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁ āĻŽāύ⧇ āφāϛ⧇ āĻāĻ•āĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻ•ā§āϞāĻŋāύāϟāύ āϏāĻžāĻšā§‡āĻŦ āĻāϏ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧇āύ āĻāχ āϤāĻ˛ā§āϞāĻžāĻŸā§‡āĨ¤ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϰ āĻ—āĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϏ⧇ āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇āϰ āϰāĻžāϜāĻž Tā§¨ā§Šāϕ⧇ āĻŽāĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻŋāϰ āϚāĻ¤ā§āĻŦāϰ⧇ āĻŦāϏ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āϤ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āϖ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāϞ āύāĻžāĻ•āĻŋ āĻŦāϞ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧇āύ, “āĻšā§‹āϝāĻŧāĻžāϟ āĻ āĻŽā§āϝāĻžāĻ—āύāĻŋāĻĢāĻŋāϏāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ¨ā§āϟ āĻ•ā§āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āϚāĻžāϰāĨ¤ āφāχ āωāχāĻļ āωāχ āĻšā§āϝāĻžāĻĄ āĻšāĻŋāĻŽ āχāύ āĻĻā§āϝ āĻšā§‹āϝāĻŧāĻžāχāϟ āĻšāĻžāωāϜāĨ¤” 
    āϰāĻŖāϛ⧋āĻĄāĻŧ āĻŦāϞ⧇āύ āĻĒāϰāĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ Tā§¨ā§Šāϕ⧇ āφāϰ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻž āϝāĻžāϝāĻŧāύāĻŋāĨ¤

    āϏāĻ¤ā§āϝāĻŋ āĻšāϞ⧇āĻ“ āĻ āϘāϟāύāĻž āϝāĻ–āύ āϘāϟāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž, āϤāĻ–āύ⧋ āϕ⧋āϰ āĻāϞāĻžāĻ•āĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻĒāĻ°ā§āϝāϟāύ⧇āϰ āĻ“āĻĒāϰ āύāĻŋāώ⧇āϧāĻžāĻœā§āĻžāĻž āϜāĻžāϰāĻŋ āĻšāϝāĻŧāύāĻŋ, āϏāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāχ āĻŽāĻžāϧ⧋āĻĒ⧁āϰ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĻāĻŋāĻ˛ā§āϞ⧀ āĻĒāĻ°ā§āϝāĻ¨ā§āϤ āĻ…āύ⧇āĻ• āĻ¸ā§āϕ⧁āϞ āĻ•āϞ⧇āĻœā§‡āϰ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āĻŽā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻĒāĻŋāĻ•āύāĻŋāĻ• āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϏāĻžāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ•ā§āϝāĻžāĻŽā§āĻĒ, āϏāĻŦāĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁āχ āϚāϞāϤ⧋ āϜāĻžāϤ⧀āϝāĻŧ āωāĻĻā§āϝāĻžāύ⧇āϰ āĻ–āĻžāϏāϤāĻžāϞ⧁āϕ⧇āĨ¤ āϚāϞāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŖ āϏ⧁āϞāϤāĻžāύ, āĻŦāĻ°ā§āϤāĻŽāĻžāύ T⧭⧍, āϤāĻ–āύ āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώ āĻŽā§‡āϰ⧇ āĻ“āϠ⧇āύāĻŋ āĻāĻ•āϜāύāĻ“, āĻĢāϞ⧇ āφāχāύ āĻŦāĻž āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻŖāĻ­āϝāĻŧ āϕ⧋āύ⧋āϟāĻžāχ āĻŦāĻžāϧāĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĻāĻžāρāĻĄāĻŧāĻžāϤ⧋ āύāĻžāĨ¤

    āϏ⧁āϞāϤāĻžāύ⧇āϰ āĻŦā§āϝāĻžāĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇ āĻ•āĻžāύāĻžāϘ⧁āώ⧋, āχāωāϟāĻŋāωāĻŦ āĻ­āĻŋāĻĄāĻŋāĻ“ āϏāĻŦ āϏ⧇āχ ⧍ā§Ļā§§ā§ĒāϤ⧇āĻ“ āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĨ¤ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁, āϏ⧁āϞāϤāĻžāύ āϤ⧋ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻŦ⧇ āĻ—āĻ­ā§€āϰ āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇ āφāϰ āĻā§āĻŽāϰ āĻŦāĻžāωāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϤ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦāύāĻŦāĻžāϏ āϕ⧋āϰ āĻāϞāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ…āύ⧇āĻ•āϟāĻžāχ āĻĻā§‚āϰ⧇, āĻŽā§āϝāĻžāĻĒ āϏ⧇āϰāĻ•āĻŽāϟāĻžāχ āĻŦāϞ⧇āĨ¤ āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇ āĻĸā§‹āĻ•āĻžāϰ āĻŦāĻĄāĻŧāϰāĻžāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻž āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻĸ⧁āϕ⧇ āϝāĻžāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āϏāĻžāĻ°ā§āĻ­āĻŋāϏ āϰ⧋āĻĄā§‡ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻŽāĻžāχāϞ āĻĻ⧁āϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ• āϗ⧇āϞ⧇ āϰāĻžāĻŖāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻāĻ•āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧāĻ•āĻžāϰ āĻŽā§ƒāĻ—āϝāĻŧāĻž āύāĻŋāĻŦāĻžāϏ āĻā§āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻŦāĻžāωāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāĨ¤ āφāĻļ⧇āĻĒāĻžāĻļ⧇āϰ āĻ—ā§āϰāĻžāĻŽā§‡āϰ āϞ⧋āϕ⧇āĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻ˛ā§āϝāĻžāĻŖāĻžāĻ°ā§āĻĨ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ āϕ⧁āϝāĻŧā§‹ āĻŦāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧇āύ āϰāĻžāĻŖāĻžāϰāĻž, āĻĒāϰ⧇ āϤāĻžāϰāχ āĻĒāĻžāĻļ⧇ āϤ⧈āϰ⧀ āĻ•āϰ⧇āύ āĻāχ āϛ⧋āĻŸā§‹āĻ–āĻžāĻŸā§‹ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāϏāĻžāĻĻāϟāĻŋāĨ¤ āϏāĻžāĻĢāĻžāϰāĻŋāϰ āĻ–āϰāϚāϕ⧇ āϏāĻžāĻŽāĻžāϞ āĻĻāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝ āϏāĻŦ āĻ…āϰāĻŖā§āϝāĻŦāĻŋāĻšāĻžāϰ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϏāĻžāϧāĻžāϰāĻŖāϤāσ āϏāĻžāĻĻāĻžāĻŽāĻžāϟāĻž āĻšā§‹āĻŸā§‡āϞ⧇āχ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻŋ, āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āψāĻļāĻžāύ āĻ¸ā§āϝāĻžāϰ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻ˛ā§āϝāĻžāϪ⧇ āϏ⧇āĻŦāĻžāϰ⧇ āϏāĻžāĻĢāĻžāϰāĻŋ āĻšāĻŦ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāϝāĻŧ āύāĻŋāĻ–āϰāϚāĻžāϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āĻ“āύāĻžāϰāĻž āύāĻž āφāϏāϞ⧇ āĻ…āĻŦāĻļā§āϝ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦāϰāĻžāϤ⧇ āĻ›āĻŋāϞ ⧍ā§Ļ-āφāϏāύāĻŦāĻŋāĻļāĻŋāĻˇā§āϟ āĻ•ā§āϝāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϟāĻžāϰ, āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇āϰ āĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋāϰāĻ­āĻžāĻ— āϏ⧁āρāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāĻĒāĻĨ⧇ āϝāĻžāϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŦ⧇āĻļ āĻŽāĻžāύāĻžāĨ¤ āĻŦāύāĻŦāĻŋāĻ­āĻžāϗ⧇āϰ āϜāĻŋāĻĒāϏāĻŋ āĻšā§‹āĻ• āĻŦāĻž āφāĻŽāϜāύāϤāĻžāϰ āĻ•ā§āϝāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϟāĻžāϰ, āϏ⧇āϏāĻŦ āĻĒāĻžāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āϝāĻžāĻŦ⧇ āĻĻā§āĻŦāĻŋāϤ⧀āϝāĻŧāĻĻāĻŋāύ āϏāĻ•āĻžāϞ⧇, āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽāĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻŦāĻŋāϕ⧇āϞ āϚāĻžāϰāĻŸā§‡āϝāĻŧ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āϝāĻ–āύ āĻŦāĻžāωāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻāϏ⧇ āĻĒ⧌āρāĻ›āχ āϤāĻ–āύ āϏāĻŦ āĻ—āĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāχ āĻŦ⧇āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĒāĻĄāĻŧāĻŦ⧇ āϜāĻžāύāĻž āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĨ¤ āĻ…āĻ—āĻ¤ā§āϝāĻž āϰāĻŋāϏ⧇āĻĒāĻļāύ⧇ āϜāĻŋāĻœā§āĻžā§‡āϏ āĻ•āϰāĻž āĻšāϞ⧋ āϏāĻžāĻ°ā§āĻ­āĻŋāϏ āϰ⧋āĻĄ āϧāϰ⧇āχ āĻ–āĻžāύāĻŋāĻ• āĻšā§‡āρāĻŸā§‡ āφāϏāĻž āϝāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻ•āĻŋ āύāĻžāĨ¤

    “āĻšāĻžāρ, āĻšāĻžāρ āφāϰāĻžāĻŽāϏ⧇ āϜāĻžāχāϝāĻŧ⧇āĨ¤ āϏāĻŋāĻ°ā§āĻĢ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϧ⧇āϰāĻž āĻšā§‹āύ⧇ āϏ⧇ āĻĒāĻšāϞ⧇ āĻŦāĻžāĻĒāĻŋāϏ āφ āϜāĻžāχāϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ—āĻžāĨ¤” āĻļ⧁āύ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āφāϰ āĻĒāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϕ⧇? 
    āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻŽāĻŋāύāĻŋāϟ āϕ⧁āĻĄāĻŧāĻŋ āĻšāĻžāρāϟāĻžāϰ āĻĒāϰ āĻŦāĻĄāĻŧā§‹ āϰāĻžāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻ—āϜāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ“āĻ āĻž āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āύāϤ⧁āύ āϰ⧇āϏāĻ°ā§āĻŸā§‡āϰ āĻĒ⧇āĻ›āύāĻĻāĻŋāĻ•āϟāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻĒ⧌āρāϛ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ, āϤāĻ–āύāĻŋ āĻĒāϚāĻž āĻŽāĻžāĻ‚āϏ⧇āϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻŽā§ƒāĻĻ⧁ āĻ—āĻ¨ā§āϧ āύāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻāϞ⧋āĨ¤ āĻŦāĻžāĻ•āĻŋāϰāĻž āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āϞāĻžāĻŽ āĻ­ā§āϰ⧂āĻ•ā§āώ⧇āĻĒāĻšā§€āύ, āĻāĻ•āϟ⧁ āφāϗ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āϖ⧇ āĻĢ⧇āϞāĻž āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻŦāĻĄāĻŧā§‹āϏāĻĄāĻŧā§‹ āύ⧀āϞāĻ—āĻžāχ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āφāϞ⧋āϚāύāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻŽāĻļāϗ⧁āϞāĨ¤ āĻ āĻŋāĻ• āϤāĻžāϰāĻĒāϰ⧇āχ āϏāĻžāĻŽāύ⧇ āĻĢ⧁āϟ āϤāĻŋāϰāĻŋāĻļ⧇āϰ āĻĻā§‚āϰāĻ¤ā§āĻŦ⧇ āĻšāϞāĻĻ⧇ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϝāĻžāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āϞāĻŽā§āĻŦāĻž āϘāĻžāϏ⧇āϰ āĻā§‹āĻĒ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻŦ⧇āĻļ āϤāĻžāĻ—āĻĄāĻŧāĻžāχ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁āϕ⧇ āĻ›āĻžāϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āϏāϰ⧇ āϝ⧇āϤ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āϤ⧇āχ āĻ“āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āφāϟāϕ⧇ āϗ⧇āϞāĻžāĻŽāĨ¤ āωāĻ˛ā§āĻŸā§‹āĻĻāĻŋāĻ• āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻŦ⧇āĻļ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁āϟāĻž āĻĻā§‚āϰ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻŽā§‹āϟāϰāĻŦāĻžāχāϕ⧇ āĻšā§‡āĻĒ⧇ āĻĻ⧁āϟāĻŋ āĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāύ⧀āϝāĻŧ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇ āφāϏāĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧋, āϤāĻžāϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āĻĒ⧇āĻ›āύ⧇āϰ āϜāύ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇ āφāϏāϤ⧇āχ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŦāϞ āωāĻ¤ā§āϤ⧇āϜāύāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻĻ⧁ āĻšāĻžāϤ āωāρāϚāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻŦāϞ⧇ āωāĻ āϞ⧋, “āϏāĻžāĻšāĻžāĻŦ, āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻž āφāĻĒāύ⧇, āĻļ⧇āϰ āĻ—āϝāĻŧāĻž, āĻļ⧇āϰ āĻ—āϝāĻŧāĻžāĨ¤” āĻļ⧇āϰ āϝ⧇ āϗ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧋ āϏ⧇ āĻŦā§āϝāĻžāĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇ āύāĻŋāσāϏāĻ¨ā§āĻĻ⧇āĻš āĻšāϤ⧇āχ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āφāĻŦāĻžāϰ⧋ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āĻļāĻŦā§āĻĻ āĻ–āϰāϚ āύāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇āχ āĻĒāĻļā§āϚāĻžāĻĻāĻĒāϏāĻžāϰ⧀ āĻšāχāĨ¤

    āϏ⧁āϞāϤāĻžāύ āĻšā§‹āĻ• āĻŦāĻž āϏ⧁āϞāϤāĻžāύ⧇āϰ āĻ›āĻžāϝāĻŧāĻž, āĻ¤ā§āϰāĻŋāĻļ āĻĢ⧁āĻŸā§‡āϰ āĻĻā§‚āϰāĻ¤ā§āĻŦ⧇ āĻŽāĻžāϟāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻĻāĻžāρāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻ…āĻŦāĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϚāĻžāϰāϜāύ āĻšā§ƒāĻˇā§āϟāĻĒ⧁āĻˇā§āϟ āϏāĻžāĻŦāĻžāϞāĻ• āĻ“ āϤāĻŋāύ āύāĻžāĻŦāĻžāϞāĻŋāĻ•āĻžāϕ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āϖ⧇āĻ“ āϝ⧇ āϏ⧇āĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻāϕ⧇āĻŦāĻžāϰ⧇āχ āφāĻ—ā§āϰāĻš āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻžāϝāĻŧāύāĻŋ, āϤāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŖ āϖ⧁āĻŦ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇āχ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻĒā§āϤāĻŦāϝāĻŧāĻ¸ā§āĻ• āϚāĻŋāϤāϞ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋ āϖ⧇āϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻļ⧇āώ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻāϏ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ āĻ“āĨ¤ āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āφāχāύ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇, āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻŋāĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝāĨ¤ āϏ⧁āϞāϤāĻžāύ āϏ⧇ āφāχāύ āĻŽā§‡āύ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ āĻŦāϞ⧇āχ āφāχāύāĻ­āĻžāĻ™āĻž āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻ•āϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ•āϜāύ āϏ⧇āĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻ…āĻ•ā§āώāϤāĻĻ⧇āĻšā§‡ āĻŦāĻžāωāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻĢāĻŋāϰāĻŋāĨ¤

    āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āφāϞāĻĢāĻž āĻŽā§‡āϞ āϏ⧁āϞāϤāĻžāύ āϤāĻžāϰ āφāϗ⧇ āĻ“ āĻĒāϰ⧇ āĻ•āĻŽ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϚāĻžāϰāϜāύ āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώ āĻŽā§‡āϰ⧇āϛ⧇ āĻŦāϞ⧇ āĻļā§‹āύāĻž āϝāĻžāϝāĻŧ, āĻ“āϰ āĻĒāĻžā§āϚāĻŽ āĻļāĻŋāĻ•āĻžāϰ āĻŦāϞ⧇ āϏāĻ¨ā§āĻĻ⧇āĻš āĻ•āϰāĻž āĻšāĻšā§āĻ›āĻŋāϞ⧋ āϝ⧇ āĻŦāύāĻ•āĻ°ā§āĻŽā§€āϰ āĻļāϰ⧀āϰ, āϤāĻžāρāϰ āĻŦāĻ§ā§āϝāĻ­ā§‚āĻŽāĻŋāϤ⧇ āϟāĻŋ⧍ā§Ē āωāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻžāĻĻāϕ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻž āϝ⧇āϤ⧇āχ āϏāϰāĻ•āĻžāϰ āϤāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϘāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋ āϏāĻŋāĻĻā§āϧāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ āύ⧇āύ āϝ⧇ āĻāχ ‘āύāϰāĻ–āĻžāĻĻāĻ•’āϕ⧇ āϏāĻœā§āϜāύāĻ—āĻĄāĻŧ āϚāĻŋāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāĻ–āĻžāύāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϏāϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāχ āĻļā§āϰ⧇āϝāĻŧāĨ¤ āύ’āĻŦāĻ›āϰ⧇āϰ āωāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻ•ā§ƒāϤāĻŋāĻ• āϰāĻžāϜāĻ¤ā§āĻŦ⧇ āĻĢāĻŋ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ āϞāĻ•ā§āώāĻžāϧāĻŋāĻ• āĻĒāĻ°ā§āϝāϟāĻ• āφāϏāĻž āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āϧ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϝāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϏ⧇āχ āϚāĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻž āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇āχ āĻšāϝāĻŧāϤ⧋āĨ¤

    āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞ⧇āϰ āφāχāύ āϏāĻ­ā§āϝ āĻĻ⧇āĻļ⧇ āϚāϞāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇āύāĻž āĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋāĻĻāĻŋāύāĨ¤ āĻļ⧇āώāĻŽā§‡āĻļ āϜāĻ™ā§āĻ—āϞāϕ⧇āχ āϤāĻžāχ āĻĒāĻŋāϛ⧁ āĻšāĻ āϤ⧇ āĻšāϝāĻŧāĨ¤

  • Storytelling Begins

    Let’s hit the road of tales!

    Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter — Izaak Walton

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