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Rishi Valley School • School Magazine 2010-2011 1

S c h o o l M a g a z i n e 2 0 1 0 - 1 1

Rishi Valley School

School Magazine 2010-2011 • Rishi Valley School2

ContentsEditorial 6

What is creativity? 7

Photo Gallery... 9ISC 2011 (Class 12) 11ICSE 2011 (Class 10 A) 12ICSE 2011 (Class 10 B) 13Tagore festival 14Sports Day - Moments of Glory 15Life goes on in RV... 16Middle and Senior school Excursions 18Hi Five 20

From the teachers’ pen 21SOME RANDOM THOUGHTS 22TECHNOLOGY 23Some Well Known and Lesser KnownTales24Akbar-Birbal Story 24Subramania Bharati 25MLV and Me – An Incredible Journey 26The Journey begins 26Chitrakavyam 31

Articles from yester years... 37The morning of November 23rd, 2009 38July Night, Hyderabad 40Limericks 40Epitaph of William of Occam 41All an Illusion 42May Murmurs, Bogmallo (Goa) 43KABIR 43How to operate Mr Walky Dog 44Summer 44Horror-work 45


USA can never replace India 46Asthachal 47Life 47Darkness 48Write Right 48No Mercy 48Past and Present 49Recipe for a perfect Carnatic song 49Senseless 50Death? 51Bed Timing 52Change 53The Scorpion 54A ripple of fear 54Summer 54Aye August 55Heartbroken 55October Night, Kashmir 56Goal... 56Recipe for a Perfect teacher 57Scurrying away to glory 57

Gold 61Sachin Tendulkar 61My Friend and I 62From A Spaceship Blue 62My Grandmother 63Fireman 63My Message for School Sports Day 64Clerihew 64Day Dreams 65My pet 65Why Dragons Blow Fire 66Excerpts from ‘My Teacher’ ? Aug 2010?a topic given by Deepa in her Englishclass. 67The Tunnel of Adventure 67Haiku 68The Great Banyan Tree 68Tiger on the Prowl 68Night in the Afternoon 68Saved by the Tree 68Beauty of Rain 68Choco River 69Friends! 69A Tower Named Empire 70Blast from the Past 70Why? 71The perfect place 71Goodbye Mr Phobia 72An Accident 73Biography 74Autobiography 74My lovable brother and Me 75The Unique One 76Roller Skating Down the Boardwalk* 77Riding on an Antelope 78Computer Conflict 79

Articles from the current year... 59I Am Sweet, Sweet, Sweet 60The Tree of Fire 60

C O N T E N T S


Srinagar 80A Friend Who Always has a Smile 81The Most Kind Hearted People 81The City of Leh-Ladakh 82Creamy Delight 83A Healthy Diet 84Harry the Weary 84Food 85Blind 86Pain 87Helpless 88The Letter 89A Good Diet 90A Memory 91The Match 92Krishna Brothers 93Escaped 95My Mother’s Influence on Me 95My Brother 96A Question of Equality 97Not Such a Perfect Day After All 98A Tale of Two Brothers 99Wet Fire Set Me Free 100Free Writing 101Money is the Root of all Evil? 102Money is the Root Cause of all Evil 103Flipping through a Poet’s Note Book 105Hookey 105The Beginning of the End 108Home Bound 109"Boys will be Boys" 110Farewell 112The Library 112

Graffix Galore ... 115Julius Caesar 116Animal Farm 119

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A Special Feature ... 191A Letter... 192

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C O N T E N T S


EditorialAs one moves away from the junior school, the fragrance of the Night Queen lingers in theair and the noises of the children recede into the background. For a short while you entera zone where you can actually see butterflies flitting around and hear the birds and thebees. Soon you enter the portals of the senior school. Unlike in the junior school there areno energy outbursts here. The senior most classes are either fishing around the pond atone end or lying around in a daze at the other end. At the staffroom there is themonotonous clickety clack of the computer keys. When you leave these two zones youslowly submerge into a vortex of space, silence or noise depending on the direction youtake. Alongside all this, there exists a parallel world of squirrels, monkeys, caterpillars etc.How can anyone capture such diversity and richness within these pages?

As you browse through the articles you get a whiff of life at RV that lingers on like thefragrance of the night flowers. At the very start there is a small piece on creativity byKrishnamurti. One would like to keep the question alive, “Or is there a different kind ofcreativity which is born out of the freedom from the known?” The articles are in a certainorder. A few articles from old students have been included. They were meant to be in theschool magazine a few years ago, but somehow they have a found a way into this magazineweaving a thread of continuity from the past. It is an interesting exercise to see how theyoung mind looks at the world around as compared to an older student. The Palash was inbloom only for two weeks or so but young Siddharth from Prep has caught this in his poemand has even made a model of one. For Karunya of Class 12, it is the Tamarind tree that tugsat the heart strings.

None of these articles have been written for the purpose of the magazine. They havefound their way in here straight from the class notebooks. So sometimes you may findmultiple voices on a similar subject. If you are one of those persons who is pressed for timeand impatient, you may find a few articles repetitive. But if you are in the right frame ofmind, it is fascinating to see how the same teacher and the same topic can produce suchindividual responses. A point in case are the set of poems on healthy food habits bystudents of class 7. In Losang’s poem ‘Harry the Weary’ there is earthy humour in theunwanted weight that Harry is carrying. Chhavvi's poem on the other hand is very matter offact : “Food is good/Food is bad/It depends on your taste?”. Many of the articles have in factbeen taken from the test papers. For instance, Aravind's Question of Equality was a part ofhis first series paper. It gives immense pleasure to note that even in an exam situationsome students can be deeply reflective. Credit goes both to the teachers and the studentsfor the choice of topics. There are two diverse yet interesting approaches to the debate:‘Money is the root of all Evil’. This issue of the magazine has articles by the teachers as well.Once again, some of these were not specifically written for the magazine but have beenadapted from the assembly talks. Incidentally, the issue also includes a letter that studentsof Class 11 have written to NAC on the Food Security Bill and Sonia Gandhi's reply to thisletter. We hope that you will enjoy going through this issue of the Rishi Valley Schoolmagazine.

— Editors


What is creativity?Question: What is true creativity and how isit different from that which is soconsidered in popular culture?

“Jiddu Krishnamurti - What is generallycalled creativity is man-made - painting,music, literature, romantic and factual, allthe architecture and the marvels oftechnology. And the painters, the writers,the poets, probably consider themselvescreative. We all seem to agree with thatpopular idea of a creative person. Manyman-made things are most beautiful, thegreat cathedrals, temples and mosques;some of them are extraordinarily beautifuland we know nothing of the people whobuilt them.

But now, with us, anonymity is almostgone. With anonymity there is a different

kind of creativity, not based on success, money - twenty-eight million books sold in tenyears! Anonymity has great importance; in it there is a different quality; the personalmotive, the personal attitude and personal opinion do not exist; there is a feeling offreedom from which there is action.

But most man-made creativity, as we call it, takes place from the known. The greatmusicians, Beethoven, Bach and others, acted from the known. The writers andphilosophers have read and accumulated; although they developed their own style theywere always moving, acting or writing, from that which they had accumulated - the known.And this we generally call creativity. ““Is that really creative? Or is there a different kind ofcreativity which is born out of the freedom from the known? Because when we paint,write, or create a marvellous structure out of stone, it is based on the accumulatedknowledge carried from the past to the present. Now, is there a creativity totally differentfrom the activity that we generally call creativity? ““Is there a living, is there a movement,which is not from the known? That is, is there a creation from a mind that is not burdenedwith all the turmoils of life, with all the social and economic pressures? Is there a creationout of a mind that has freed itself from the known? ““Generally we start with the knownand from that we create, but is there a creative impulse or movement taking place that canuse the known, but not the other way round? In that state of mind, creation, as we know it,may not be necessary. ““Is creativity something totally different, something which we canall have - not only the specialist, the professional, the talented and gifted? I think we canall have this extraordinary mind that is really free from the burdens which man hasimposed upon himself.


Out of that sane, rational, healthy mind, something totally different comes which may notnecessarily be expressed as painting, literature or architecture. Why should it? If you gointo this fairly deeply, you will find that there is a state of mind which actually has noexperience whatsoever. Experience implies a mind that is still groping, asking, seeking andtherefore struggling in darkness and wanting to go beyond itself. ““There is a complete andtotal answer to the question if we apply our minds and our hearts to it; there is a creativitywhich is not man-made. If the mind is extraordinarily clear without a shadow of conflict,then it is really in a state of creation; it needs no expression, no fulfilment, no publicity andsuch nonsense.

From Questions and Answers : Krishnamurti Foundation Trust Ltd, UK

— Jiddu Krishnamurti


Photo Gallery...


ISC 2011 (Class 12)

Top-bottom

Row 1: Rathik, Nikhil, Anika, Tushar, Mustafa, Shashank, Chirag, Jaideep, Sooraj, Nirvair

Row 2: Ismat, Ira, Avinash, Sudeepti, Raksha

Row 3: Leila, Samyukta, Karunya, Darshan, Rukma

Row 4: Sowmya, Anisha, Tulika, Siddhartha Menon(Class Teacher), Nishyta, Nehal,Sindhoora

Row 5: Niranchana, Ashni, Muhil, Harini, Amoli, Diskit, Suditi


ICSE 2011 (Class 10 A)

Top row: Rhea, Vaibhav, Naveen, Krishna Menon (Class Teacher), Bharath, Prashant,Athyuttam, Mohnish

Middle row: Kaya, Tara Nair, Likhita, Prajna, Mukthi, Alekhya, Tara, Prateek, Romus

Bottom row: Rishik, Chandril, Vaishno, Krithika, Chetana, Aditi, Abhay, Sai Manoj


ICSE 2011 (Class 10 B)

Top row: Aditya,Rahul,Sunil Thomas (Class Teacher), Sahas, Soham, Mihir, Brihadeesh,Sameera, Tanya,

Middler row: Shubham, Sathvik, Santhosh,Sarvesh, Rishiraj, Abhivir, Aravind, Malasree

Bottom row: Madhunika, Malavika Nair, Malavika, Nandita, Ilina, Megha, Muktika, Savitri


Tagore festival


Sports Day - Moments of Glory


Life goes on in RV...


Middle and Senior school Excursions


Hi Five


From the teachers’ pen


SOME RANDOM THOUGHTS

Recently I came across a book titled 'One hundred places to see before you die.' In a similarvein one can expect titles like 'One thousand movies to watch,' “Ten thousand books toread,' 'One million websites to visit,' 'One billion experiences to have,' etc. Now howfeasible is it to do all these ? Who has the time, energy or money for all these ? How manylifetimes are needed to fulfil all these ? If you haven't done even a billionth part of theseis your life wasted or pointless ? How does one navigate in this ocean ofinformation,edification, entertainment, personality development, spiritual upliftmentand so on ? What is the place of just being, by yourself, doing nothing, going nowhere ?What is the right balance between doing and being ? What about those who lived beforesome of these offerings appeared- before TV, movies, the internet ? Were their lives notworth living ? What about the inventions and developments of the future ? Is our life thepoorer for not having them ? If you had a choice of which epoch of human history youwould like to be part of, what would you choose ? Some may have a definite answer to this-they may choose a time associated with their faith, or a time when their favourite hero wasin action, for instance; some may choose a period in the future, but how far in the future ?Is there a way of being which does not belong to any time ? In children and sometimes inadults too I see a yearning for the past; this could be a reaction to the increasing pace ofsocial and technological change; I see a lot of interest in mythology, archeology, theprimitive, fantasies that try to link the past and the future, etc. We all would like totranscend time, to overcome the tyranny of time. Coming back to the original question-with how much of 'experience ' do I fill my life ? Since there is no end to the possibilitiesthe best way out seems to be to say 'Well, your experience is as good as mine. ' Is this whatK meant when he said 'You are the whole of mankind.' We often wish ourselves and othersa happy time. But is happiness the ultimate value ? I feel that wholeness is a greater value.To take an anology, a meal is not complete if it is all sweet- it should cater to all the tastesthat our tongue can sense. A book or movie is called an epic if it has a place for a variety ofemotions. In the same vein a life is complete only when all our faculties are engaged –when we feel part of all mankind or even all life.

— Dr. A Ramachandran

Teachers Section


TECHNOLOGY

He had come along with a few others to spend some time at the study centre discussingKrishnamurti's teachings. He was sitting on the floor right in front watching a video ofKrishnamurti's talk. His attention was equally divided between the TV screen and themuch smaller one of the phone in front of him.

He was on the swing with one hand on the chain, gently moving back and forth. I thoughtfor a moment he was reliving his childhood memories. He was holding a cellphone withthe other hand close to his left ear, and seemed completely oblivious to his surroundings.He stared at me vacantly as I went past him.

While she was explaining why she was visiting the school and how she got interested inKrishnamurti's teachings, a peculiar sound emanated from her handbag. She wasembarrassed and fumbled in the many pockets of the bag to ferret out the little flashingdevice. She turned it off and put it away with a note of apology but not before satisfyingher curiosity to find out the identity of the caller.

It was quite dark, with just a few shafts of light from REC filtering through the treesilluminating patches of the road here and there. The air was still. Even the frogs whichnormally croaked loudly were silent for some reason. There was however a loud talk goingon at the second bridge. A stranger was seated comfortably on the wall of the bridge intypical village fashion and was speaking into his cellphone. Wildly gesticulating he wasgiving someone a graphic account of what he would do to that person, his wife, his motherand several others, with a torrent of unprintable expletives.

She was sitting silently on the stone bench and looking up intently at the banyan tree. I waskeen to not disturb her contemplation as I walked past. I soon noticed she was talking tosomeone in a whispering tone over her phone.

It was a private concert. A young man was sitting on the floor quite close to the musicians.He seemed to know them well and the intricacies of music too, for he was shaking his headrather vigorously and his hand slapping his thigh furiously in tune with the mridangam. Hisengagement with the music didn't however prevent him from frequently fiddling with thebuttons on his cellphone and look for messages.

I was pleasantly surprised to see, from a distance, that he had actually stopped his two-wheeler on the side of the road to take a phone call. He had turned towards the bushes onthe side and was talking softly into the phone held by his right hand. It was only when Iapproached him I realised he was also relieving himself nonchalantly.

Every new technology is heralded in with the promise of radically changing our lives forever. Technology is only a facilitator and an amplifier -- of both good and bad.

— Dr. A Kumaraswamy


Some Well Known and Lesser Known TalesAkbar-Birbal Story

I. Why is the camel's neck crooked?

As you all know, Emperor Akbar was impressed with Birbal's wisdom and greatly enjoyedhis quick wit. One fine morning when Akbar was pleased with Birbal, as a gesture ofappreciation, he promised to reward him with many valuable gifts. However, many dayspassed,and still there was no sign of even one gift. Birbal was quite disappointed with theking. Then one day, When Akbar was strolling down the banks of river Yamuna with his everfaithful Birbal at his side, he happened to notice a camel passing by. He asked why the neckof the camel was crooked. Birbal thought for a second and promptly replied that it mightbe because the camel may have forgotten to honour a promise. Akabar soon realised hisfolly of making a promise to Birbal for gifts and not honoring it. As soon as the y returned tothe palace he immediately gave the promised gifts.

II. Why do cats chase rats?

Thousands of years ago, The Jade Emperor of China organised a race for animals. The first12 animals to finish were to be given a place in the Chinese Zodiac and have a year namedafter them. The Cat and the rat, both late risers asked the ox to wake them at dawn on theday of the race. Came the day. The Ox tried to wake the cat and the rat but without success.They would open their eyes, turn to the other side and go back to sleep. The race was aboutto start, Unwilling to leave them, the Ox coaxed them on to his back and started running.The rat woke up just as the ox was crossing the last hurdle, a river. The sly rat knew that hecould never beat the cat in the race. So the rat pushed the cat off the ox's back. When theox reached the other side, the rat jumped off and scampered to victory, just ahead of theox. The tiger came third. The 12 year cycle of the Chinese Zodiac begins with the rat. Afterhim came the ox, followed by the tiger. After them the rabbit,dragon,snake,horse,goat,monkey,rooster,dog and pig. The Cat, it must be noted has no place in the Zodiac. Shewasn't among the first twelve. Infact she was lucky to finish the race, having almostdrowned in the river. So is it any wonder that cats chase rats? They can never forget thehumiliation heaped on their ancestor by a tricky rodent.

Riddles

1. A cow going north turns round so that it is now facing south. If it then turns to the eastwhich way will its tail be pourting?

2. Why didn't the ambitions scientist have a bell on his door?

3. You are a big game hunter and you got a message saying that a huge elephant is on therampage and has to be shot. What would you do?

— Vijaya Santhanam

Answers: 1 Downwards. (2) He wanted the no-bell (Nobel) prize. (3) Nothing Blue elephants don't exist.


Subramania Bharati

What Shakespeare is to England so is Bharti to Tamil Nadu, What Valmiki is to Sanskrit,

Bankim to Bengali so is Bharati to Tamil . He packed so much achievement in an all-too brief

period of 39 years so and so that he is hailed as a Mahakavi. He wrote about 500 poems,short and long, lyrics and ballads. Born at Ettayapuram in the Tirunelvelli District on Dec11,1822. He studied upto matriculation, married at the age of 15 and left for Varanasi tocontinue his studies. He passed the Allahabad University Entrance Examination but choseto return to Ettayapuram. He taught in a school for a few months, moved to Chennai andjoined a Tamil daily `Swadesamithran'

(Friend of the country). He found himself in the company of the radicals at the SuratSession of the

Congress in 1907. His meeting with Tilak was one of the momentous episodes of his life. Hehad great admiration for sister Nivedita to whom he dedicated one of his books.He wasinfluenced by Bankim Chandra Chatterjee. Whose `Vande Mataram' he translated intoTamil.

He was a patriot poet to whom freedom was his breath and poetry his soul. His `Purestthoughts' about life, god and nation found their sweet and sublime expression in hispoetry. Prof A Srinivasaraghavan writes about Bharati . 'Bharati freed Tamil poetry fromthe affectation and pedantry of Pandits, the religiosity of `Sthala Puranas' and theobscurities of and theological posing. He had it firmly planted on this earth, had fed it withthe joys and sorrows of men and by securing for it sincerity and truth, had enabled it in theonly manner possible, to reach out in its large life' embracing sweep from realism toreality. He substituted experience for formula, expression for ornamentation, incision forcatch-phrases, and the spirit of poetry was re-born in Tamil Land.

Alas, what was said of Homer was equally applicable to him: 'Seven; wealthy townscontend for Homer dead, through which the living Homer begged his bread'. Bharati'sclaim to greatness rests chiefly on him being 'a peoples poet'.

— Viyaya Santhanam


MLV and Me – An Incredible JourneyThe Journey begins

It was perhaps in July or August of 1978 when I was told that MLV might join Rishi ValleySchool (RVS) . The Proposal had been mooted by Sri C V Narasimhan and his cousinJayalakshmi Ammal who was a close friend of the KFI and a great connoisseur of music. Iremember my immediate response –how will a top-notch musician, used to greatadulation survive in the self effective atmosphere of RV. To this day I have felt very happywith the fact that I was proved completely wrong.

A couple of weeks later I heard that MLV was actually on the campus and she was keen tomeet me. I had long been a student of music and the word must have got around. As soonas she saw me, she said that she had seen me in many of her Kutcheris. I then gentlyreminded her that she had sung for my wedding. Immediately she said – Yes, was it in '58 or59?” I was amazed as it indeed was in April of '59 that she had sung at my weddingreception. In fact, I had gone to her house with my mama to request her so sing for mywedding – Vikatam Murthy was a close friend of my uncle!

There is no dearth of coincidences in one's life. When my son's wedding was fixed, I cameto know that MLV had also sung at my Sambandhi's wedding reception – and of course shealso sang at my son's wedding for which the venue was Guruvayoor. Needless to say, thekriti “Guruvayoorappane Appan” in the raaga Ritigowla was the highlight of the evening'sperformance.

Coming back to that meetings with MLV in Rishi Valley, before they returned to Chennai,Jayalakshmi Ammal called me that I should see myself as a bridge between the school andMLV.

The rest was history – as they say. The eminent mridangam maestro Sri Palghat Mani Iyerwas already there in RV and with MLV's arrival, the valley resonated with music of thehighest quality.

Rishi Valley School (RVS) is a fully residential school in a remote part of Andhra Pradesh.Established by J Krishnamurti in 1931. RVS has always had a strong tradition of music anddance, Many doyens of music would perform every year during Krishnaji's visit to RV. Ofcourse, with these two doynes living on the campus, it was indeed a landmark that neededto be celebrated.

In J.Krishnamurti's own words:

The country was beautiful; it had rained recently, the night before. There were hills andthe red earth; they were not thundering hills but gentle and old, some of the oldest onearth, and in the evening light they were serene, with that ancient blue which only certainhills have. Some were rocky and barren, others had scrubby bushes and a few had some


trees, but they were friendly as though they had seen all sorrow, and the earth at their feetwas red.

In the midst of the evening light and the hills becoming more blue and the red earth richer,the otherness came silently with benedictions.

(From K' s Notebook)

It was into this sacred atmosphere that MLV entered and wholly embraced the spirit of thevalley. Right from Day 1, MLV settled into an entirely new phase in her life in RV with greatcomfort and a sense of deep belonging.

Together we did a short-listing of students who could be trained by her. The groupconsisting of girls and few boys, were from several parts of India. None of them had priorformal training in music other than having been trained in singing the various songs for theschool assembly ranging from short classical pieces to Bhajans and several Vedic Chantsand Shlokas.

MLV as a Teacher

For me as a passionate lover of music, it was a lifetime of learning and a great privilege tosee the sensitivity and insight fullness that MLV brought to teaching Carnatic music to thisgroup. Today, I can say with certainty that this was possible only because MLV's innate loveand care for fellow human beings and especially young minds. Never would there be awhiff of a celebrity status in anything she did for that matter. She taught them simple AdiTala Varnams, attractive short Krithis, along with Thukdas. I would like to highlight themanner in which the songs were taught. She would deliberately choose songs withattractive Chittaiswarams and begin teaching the swarams first. I realized that this wasgreat motivation for the students that made the group so eager to learn the song havingabsorbed the raaga bhaava and the permutations and combinations throught thefascinating swara patterns. I can still remember Sobillusaptaswara (Jaganmohini) andNeepadame (Nalinakanti) in particular. The children loved rendering the chittaiswarams


in two kalams, of course blissfully unaware that they were led quite unobtrusively into theworld of raagam and swara gnanam.

Another windfall for all of us was her sharing with us part of the treasure trove of Kritis shehad learnt from GNB. There were about 5 voluminous note books and she would choosesuch beautiful songs for this group. And we all know what GNB's compositions were like.Purandara Dasa Kritis became part of the repertoire of the music group.

Yet another windfall that came our way was Sri Lalgudi Jayaraman's Thillanas. That was thetime (late '70's and early '80's) he had started composing them. He would share them withKanyakumari and request to pass them to MLV. She and I literally learnt these Thillanastogether and then she would teach the children the same. Mohanakalyani Thillana was thefirst one that came to us. I used to be fascinated by the ease with which she led thechildren through the world of Sri Lalgudi's creative genius. Behag, Revathi and Rageshrifollowed, along with Swati Tirunals Dhanasri Thillana. In fact Behag Thillana was taught tous by Kanyakumari.

The concept of a weekly special assembly of 20 minutes was introduced every Friday at8:30 AM, where this senior group would share what they had learnt, with the rest of theschool. MLV formatted them like a mini-kutcheri – sharing with a Varnam in 2 kalamsfollowed by a madhyakala kriti, A light thukada and a thillana. RVS always had in housemridangam training for many students. Hence there assemblies had excellent percussionsupport form the mridangam master as well. She had this tremendous arul sense andhence chose songs that lent themselves well to group singing, whilst never compromisingon quality. One striking example that comes to mind is “Bhaja Re Manandsa” in Abheri in 2kalai chowkams. It would sound so beautiful when rendered by the group and had apredominantly lay audience mesmerised. Shyamala Bhave, a noted Hindustani musicianfrom Bangalore also visited RVS during this time and taught some beautiful Abhangs.Maaze Manoratha” -- and abhang by Namdeo, taught to us by Shyamala Bhave would havethe audience swaying to the beat of “Kesava, Madhava, Narayana...”.

I would see her in the auditorium tuning the Tambura along with the mridangist at 8:00 Am.I used to tease her about taking these assemblies even more seriously than her Kucherisand she would respond seriously saying -- -- “one must always give respect to the “Sabai -- the audience”. “The Audience” was made up of 90% students in the age group of 9 to 17and 10% Staff Members... What commitment!!

MLV as a Composer

As I had stated earlier, RV had a strong tradition of Bharatanatyam Ballets (Dance dramas)as well. With MLV's arrival and her musical inputs in this area, the ballets were madememorable. “silappadikaram” was staged in Krishna Gana Sabha and “Shakuntalam” in theMusic Academy. Composing music for these dance-drama was a process of self-discoveryfor MLV. She had never done this before. She and I would meet every night after dinner ather house to set music for songs. Words can never adequately describe the entire process.I would be astounded by the ease with which she would choose an appropriate raaga tosuit the context and unleash variations from which she would ask me choose -- “Hobson'schoice” obviously!! every time this happened – and this was on a daily basis the only


striking visual that would come in front of my eyes was of a very intuitive salesman in asaree shop who would spread before you sizzling array of sarees, which made choosing avery challenging task. I would also be deeply touched and feel very privileged that she hadsuch implicit faith in my Gnanam. Those were heady days when she adapted the KhamasDaru for a dance in “Silappadikaram”, by “Madhavi” in the royal court. Since she had taughtme the Raagamaalike “Sancharadadhara”, I remember requesting her to introduce Gavatifor a song in “Shakuntalam” as well as Karnaranjani. This immediately resulted in thismagical duet for Shakuntala and Dushyanthan to dance – the main raaga being Karnaranjini,with Gavati making a striking appearance in the Raagamaalika.

Yet another unforgettable song was for a musical play “Karna” where this extraordinarylilting lullby was created as Kunti sets afloat the basket with the baby Karna on the river -- “Maiya Hari Paalan Dulaare...” We had strong Sanskrit, Telugu and Hindi departments andthe senior teachers from these departments would give us invaluable inputs that added aphenomenally qualitative dimension to the project. I could go on and on...

When “Shakuntalam” was staged in the Music Academy, the audience consists of stalwartsin the field of music, dance and literature. Many had brought Kalidasa's Shakuntalam withthem for reference! When the ballet ended, there was not a single dry eye – so movedwere they by the experience. And with Sudha's extraordinary voice quality providing vocalsupport, all these productions had a magical quality to them. Also, this was a facet of MLVthat Chennai had not known. I remember how Semmngudi Mama came up to MLV visiblymoved and excited saying – “Vasanthi, I never realized you had this in you (Compoing suchenchanting music)”.

MLV as a Friend

If after all these years I am able to recollect so much it is only because of the almostinstantaneous bonding that happened between us. The passion for music was whatinitially drew me to her. Then from closer quarters, I could perceive the great human beingthat she was – a “giver” at all levels. Further down the line we realized that we had bothcome to RVS after experiencing personal tragedy of varying degrees. This brought us evencloser together at one level. Both music and children as 'healer” was a tremendous insightthat we both shared. Music and life were also closely and deeply intertwined that it helpedus see both finding their right places during the course of this journey.

At a banal level too we also had shared interests! A lover of good food, MLV introduced meto Pizzas at “Cake and Bakes” in Chennai. Ice Cream was yet another favourite and she hadno qualms enjoying it. She had a terrific dress sense and we have enjoyed many shoppingexpeditions together particularly when we had to shop for costumes for the dance-drama.That we ended up picking sarees for ourselves was another matter. Generous to a fault, shewould always get me a beautiful saree whenever she got back to RV after a concert.

...And that reminds me of the tense moments when a colleague of mine and I were watingfor her return to RV around 11:pm after her tumultuous trip to Sri Lanka. We knew that sheand her accompanists had a narrow escape from the riotous mob which had gone berserk.Considering the trauma and tension she had just been through, we were very concerned.And all she had to say after greeting us was -- “I am so sorry, I have come empty handed –


couldn't get you all anything”. This, after having lost all of her personal belongings;including the treasure trove of GNB's compositions in 5 volumes. Need I say anythingmore!

The Journey Continues

I left Rishi Vally in 1989 as I needed a much deserved break and rest . Leaving RVS and MLVwas not easy. There were some disturbing symptoms on her health front that had causedme some concern even at that time. Well, events took their own relentless course and herhealth deteriorated. I used to get regular updates on her health, both from friends in RVand Chennai. I was in Pune with my son. I knew that she had been admitted to St. Isabella'sHospital. Sometime in October I sent her a get-well card wherein I also stated that I wouldbe in Chennai for the music festival in December and looked forward to seeing her onstage.

My son and I had gone visiting a friend in Pune on a 2 wheeler. On our way back, we werecaught in the rain and completely drenched by the time we got home. I went to my room todry my hair and switched on the TV to casually watch the news. The NEWS left meparalised. Who can fight death? But it wasn't easy accepting it. Later, I heard that my Get-well card was firmly ensconsed under her pillow. But the physical agony of her ailmentmust have made her cry out -- “Innu daya baarathe, daasana mele...”. And the Lord decidedwith deep compassion to free her form her mortal coils. It was a liberation on all fronts forher – but for mortals like me there would always be a space that would be difficult to fill.

The memorable, mystical journey with this wonderful, compassionate, giving spirit – MLV– continues to this day into uncharted territories of music.

— Uma Akka


Chitrakavyam

(Kavyadarsha of Dandi - 600 AD)

The God Vishnu who causes pleasure to the other gods and pain to the opponents of theVedas, filled the heavens with a loud sound as he killed the Hiranyakashipu.

(Sishupalavadham of Magha – 700 AD)

The fearless elephant, who was like a burden to the earth because of its heavy weight,whose sound was like a kettle drum, and who was like a dark cloud, attacked the enemyelephant.

(Kiratharjuneeyam of Bharavi- 600 AD)

A man is not a man who is wounded by a low man. Similarly he is also not a man whowounds a low man. The wounded one is not considered to be wounded if his master isunwounded. And he who wounds a man who is already wounded, is not a man.



Sri Krishna, the giver of every boon, the enemy of the evil-minded, the purifier, the onewhose arms can annihilate the wicked who causes sufferings to others, shot his pain-causing arrow at the enemy.


Balarama, the great warrior and winner of great wars, shining like Shukra and Brhihaspati,the destroyer of wandering enemies, went to the battle like a lion stopping the movementof his foes, who were endowed with a four-fold army.

(Saraswathi Kantabharanam of Bhoja – 1000 AD)

Oh you, who bathes in the current of the rippling Ganga; you have no acquaintance with thesuffering world; you have the ability to go till the Meru mountains and you are not underthe control of the crooked senses.


Oh Lord Siva, the possessor of three eyes, the knower of existence, measurer anddestroyer of the earth, enjoyer of the eight-fold superhuman power and nine treasures ofKubera, you who killed Daksha and Kamadeva, do remember me.


(Haravijayam of Ratnakara – 850 AD)

The gods took refuge in Brihaspati, the lord of speech, the preceptor of the gods in heaven,when they went for the battle. They prayed so that he would remain happy and strong, andnot withdraw into unconsciousness, again and again.


It is very difficult to face this army which is endowed with elephants as big as mountains.This is a very great army and the shouting of frightened people is heard.


Oh immortals, indeed the lover of sharp swords, the fearless man does not tremble like afrightened man in this battle full of beautiful chariots and demons who are devourers ofmen.

Ramakrishna Kavyam of Surya Kavi)

I pay my homage to him who released Sita, whose laughter is deep, whose embodiment isgrand and from whom mercy and splendour arise everywhere. (Rama)


I bow down before Krishna, the descendant of Yadava family, who is the lord of the sun aswell as the moon, who liberated even her (Poothana) who wanted to bring an end to hislife, and who is the soul of this entire universe. (Krishna)

(Kiratharjuneeyam of Bharavi – 600 AD)


Oh man who desires war! This is that battlefield which excites even the gods, where thebattle is not of words. Here people fight and stake their lives not for themselves but forothers. Here those who are eager for battle and even those who are not very eager, have tofight.

(Padukasahasram of Sri Vedanta Desikan – 1200 AD)


(Padukasahasram of Sri Vedanta Desikan – 1200 AD)

— RajgopalThe reference book name is "The Wonder That is Sanskrit"

written by Sampad and Vijay published by Aurobindo Society


Articles from yester years...


The morning of November 23rd, 2009

The morning of November 23rd, 2009 did not appear to be unusual in any way; at least untilpeople opened their doors to collect their post and newspapers. At the time, I wasenjoying my yearly vacation. I used to wake up late in the mornings. I was alone at home.

When I went to collect my newspaper, shortly after brushing my teeth, I noticed a ratherunusual object in the sky. It appeared to be some kind of a rudimentary spaceship. I gazedat it, transfixed for a while, then decided that I must be hallucinating because my ten hoursof sleep were extremely inadequate, and went inside to consider the prospect ofrejuvenating myself with a short siesta, in order to avoid future hallucinations such as thisone.

By some vague chance, I put on my television ? to help me in my aim of rejuvenating myfatigued mind. The programmes on the T.V. were interesting for a change. They all showedthe same thing ? the vague-looking spacecraft ? like the object I saw. An American manwith a nasal voice would then appeal on any television screen, following the footage of therather featureless spacecraft, telling people that the ‘situation’ was ‘under control’. Healso said that employees of all space agencies were working hard to establish contact withthis spacecraft, but to no avail. He then repeated that the situation was under control.

I went outside again, and gave a small wave at this harmless looking spacecraft. It wassaucer-shaped, and was brightly coloured. It was otherwise very plain looking. It was fairlylarge too. I was rather disappointed by the fact that it looked exactly like the flying saucersI used to draw in my childhood. People around me kept waking up, screaming and runningaround. Some people also got into their cars and drove away, probably with the aim ofleaving the planet before armageddon. I went back inside.

At about mid-afternoon, I heard a knock on my door. The people knocking looked ratherunusual. They appeared to look like rabbits dressed up for a business meeting. I openedthe door, and asked them to come in. They thanked me, speaking in perfect English, thoughwith a slight Irish accent.

"We have gauged that this is the native tongue of Gumball Starros (Minor) 7", said one ofthe businessman ? Rabbits. I told them, at that juncture, that this planet was the earth. Thesecond Rabbit ? businessman then reproached the first one, and told him that they shouldhave turned right at Alpha Centauri, and not left. Then I asked them why they had come tomy house. ‘You waved at us’ they told me, in unison.

The first Rabbit businessman then asked me, very politely, the shortest route to GamballaStarros (Minor) 7. It was turning out to be a rather unusual day. I told them that I had no ideawhat Gamballa (etc.) was, and that Earthlings have not started travelling between planets.They laughed politely, and the second creature asked me the question again. They told methat they were encyclopedia salesmen, for the ‘Encyclopedia Galactica’, and had receiveda very large number of orders from Gumballa 7. They therefore could not afford to wasteany more time. I told them to wait, and went to my computer to look up the address of


NASA. Telling them this address was difficult, but they did eventually understand. Theythanked me, and we all sat in my living room, drinking orange juice. They left at about sixp.m. - thoroughly sozzled by the great quantity of orange juice I had in my fridge. They gaveme a complimentary copy of their encyclopedia.

After dinner, I put on my television to see that the United States of America and all otherpowers were mobilising their nuclear weapons to blow this spaceship out off the sky. Thesame American said that the NASA ‘tricked’ two hideous beings to land in theirheadquarters. These beings ‘threatened to turn people into encyclopedias’ and ‘drank a lotof orange juice’. They were thus terminated by a shotgun. There were thought to bereinforcements in the spaceship, which, after this ‘trick’ ? were not responding ? just asbefore.

At 11:30, I went out, and I could make out missiles flying at the spaceship ? all missing thespaceship. Later, I heard a loud explosion ? the auto defence mechanism of the spaceshipkicked in, and it left the planet in a great hurry. The remaining rabbits made it out of earthsafely, thankfully. It was well after midnight when it all ended.

– Abhay V Rao


Limericks

There once was a bad boy from Dreamland.All the while he hoped to own the land.So he was in vain,and went to Spain,That boy was in vain from Dreamland.

– Anirban Musib

July Night, Hyderabad

Dark, cool nightThe dogs sang, in the rainThe thunders blocked the moon,Where the fallen leaves got washed out.

I was walking in a dense road,Where the water gushed like a snake.The giant droplets splashed on my feet,As I waded in the cool waters.

I could feel the warmth,Delicious aroma wafts from a window.Hunger and thirstHaunted me for long.

No place go go,But lived once like a lion.Now on the streets I crave for something,Beauty and peace till I die.

— Akshitha Jasti


Epitaph of William of Occam

Here lies William of OccamWho met his endFor turning Gods into stones,By people whoTurned stones into God.

— Aravind, VIII A


All an Illusion

The seven sisters were awakeThe rats ignored my presenceAnd the air stung,For it was dawning, the Sunday.

Hesitant, a small body climbed downDown the roof to the stone benchThe bench where I sat.It was a common squirrel.

Its three white stripes showed at twilightThe strips so talked about in folkloreIts golden-brown body glistened with dewAs it dropped softly on the ground.

Its muscles were tense, taut

And smoothness accompanied its movements.Its shaggy tail thumped as it calledIts sweet birdlike note.

As it gave a sweeping look, its head fugitiveHis eyes stopped uncertainly on meWhen I looked harder, deeper in its eyes,I found eloquence and superiority.

All at once, a door bangedA rude awakening to my happy tranceAnd in bounds too quick for me to seeIt was gone, the squirrel, the mysterious one.

I had never thought something so small,So ill-considered to be cuteHad the power to take over meFor those small, but precious momentsCalled life.

— Gitanjali


May Murmurs, Bogmallo (Goa)

The light vanished into darkAs fast as blowing out a candleAnd now, the full moon had returnedLike a queen to her realm.

As the moon rode among her subjectsI was looking far below, at the seaTossing and turning in her sleep like a childDisturbed and dangerously beautiful.

As her blanket rippled and spreadReaching out like deadly feelersI was entranced by the shimmer of her wavesAs if under a hypnotic spell.

Her breath ruffled my hairJust as a mother cares for her childAnd sand slowly covered me in a blanketAs I slowly drifted to sleep.

— Gitanjali

KABIRAt first sight he looked like an angelUmm.... Second sight proved notHe was named after a saintBut took up after the devil.Green day was what he listened toHip Hops was what he woreBurping was one of his interestsSubmitting chem was notHe died while on cloud 9And now rests somewhere above!

– John Kos


How to operate Mr Walky Dog

• Even though this is a mechanical dog, do not underestimate it as it excretes oil fromtime to times, so please take it for walks twice a day.

• Please do not anger Mr Walky Dog, as if angered, his metal teeth might rip your leg off,and your life insurance does not come with this package.

• Please do not make him too happy either, as if he jumps on you, his heavy metalframe might bring you down to the ground.

• Please feed him regularly,twice a day, that is, each meal of his should consist of about300 grams of nuts and bolts. If you do not feed him enough, he might eat you, and aswe told you earlier, your life insurance does not come with this package.

• Please do not give him bones, he does not chew them, he eats them.

• This dog’s warranty expires at the time you get fed up with him and throw him in yournearest scrap metal recycling centre.

Tongue Twisters

John the jackass jumped from the jaws of the jagged toothed Japanese jumping shark.

– Kabir David

Summer

Unbearable heat,Sweat dripping,Clothes drenched with foul stinky smell,Cursing the bright, spherical, huge sun.

Children licking icecreamsamusement parks cramped with peoplePeople suffering from sunstrokeshospitals running out of antibiotics.

Even the animals are not happy.Dogs running like lunaticsbecause of the heat,all wanting the corrosive summer to depart.

– Manoj G


Horror-work

I hate them,I’ll get back at them...Someday...Holidays are meant to be fun,not filled with home-work and studying.I can’t wait to pass out of school.Then I won’t have that burden of home-workever again in my life.I can’t walk to go back homeI’ll tear all those booksto shredsThey’ll be in tattersand after thisI’ll burn them alland watch them curl up,black things, squirming, squiggling in the fire.It will be so niceAll those memories of my eight standard school workwill go up in the blazing inferno.And I will be standing thereTriumphant, vanquishing.All those days of anguish,those days of traumagone up in a cloud of smoke.But I don’t careI am never going to miss it.Now, I am self-governedAfter being bossed over by everyoneAll those days of trauma and anguishGone foreverGone up in smokeBut even after all this,Grown ups will never understand.

– Natasha Rao


USA can never replace India

The United States of America has always been a distant dream, a slightly hazy mentalpicture drawn in close reference with Hindi films about non-residential Indians. The landof opportunities, as it is often called, has also had a fascinating appeal associated with it.The country that was built up by immigrants stands with arms wide open today, welcomingmore of those immigrants who helped create the country. As I wander through thecorridors of my rural Indian school, I wonder at how a distant country will ever accept meand if I will ever truly be happy away from home.

America’s education system is said to be excellent and the professionalism to be found oncollege campuses is far ahead of India’s slack, easy-going college environment. To be partof the bustling, dynamic crowds that are constantly on the move, living every moment is adream for me. To have a prestigious, elite college open its doors wide for me is a merehope. To leave behind friends, family, culture, my roots is a tragedy. While I long for theunadulterated experience of growing up, being independent, an actual adult in my ownright, the fear of abandoning all that I have ever known is gut wrenching. Every minutespent in this country becomes dear and precious as I try to imprint each image in mymemory bank to help me survive the long years in a distant country that is not yet home.

I have to learn how to cook. My mother despairs at my kitchen management. She believesthat I will starve, a very likely possibility if the best six burnt attempts of food are taken intoconsideration. I tell her I will survive on salads and bread but my own stomach recoils at thethought of anything other than rice and dal (pulses) and rotis (wheat) for more than amonth. My grandmother has lovingly packed my saris in butterpaper and I do not have theheart to tell her that there saris will not be practical or suited for the campus life thatawaits me. My friends bid me adieu and I can feel the tears rising within me. The peoplewho have held my hand through all my childhood ordeals still come to hold my hand, evenas I bid them a goodbye.

However, as the day approaches, I can feel the excitement within me building up. The newbooks, the winter wear, the necessities need to be bought and packed. The finalpaperwork has to be done. The last goodbyes have to be uttered. Across the seven oceans(a direct translation of a Hindi proverb) lies a new horizon to cross, a new world to live in.This new world beckons to me, opening itself up to me. My brother, a student himself, willbe there to welcome me and as I cross over the threshold, into the world of adults, I canfeel a sense of liberation as well as a comforting feeling. The USA can never replace India ashome, but the four years to be spent there are eagerly anticipated by me.

– Paromita SenClass XII


Asthachal

It’s Asthachal time,Shortened to Astha by the boys,Golden silence rules.The wind is soothing and cool.The verdant trees all around,In its midst is me.The fresh leaves of the treesAre dancing in the breeze.To and fro, to and fro,Like the movement of a boat.Dogs are barking,The pages of my book flutter,Children mutterAs they grow restless.The wooden, brown barks,The sloping, smooth rock, so stark.The rocky hills almost touch the clouds.The noise of insects is the only sound.

– Pranjal Begwani, Class 8A

Life

Life is a stream of sorrow and joy;A river flowing from birth to death;A reality for a short period of time.Life passes like an airborne birdPout often it paces like a pedestrian;‘Unpredictable’, is its motto.One moment laughing or crying,Another moment ? on your way to the unknown.Life is spread over a passage of time -Life is growth from baby to child,And then to adulthood, slowly ageing in time.Life must be lived to the fullest.Enjoy and savour every moment!



DarknessThe sun’s blankdarkness taking change of streetstrying to get into wallsand its succeeds.

It’s everywheretaking full controlmachines use energyto banish the darkness

Everyone fails....They emerge from the darknessBig shadowsThe gates creak

They are up the stairsThey are searching for the houseThe door is already openA knife is pointed at my face?

– Ram Bragadish

No MercyStraight to the sticksNeither herenor thereBut, right on the sticks

There it goesThe big sphereshining like the sunsmiling wickedly.

A long walk,Out of the grass landGuess where?To the pavilion.

– Ram Bragadish

Write RightAny one who has a good grasp of spellings and grammar, who has good observation skills,who is creative and has a flair for writing, can become a writer.

Well, if one aspires to be a writer, one can start by penning down a few pages of anything(whether personal or otherwise), everyday. Maintaining a dairy is also a good way to testand improve one’s writing skills.

One can even start by writing poetry, which can give the person a sense of independencewhich a writer or poet possesses.

So, what is poetry? Poetry is a medium through which one can express one’s feelings.

Poems exude a certain charm of their own. Poems can be written on anything andeverything ? from the exuberance of nature to an exciting festival. One just needs to freelyabridge one’s feelings and thoughts in words.

Spending your leisure time writing poetry is an excellent option.

So, what are you waiting for? Pick up a pen, and put your feelings down on paper. Whoknows, another Rabindranath Tagore might be in the making.



Past and Present

It was thereand will continue to bebut .... never clean.

It was the center of attractionand will continue to be,but .... never clean

It was a place where pigeons restedand will continue to beBut .... never clean.

It was once a beachbut now a garbage dump!

It was once a place filled with fishbut now only with chemicals.

It was once a beautiful placebut it can’t continue to be.

– Ram Bragadish D, 8B

Recipe for a perfect Carnatic songTake a cup of seven notes,and add scoops of rhythm.Chop some thalas and sautewith a spoon of practice,Flavour it with a pinch of notes,and put it in the ovenFor an enriched flavour.Pour some beats into the dish,and add a lot of talent.Heat the dish for 10 ? 20 minsand serve with melody rolled in dessicated,South-Indian raagas!

– Ranjani Seshadri, 8


Senseless

There I was, amidst all the chaos.People running everywhere, with nothing in their minds,Except panic, yes, the panic in the atmosphere was overwhelming.There I was, amidst all the bloodshed.Gunshots sounding in the air, death everywhere,Rich and poor alike, weeping their hearts out.There I was, in the moment of truth.This was my time of enlightenment, in the most unlikely place,In the streets, where all hell had broken loose.All around I saw people lamenting,I heard cries of sorrow and pain,The fresh taste of blood on my tongue,That tingling feeling of fear and misery on my skin,And the putrid stench of death all over the place;

There I was, curled up in the streets.A witness to the mayhem, trembling;I could not bear it anymore, so I shut my eyes and my ears.A sense of peace and calm echoed through my thoughts.This was how it was, to be blind and deaf, and then I realized,I realized that the blind and deaf were fortunate.

They were lucky to be unaware and oblivious of all the havoc,Suddenly the craving came, it was rash but it was true.

I wished to be SENSELESS....

– R R Rishiraj, Class 7B


Death?The clock ticks on, in its everlasting monotone,Time, the designated time, is nearing.Last minute changes, officials making haste as,The crowds gather, to watch.The sight of an execution, the stench of blood to comeThe inhuman silence.

The concerned walks in, devastated.No flying colours anywhereThe black dark gloom sets inThe sunny day a dark night.The mask is removed,Revealing a face that is in utter confusionThoughts racing in his mind.

Finally a wave of transformation envelopes him.Acceptance flows through his veins.Onlookers, without a clue fidget impatiently.The victim is on full alert.He takes a deep breath, his nostrils picking upThe smell of posh perfume from his observers.

Each in their own fashionable get ups,Looking very presentable as if it were a fashion show or partyA butterfly catches his eye, its wings in all their glory,Remind him of his childhood and make him forget his fateBut only for a second.A cough breaks the silence, temporarily.

He sighs and walks to his destiny.A burly executioner pushes him in the steps.The sudden sensation f human contact startles himJagged stones on the steps pierce his feetLike pikemen attempting to get through an army’s defense,But he doesn’t care.

Unflinchingly he allows his head to be placed upon the stand.He tastes the bad odour in his mouthThe odour created by suppressed wordsHe draws his final breath and sits still.Waiting.


Bed TimingScreeching of the stools on the groundSoft creaks in their joints, as people get up.Slow scratching of sand under feet,Everyone begins to leave the room.

Eyes quickly adjust to the darkness outsideOnly to encounter the glare of a nearly streetlightThe sounds of the night, amplified.

I walk home, in a daze,Drunk with the uncanny silence.Before I know it, my heads on my pillow,Eyelids drawing to a close.

Recap of the precious hourEchoes in my mind.Once again, I’m in the class,Amidst the chatter of people trying to look busyI rest my head on the tableDoing nothing but warming the stool.

The mind goes blank, all around me black,As my head drops on the table.Like a T.V. being switched off.I drop dead...Dead bored.

— Rishiraj, Class 8, 2008

The rope is pulled, the blade creaks on its hingesAnd begins its journey at an incredible speed.The man hears the creak, and the last thing he feelsIs the cold touch of the blade, on his soft neck.And audience begins to leave,Not really knowing what to feel.The last person to leave,Is a small boy, a confused expression on his face.An image flashes in his mind.The image of a man, a guillotine just at his neck,And a brilliant aura of enlightenmentAround his head.

— Rishiraj, Class 8 - 2008


Change

It is something we all have to experience at some point, and consequently have to learn todeal with. Most people fear it, while others await it, looking at it as a chance for growth andadventure. I belong to the former, and am now dreading the moment where I, too, willhave to undergo such a change; a change in my environment, a change in all that I know, andone in myself. In precisely three months, at the close of my schooling, I will be forced topart with all that has ever mattered for me, and enter an alien world, for a stay which willprobably last a lifetime.

In all of the seventeen-odd years of my life thus far, I have never been required to spendmore than a week or two in an urban environment, which to me seems cold and unfriendly.Accustomed as I am to the warm, familial atmosphere of both my home and boardingschool, it would perhaps come as no surprise that I am more than just slightly apprehensiveabout entering the outside world. From my short stays in the city, I have built up an imageof a cell, of our own construction, where we are forced to lock ourselves in to bar the entryof harm and consequently, everything which occurs around us. We lock ourselves awayfrom our emotions and pain, which we see as unnecessary and an obstacle to the fact-pound lines we are forced to lead.

It is also the pain of separation which I may be unable to cope with. All the connections, therelationships I have formed with the people and the places around me will soon be brokenand replaced with nothing but the desire for that which was lost. It is possible perhaps, thatI will make new friends, new connections, as I proceed with my new life, but this is stillsomething I am unsure of. For building these connections takes time, and I am uncertainabout ever once again finding the same level of emotional, and intellectual,understanding as I have found with those whom I have spent the last eight years of my life.

But, on the other hand, I am perhaps still slightly excited by all I am going to undergo. It is,as I mentioned, an opportunity to grow, to expand all my facilities and allow myself tobecome a better human being. Thee is so much out ‘there’ for me and everybody else tolearn, which would never be possible were I to remain holed up where I am now.

In three months, I shall be preparing for a death, an end to the first chapter of my life, adeath perhaps, but also birth, a beginning fresh start for myself and a chance to improve.There will also be pain, but this, perhaps, is necessary. For if not for pain, would we everrecognize happiness?

– Saurabh Levin, Class XII


The Scorpion

As it roamed the sandsAs it rambled the dunesIts sting archly risingIts sting cheekily posingWhile it clicked its fingers conspicuouslyWhile it snapped its claws overtlyMoving uncannily fastMoving eerily awayTowards its unprepared victimsTowards its sufferers borne to be caught off gaurdSinking its stingSinking its venomAs it laughsAs it jeersIt watches them with eager eyesIt watches them with a flaking hungerAs they sink to the groundAs they slowly descendInto eternal darknessInto everlasting silence....

A ripple of fear

The plane suddenly lost its balance as it tumbled into the crashingwaters of the blue. I was thrown out of it as my nightmare drew nearerand nearer. I awoke with a jerk as reality struck only inches away frommy death, devouring the liquid fear that crawled around ...

SummerSummer is the want of a watery slur,Summer is little girls in sundresses.Summer is the season of warm colours.Summer is the time for the surfer boys.Summer is tanning in the deadset heat.Summer is for the cocky seagulls to glide the azure skies.

– Sindhu P, 8B


Aye AugustThe fitful wind that tossesThe leaves whistling their wayAlong the window panesand all along the lane.

The trees are barrenLike unclad wooden sculpturesThe twigs swirled like the mermaidsReaching out for the sun

The call of the parakeetWhose chirp pinches the earThe smoke from the chimneyCurling up nature’s spearMillions of them are coming downMaking the land forget brownAnd the birds rejoiceAs the rain is back againJust like a long lost friend.

– Siri Meghana, Class 8B

HeartbrokenMy head was bursting open,My mind could think of absolutely nothing.Except the fact that I was robbedof everything I loved for and sobbed.Those murderers who caused her death,Were going to regret it until their last breathNow time was just a wasteI realized what I had done should’ve been in haste.I was going to make them die painfully,No matter if it was done cruelly.I would make them suffer,For what they had taken away from me : HER..I stand today heartbroken,Not giving a **** if everyone in the worldwas chokin’.I shouldn’t have used profanity,It doesn’t help in enmity.

– Suket Karnawat, 8B


October Night, Kashmir

The night was twinkling like cat’s eyesBreeze was as cool as pepsiwindow panes covered with frostThe mountain dark in the distance.

Streets empty as a hollow treeThe leaves were waiting to reach the crustPavements were carpeted with snowTrees ready to descend.

The houses were nice and cozyFire places were brightblasting shimmering lightThe beds were ready to bear weight

The chillness in the airCreeped into my throat as fast as a flash of lightPeople flurried and settledThe night was silent and cold.

– Umasri, 8B

Goal...There was a footballer waiting for a goal.On his face there was a big moleHe got a headerBut he was a big mufferHe couldn’t shoot one single goal.

– Satya B Vaghela, 8B


Recipe for a Perfect teacher

Begin with a packet of care and patienceNext stir with love and affectionadd a teaspoon of kindnessMix with stories full of joyfor added knowledge and clevernessand a bowl full of angera pinch of tender wordsin order to have hope and faithfulnessBake for good deedsserve with Generosity.

– Vaishnavi, 8B

Scurrying away to glory

Ah! The bright sun rooting me to the spotWith all the sand, sea, shells and weedsRooted on the spot, grasping all the beauty of ? AHHHHHH!A ladybird scurrying on my leg?!How does a tiny insect such as this even get the powerTo scuttle down a log like leg?O ladybirdWith your spots so blackBlack as coalAnd with your body so redRed as the early morning sunGo awayAway, before I knock you downO ladybird with your magnificenceRuling over the insectsScurry offBefore I knock you down.

– R Vishnupriya, 8B


Articles from the current year...


I Am Sweet, Sweet, Sweet

A boy called Rohit planted me one day in a pot. I was under the earth. Slowly my rootscame. Rohit used to water me every day, that’s why I didn’t die. Slowly I grew and came aninch out of the soil. I saw the world. I was so happy. Rohit took me out of the pot andplanted me in his garden. Then I grew big like a tree. Rohit was very happy.

Years passed by. One day some white flowers covered me. I was extremely happy. Thenthe flowers fell off me. Then some birds came and made their nests. And monkeys sungfrom my branches. Then slowly small mangoes came out of the leaves. A month later thesmall mangoes became big and Rohit climbed on me to pluck the mangoes. He tasted mymangoes. It was very sweet, he told me. He started calling me sweet, sweet, sweet.

Thana Rohit, Senior Prep

The Tree of FireIn the middle of our schoolstands a tree of fire, graceful brightLittle helicopters all around it flySometimes soaring, sometimes swervingNever making a sound, never making a landing.

In the middle of our schoolStands a tree in a crimson cloakIt has found many friends in birdsEspecially parakeets and honey suckersComing to feast in this carpet of red.

In the middle of our schoolstands a tree in splendourNo king or monarch could wear such dressThe most splendid cloaks wouldTurn black at sight of this tree —Palash

— Siddharth, Senior Prep(Assembled by Siddharth)


Gold

The statue of Zeus standing highLooking down on the people passing by

Elegant ladies wearing ringsOriole on a branch so happy it sings A king on a throne wearing a crownPoppies in a field like a dressing gown Sunlight dancing on the seaMonkey’s eating mangoes, chitter chatter chee Chicks in a barnA lemon like a ball of yarn Bananas in a basketSunflowers in a casket Honey in a jarNear a beach bar Autumn leaves on the groundA gold fish going round and round There are many coloursIn the world The best are the flowersThat have unfurled

Arnav Koshy & Mayank Reddy, Class 4

Sachin Tendulkar He’s got a Benz carHe is a spin bowlerI wish he was taller

Nivash B, Class 4


My Friend and I

My friend and I never fight ,We are always together and when she’s alone,She never cries,She is the only one who helps meWhen I’m lost and lonely.Though I get scared very easily,She’s really brave and toughI remember once she taught meTo climb a tamarind tree,She’s the one I wantCause she always wants to be with me!

— Sheenam Das, Class 4

From A Spaceship BlueThe vast skyblue bird chirping byThe ink in my penAnd blue bells in the garden. Faded skinny JeansFor the modern queensThe vast blue oceanPainted on a cushion The speeding mini cooperFast as a cookerThe shiny SapphireSparkling like fire The butterflies sucking nectarTastes like a chocolate barThe big blue whaleLooking very pale

The tasty blue berryAs sweet as a cherryWho knows about the coralI like it, It’s royal. — Sharada A R and Gouri Nandana, Class 4


My Grandmother

My grandmother lives in Hyderabad. I call her Ammachi. She is my paternal grandmother.She lives in the heart of the city in a small colony with my grandfather and his dog. She tiesher hair in a bun and it is grey.

Se loves to bake and cook, once she made pineapple upside down cake. It was sumptous.She also likes to knit. She is a Christian and goes to church every Sunday. She lets me dowhatever I want. I love to play in their courtyard and play with their dog. He is a dachshundand his name is Othello. We call him Burnt Sausage because he is black and like a hot dog.But burnt hot dog does not sound nice so we called him Burnt Sausage.

Once when my grandmother was sleeping I went out to play with Othello. He jumped onme and started nipping me. I got scared and started crying. My father came and tookOthello off and told me to push him off when he jumped on me and told me how to say noto a dog. When Othello jumped on me again, I pushed him off and said "NO". To this dayOthello has not jumped on me again.

— Arnav Koshy, Class 4

FiremanI, fireman Vineeth was having a nice sleep. When the phone rang. I picked up the phoneand a voice shouted ‘Fire! Fire! I asked where it was and the voice told Goody Bady Madyroad, Central Apartments. My crew and I jumped into our fire engine and sped to Centralapartment. On the way we switched on the siren and contacted the ambulance. We woreour fire proof suit and oxygen masks and reached there. We pulled out the hoses andladder, we all climbed up and started putting out the flames and rescued the people. Wheneveryone were rescued we started putting out the flames. Suddenly one of the screwscame off from the ladder and the ladder started to wobble.

The ladder broke and I fell down. I put my hose in front of me and the power of the watershooting out of the hose slowed me down and saved my life. By the time we had put outthe fire it was morning and a huge crowd had surrounded the building. The media tookdown everything they saw there. After the crowd dispersed I asked someone how the firehad started. They told me that Mrs. Chubby Mubby had lit the stove . A gust of wind blewthe fire toward an electric wire.

Mr. And Mrs. Chubby Mubby were in the hospital. I told them to put a fire extinguisher inevery room the next time they built apartments. That night on TV they showed thecharred building and in a picture it showed me falling down and holding the hose front ofand slowing my self down from a bad fall. We had party at night and I praised everyone inmy crew for saving f so many lives. Thank you.

—Vineeth , Class 4


My Message for School Sports Day

The important thing is not winning but taking part and enjoying.

If you come 1st do not show off but congratulate the person who lost.

If somebody falls down during a race help them.

Practice makes perfect.

—Marian Emmanuel, Class 4

Clerihew

Rinchen N Wangchuk

Loves to cook

He makes tasty momos

Stuffed with chocos.

—Rinchen Wangchuk, Class 4


Day Dreams

My mother thinks I’m writing a letterBut no!I am in the Basketball CourtPlaying a tournamentDefeating all the teamsAnd winning the Children’s World CupTanuj Sir thinks I am doing YogaBut no!I am a DrongoWho’s been seen by class 4I am in the Himalayan rangeTrekking on Mt Everest. My father thinks I’m doing my projectBut no!I am a cricketerSigning my papers for my fansI am holding two daggersAnd climbing Mt K2

—Arya Achuta

My pet

My pet’s name is Snowy and she is a seal. She is white and has loverly fur. She has big cuteblack eyes and a button nose. She has long whiskers. She swims very well.

I found snowy when I was taking a walk on the beach. She was trying to call her deadmother and it looked like it would cry!! my heart went out to it. I picked it up and took it home and gave it some milk. I stroked her as she drank. Then it cuddled on my lap and madesome noises and slept.

I feed my seal all kinds of food. I give it milk and fish. It loves salmon. I give it salmon onSundays.

Every morning Snowy wakes me up. Then she make me give it some breakfast at 10:30, Itake it for a dip in the sea and a walk. We come back at 11.30 and play for a while.Surprisingly it loves playing with a ball. While I study, Snowy plays with my sister. After


lunch, she watches TV with me. Then she has a nap. From 5:00 to 7:00 she is left in theocean. At 7:30 she has dinner and takes a walk. Then she cuddles with me and sleeps.

When my parents first saw snowy they were surprised. Then I told them what happenedand they agreed to keep Snowy. My sister didn’t agree but slowly she began to adore it. Sheis my best friend and my only pet. People think it’s a weird pet but I don’t.

One fine snowy day as I happily swam in the ocean I didn’t realize the shark fin that was justa few metres behind me. When I finally turned and saw it I screamed and tried to swimaway. Unfortunately it gripped my swimsuit. I thought this was the end of my life butbravo! I saw Snowy and many other seals rushed at the shark and bumped against it. Theshark being inexperienced swam away. I fainted with joy and Snowy dragged me home. Iam really happy to have such a caring pet.

— Kamana, class 5

Why Dragons Blow Fire

Long long ago, when god was creating the earth the dragons were not like what you think. They were cute creatures and were friendly. But one day when Doty the dragon wasplaying in the sky he saw a golden ball on god’s throne. He wanted it so much that he stoleit. When god found out he was so furious he made him ugly. Poor Doty went back homewith a frown on his face. For a long time he did not come out of his dark gloomy cave. Aftermany years he came out. When he did he was horrified that all his friends had left him. Hewas lonely and sad and he roamed around the beautiful forest. He was so angry at god thathe gulped up a stone. The pain was so much that fire came out of his mouth. He liked it, sohe tried it again but it did not work so he gulped another stone and it worked again. Afterdoing it for some time he got used to the pain and from that day on the only thing whichthe dragon liked, was to spit out fire, and till now all dragons don’t spit fire to scare you butto show you how entertaining it is.

— Subam, class 5


Excerpts from ‘My Teacher’ ? Aug 2010 ? a topicgiven by Deepa in her English class.

...My favourite teacher is Deepa Akka. She likes Nature especially animals. Yesterday wefound a baby squirrel. Akka kept it with her for the night. In the morning Akka left thesquirrel in the junior auditorium and waited. After half an hour the squirrel’s mother cameand took away her baby...

...My teacher’s name is Deepa Akka and I like her a lot. She is tall and thin. She wearscolourful clothes. She has long black hair and black eyes. She usually plaits her hair andalways puts a bindi. She has a scar on her forehead and one missing tooth. She is alwayshappy and cheerful...

...She is very ‘sporty’ person. She just loves sports. She is very good at badminton. She alsocomes cycling with us. But one of the things she can’t do is swim...

...Her hobbies are music, reading and dance. She is teaching us how to do farming. Sheknows a lot about plants..

...She likes reading all kinds of books and authors. When she was small she liked EnidBlyton as her favourite author. Her first book of Enid Blyton was the Yellow Book...

...She is an expert in farming. She knows almost all the vegetables. She dislikes anythingagainst nature. She has a farmhouse in Coimbatore...

...Her favourite hobbies are gardening, animals, reading books, music, sports andtravelling. Deepa akka is a very kind teacher. She’s a fun teacher...

...She has a little daughter named Yamini. She is very sweet. Sometimes she is naughty andDeepa akka is strict with her.

Class 5

The Tunnel of Adventure

There he stands, firm and sturdy, the King. Ruling with the queen of the valley, the Bee ‘n’Bat Tree commonly known as the Big Banyan Tree or BBT for short. The Tunnel , big andKingly. Have some time on hand? Climb the hill and get inside. Don’t worry, you don’t needa torch, for your path will be lighted by fireflies. Fear not for there are no ghosts nor creepycrawlers only spooky halloween bats. Which aren’t scary. If you’re lonely or homesickmiss you friends you’ve come to the right place. Come at night and see the fire flies at workshining away like stars in the sky. See the silver lined clouds and rock lined with silver, He’sstill there for you to see, so you better go and see him soon!!

— Maya Tanuj Shah


HaikuThe Flowing StreamWater flowing fastSparkling like beadsVisiting different places.

— Kethi Reddy Ajanth Kumar Reddy

The Great Banyan TreeThe old and tired treeHanging roots touching the groundThe mother of RV.

— Diya Manish Shah

Tiger on the ProwlSteady slow movementsShining eyes in the darkThe leap and the feast

— Aravind

Night in the AfternoonThe forest so darkThick trees blocking the sunlightNight in the afternoon.

— Rahula Pema Ram

Saved by the TreeIt was a rainy dayThe lightning crashed in the skythe banyan tree saved me.

— Prithvi Tejpal Shah


Choco RiverDown by the banks of the Choco River,There used to be a candy beaver.Its friend bat,Was a big Kit Kat.Along the streets of the Honey Cake,There was a big fat mean snakeIt went into one’s houseAnd ate up little Milky Mouse."Chocolate, candy, Kit kat and cake.Stop it for heaven’s sake!"Said jolly rancherThe nasty poacher.He punched, he kicked and killed them all.He sold their hides and got a ballWhich was made of shiny silverThat was the end of the choco river.

— Mytresh Madipalli

Beauty of Rain

When rain falls on the sea and rivers,It seems that the drops of water glitterAgain, when it falls on leaves in summer;Trees and plants look green everywhereThe land becomes green with corn we desireMan and animals feel comfort in cool weather,All are possible in a shower.But more rain brings flood so far;Everything goes underwater.Animals are like fish out of water,There hell strikes the door of death here and there!

— Riya Roy .

Friends!Friends are friends!They are precious,They are the one, who help you,When you are in trouble.True friends are true friends!They stay in your heart.We can share with them,Our happiness, our sorrow.If you have a true friend,You have someone to share,Your feelings with...!If you have a shoulder to cry on!forgetting a friends is...Like forgetting a part of your life!

— Sanjenbam Tanya


A Tower Named Empire

I see Empire. A tower with no life, joy or happinessThis is how he lives all dayHe can’t talk, jump or understand anything in any way!And this is what happened the other day! He got up and said, "People of Earth, , I am not a biotic anymore.I have life just like you and me.’"To prove it just watch and you will see."He got up looking almost twice as tall and he picked up aCar and flung it so for that it landed on another car! He walked towards a mall thinking it was fun and all butcouldn’t enter because of his size. He was so angry that he jumped so high, he vanished intothe sky and after that he was never found.

— Ashwin Krishnan J

Blast from the PastSometimes I have questionsThat I am too keen to knowLikeWhat the heck this earth was like?A million years ago? Did Giant spiders rule the earth?Or did monkeys play football?Was basketball made of rubber? WaitWhat am I blabbering?Did I ever exist at all? Sometimes I wishPeople made a time machineAnd I volunteered to go to see

What the heck this earth was likea million years ago?

— Somesh Kelkar


Why?

Why can’t girls play football?Why shouldn’t we kick balls?Why don’t they teach us?Why shouldn’t we learn?Why should we stay down?What have we DONE? Why do they ignore us?Why don’t they help us?Why are we alone?Why can’t we play football?Why? Why ? Why?WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

— Arunima Mody Subramaniyam

The perfect placeI enter a flat sunny place surrounded by rocks,I look up at the sky and see fluffy cottons pass,The cool breeze caresses me,As I walk through the tall grass. Slowly, I find myself in a shaded place,And as I make my way through the bushes green,A clear surface under a canopy comes in my sight,Wow! I’ve conquered the place, I’m the queen! Such a beautiful place it is,This is where you’ll find peace,Settled within trees and animals lies;My perfect place.

— Tulasi Sakshi Joshi


Goodbye Mr Phobia

The fear of heightswas keeping my rightsFrom climbing to the top of SBTAs hard as I would tryMy mind would cry,Oh, please, I beg you don’t make me do t his." I would look at the treeThe branches freeIn the wind of noontime. The peaceful airWould even make a hareRelax and sleep. Aah! I wishI could put all my fear in a dishAnd chuck it down a cliff. So I could climb to the topAnd then flopon my back and sleep. One day I saidTo my stupid headI’m going to do it, today I’ll climb the SBT. I went and started climbing the treeAgainst the pleasmy brain. “Oh please don’t go higherDon’t you tireOf climbing so high.” The voices were just a distractionAnd were just a fractionOf the problems I was facing.My one hand was sleepingAnd fear was creepingDown my throat. The number of grips had become lessAnd I was wondering how I got myself into such a messClimbing this stupid tree.The I looked downAnd then foundThe earth 15 or so metres below me.


“Oh my god!Oh great lord!!Why did I do this?” I looked up and sawFew branches and then I told myself, “This is the last strawI am going to climb this tree I don’t care what.” I had very little to goAnd then Lo!I had done it. After this achievement, my fear of heightsGot such a frightThat it ran away from my heart.

— Karan Pratap

An Accident

When I was a 4th grader I had a shocking experience which now is down the Rishi Valleyhistory. It all started when I was playing a game of run and catch. (A game in which you catch other) While playing I climbed up a tree when Aravind (Achu) was the denner.Unfortunately he was expert at climbing trees. There were two ways of climbing up anddown the tree. So I started climbing down the tree But then he started to climb up the treethe way I was coming down. I tried the other way but got the same fate. I tried one moretime but slipped and fell from 10-12 feet high. My head hit a hard rock. I was bleedingprofusely. All the people who saw this were in a state of shock. Mini akka scooped me meand ran to the RV hospital where I got seven stitches and I left for Bangalore withSreekumari Akka and Karthik Sir. In the ambulance Dr. Karthik called my mother to come toBangalore. They were constantly talking to me because they couldn’t risk me fallingasleep. When we reached the hospital in Bangalore I met my cousin who works for Infosys.The doctors were friendly and they took me for a CT scan. After the scan I was told nothinghad happened to me. My mother arrived at that point of time the people who came atetheir dinner at 12:00. We reached RV at 3:00 . My mother and father stayed with andeverybody came to visit me. I still appreciate that a lot.

— Aditya Chhaya


Taking Notes!!!Biography"Here you go that’s all, no more!" said Sita Akka as she finished giving me my notebooks and stationary for the year. There were lots more notebooks than I had in 5th. Anyway, whileI was carrying the bundle to class I dropped my English notebook on the way. Suddenlyinstead of a thump I heard something cry out in pain "ouch! Help me!" First I thought it wasmy imagination but then the notebook started talking to me "Praveena please help me!"still startled I picked up the book and without a word walked to class. After writing outname, class, subject and house on our books we were allowed to go home. But I didn’t,instead I waited till the class was clear and grabbed my English notebook. For sometime Iwas dumbfounded, but the silence was broken by my whispering". Hey English notebookyou are to be quiet at classes and should not speak to anyone else but me. If you keep yourpromise we can be great friends." I promised him. Since then he has not spoken to anyonebut me and we have been great friends. If you PROMISE to not breath a word about it I willlet him introduce himself to you and also share a few feelings with you.

Autobiography

Hello everybody! I am Praveena’s English Notebook. My name is Hardy. I got my namebecause of my hard bound cover. My cover has green floral designs on it. I have 200 pagesinside me out of which 100 are plain and 100 are ruled. Actually I need to look like that butnow she had stuck A4 sheets on either side. Then on my front side she has put a few softanimal stickers and has drawn insects beside them Honestly I look I think I look quitehandsome!! At first I didn’t want to be sold out because I thought they would make mework hard. Naturally when she bought me I felt very nervous to start a new life away frommy family. But soon I made good friends with the pencil pen and the other notebooks andtext books. On 28th the Monday she used me for the first time. She copied down the ‘Fox’story and drew a picture too. Though she uses me less frequently than the other Englishnotebook, when she uses me for writing long pieces of stories, essays, prose, reports, etc.Now I love being her notebook. I know a lot about her as she writes real-life incidents inme. I have many pals and I love this place. My days go on like that. I have days of happiness,sorrow , worries, fights and enjoyment with her. We both like each other a lot. I just hopeI will be with her as long as one lives end!

— Praveena N S


My lovable brother and Me

He is always there at home waiting for me when I get back from school. He supports mewhen we are in an argument with my parents. No matter how mad I make him he does notgenerate the same attitude towards me. My other brother nick-named him The Bear. Wegave him this name because of not only his height and width, but, like a bear, he hibernatesin his bed during the day and only gets up when there is a meal. Even if all of us try to wakehim from his chamber of slumber he does not budge an inch from his soft and warm bed.

One night I stayed up late, past my parents bedtime, and snuck into his snoring heaven. Tomy surprise I found him on the computer researching some word I could not pronounce atthe time. He looked straight at me with his tree brown eyes. I thought for sure he wouldsend me back to my room to go to sleep. Instead, he gets up and picks up a board game andasks me if I want to play.

All I could do was stand there, mouth gaping, and stare at him in amazement. I guess heunderstood my look and, after a bit, said, "I’ll take the blue." We played well into the nightbut after sometime I fell asleep in his comfortable chair.

I awoke up in the morning only to find him STILL asleep, back again in his cozy bed. He is notonly my eldest brother, he is also a role model, not just to me but to my middle brother aswell. He went to the Rennaissance for his childhood schooling and also the Rishi ValleySchool and so we have followed in his footsteps. He explains things to me that no one elsecan. He gives me examples to help me solve the problems.

He is great brother to me, my friends and my middle brother. You can find another brotherlike him. He is unique in his own way. Even though he is greatly good, he too, likeeveryone else, has a bad side. When he is studying for a test he is serious and does notappreciate it when we intrude upon his room. If he catches us, at such times he gives us alook. This special look in his eyes says that we should very soon leave the room. This is, ofcourse, a small black mark on a white page of his overall personality. He is my oldestbrother Ramanath and I like him.

—Ranganath , class 7


The Unique One

If you want to meet a person who is kind, is honest, cracks many jokes, is quite good atstudies and has improved a lot in football then you might never find a person like the oneI am talking about. Manjeeth is a very good friend to have. He has been in the same housesand classes I have been in for the last two years, so I know him pretty well. He is of averageheight, is slightly plump and his skin is of a dark complexion.

When Manjeet came as fresher last year no one thought he would fit into the school. Hewas one very-very homesick boy. At the beginning of the day he might have been all rightbut then after that he would cry everywhere. The houseparent’s house, class, gameseverywhere. But since then he has improved a lot. He rarely cries now and has settleddown well.

Manjeet also used to get teased quite a lot last year and I have to agree that sometimes Ihave teased him too. In the end then after he had settled down, it took a lot of time for the teasing to finally stopped. When Manjeeth had settled down properly he had also becomea really good friend. He lent things, entertained people and played a lot. He was so jollynow that you wouldn’t believe he had ever been homesick.

Manjeeth is good in studies. He is one of the only people I have seen who writes in a veryslanting handwriting. He asks the most brilliant questions to teachers in almost all classesand clarifies his doubts almost as soon as he gets them. Since he has learnt abacus he is veryfast in calculating oral sums in maths.

In sports I have somethings to say about him. In football he has improved a lot. He hasbecome much better as a forward. He is one of the few people in our class who went fortennis coaching and is better than many people in tennis. In badminton Manjeeth is thenumber one yappercase. He yaps so much you’d think he’d do noting but yap for the rest ofhis life. Agreed he is good in badminton but he yaps so much everyone would think he isawesome. He also gets beaten. When he gets beaten he keeps challenging the sameperson to another match and keeps getting beaten. But on the whole Manjeeth is verysporting and has a lot of team spirit.

Manjeeth eats a lot when it comes to eating. He keeps saying "Akka this Kaawali", "Akkathat kaavali". If someone wants something from his plate I can bet you his reply will be‘what will you give me for it?’ On the other side of eating when he has to buy tuck he buysnothing. I daze anyone to break his record of not buying eatables from the tuck for years.

Manjeeth though a good boy has some bad habits. He keeps saying ‘bah’, ‘are beta’, ‘beta’and ‘are beta’. He even says to girls. Whenever any teachers points out anything badwhich he did he acts like a baby and says ‘Nooooo Akka’ or Noooo sir’ and raises his hands.He sometimes get very irritating and at times he keeps bugging a person to no end.

Manjeeth is also scared of many different types of things. He is scared of the dark, ghosts,robbers and getting fat. This is the funniest thing of all. He is scared of ‘promising’?‘Promises’ really scare him. One time when he promised Roopika Akka something by


mistake he just burst into tears.

Overall, Manjeeth is a good friend to have though sometimes he might start crying for asmall thing or get a little too irritating. Most of the times he is jolly and fun to be with.

— Manan, Class 7

Roller Skating Down the Boardwalk*Roller skating down the board walk,

Speeding here and there,Turning at the dunking booth,Going towards the fair. Purple wheels going round and round,Gliding down the walk,Bumping over every plank,As if they could talk. Skating past the jewellery stall.Glittering bright as the sun,Riding past the fishing booth,Shoot ! My turn is done. Rolling past a roller coaster ,Riding past the ferris wheel,The wind blowing past my face,I really like the feel. Past the cotton candy stand,Past the popcorn cart,I inhale the sugar of a giant churro*The aroma is like a piece of art. I near the end of the boardwalk,And now I can see the sea,I take my skates off and jump right in,I am as happy as can be.• A broadwak is a pier jutting into the sea, made of wood planks. On it, there are shops

rides, games and stalls.• A churro is a pastry made of dough in twists which is sprinkled with sugar cinnamon

sugar.— Manu Krishnamurthy, Class 7


Riding on an Antelope

Riding on an antelopeWhat a bumpy rickety rideBut it has a verysoft and golden hide Many people chasing usWe’re escaping from the zooWe jump over the gateJust like a Kangaroo Whizzing down the highwayDodging many carsBut soon we reach the forestWith nothing to guide us but the stars. Panthers and owlsA very common sightBut soon we’re out of the forestAs soon as we see day light Suddenly we see a huge blue massIt’s the Arabian seaThat was the only thing to show usWherever we may be Thinking of the food I could haveLike vannila ice creamSuddenly my mom wakes me upAnd I find out its all a dream.

— Nikhil, Ranganath and Ilamuhil


Computer Conflict

"I won’t give it to you," I said calmly, sure that my sister would give up.

But I want to play on it too, you know," She said glazing angrily at me.

Let me explain to you how it started. It was Saturday so it was a holiday. It is one of my mostfavourite days of the week.

It started off as a normal day. Everything was as it should been. Then I started playing onthe computer after getting ready. I was playing a game called ‘Pokemon’ and this versionof it is called ‘Dragonostone’. So there I was playing happily away when after half an hour orso my sister came in the room.

"Can I play on the computer?" She asked with a tone which was a mix of demandingnessand sweetness.

No way am I going to give here the computer I thought.

"I won’t give it to you," I said calmly sure that my sister would give up.

"But I want to play on it too, you know, " she said glaring angrily at me.

"I won’t budge from the seat at all," I said.

"Please" she said in a pleading tone.

"No", I said in a stern tone.

Then even though I can’t believe it both of us started fighting. Every time I think of this Ifeel quite bad that I started a fight with her. I just should have let her play on the computer,I guess.

Then my mother came rushing in the room and she asked, "What happened here?"

"Manan isn’t allowing me to play on the computer," cried my little sister.

"Manan you’ve played on the computer for enough time. Let me play now."

"OK", I said sheepishly and went out of the room and read a book.

After this we never had a flight like this and of course we became friends again.

—Manan, Class 7


SrinagarI’ve never lived in Srinagar but, I’ve spent most of my summer vacations over there.Srinagar is a very beautiful place that’s why it is flocked by visitors around the year mostlyin the summers.

I was born in Srinagar and my parents originate from Srinagar. My father has told mesometimes that he wishes to be in Kashmir. He has told me stories of how he fled Kashmirbecause of the revolution. Whenever I have been to Kashmir it was calm but in winters itunbearable to walk a few steps and the only thing you can do sit inside your house with ablanket and drink Kahwa. I have my ancestral house over there and many of my relativeslive over there.

Srinagar is one of the most popular tourist destinations. That is because it is very beautifulplace and some people admire it so much that they call it paradise on earth. It has a lot ofbeautiful places like Pahalgam, and Gulmarg. They are just some great places to visit.Srinagar is also famous for its apples, dry-fruits and carpets.

There is one more side of Srinagar which is a very violent side. There are people protestingeveryday and school colleges and offices close for weeks sometimes. There are manypeople idle over there. Almost everyday there is news of someone getting killed who wasvery young. There has not been peace in Kashmir valley for the past 30 years that is thereason why my father had to leave Kashmir.

To me Kashmir seems like a paradise.

— Hamad, Class 7


A Friend Who Always has a Smile

He is tall, has curly hair, is quite chinky and has pimples. He is good at football and can gettogether very well with people. He eats well, is muscular and he is kind; he doesn’t start ofwith arguments and he helps you when you need his help. He is athletic and sportive.

I met Riggyal in 6th and we all used to tease him by calling him "pig" (friendly teasing). Evennow we, do. He looks cute when he is about to sleep. He likes singing hip-hop songs or rocksongs from bands. He is good at it. He is even better at Karate and martial arts. He is quiteplayful also as he tried pranks on people. He never succeeds. He is very funny. He helps meif I can’t do anything. He likes looking at his body in front if the mirror.

The striking part of him is that he is honest. That is a good quality in him. He says whateverhe likes. He doesn’t follow anyone and he is not scared of doing anything. Riggyal iscourageous. These are somethings I like about him.I have watched him and seen that whensomeone lies he says, "Bull." He doesn’t say. "Bull shit" or "shut up"He just says, " Bull".That’s quite funny.

In football, he supports Chelsea. Right now they are 5th in the E.P.L (English PremiereLeague). He likes football but doesn’t want to be a footballer. He wants to be a... I don’tknow! He actually hasn’t decided what he wants to be yet.

In 6th he used to have a habit that he used to sing in the bathroom. It used to sound veryfunny. We used to call him bathroom singer. When he mocks, he looks and sounds funny.

He is a very good friend of mine and a very good companion.

— Arnesh Shuka, Class 7

The Most Kind Hearted People

I don’t understand at all why people think tribals are savage. When they hear the word‘Tribals’ savages is the first thing that comes into their minds. Just because they are darkand not ‘modern’ and things like that it doesn’t mean that the are people who aresupposed to be treated in a different way. But when you go and talk to the people who livein those small villages you will realize that they are in fact much more sweet and generouspeople you can find anywhere else. They treat everyone and every thing equally. Insteadof getting new and artificial things they make the most of everything which is available.They worship nature and animals They kill animals but at the same time try to pursuethem. At least to me they are people who truly have kind hearts. And I am proud to say thatmy parents help some of them to get their rights. I feel lucky to have studied with the tribalchildren and they are my friends.

— Prakruti , Class 7


The City of Leh-Ladakh

I was born here with extreme temperatures and have lived with the mountains. I wasbrought up in a cold desert and got used to the environment.

Leh-Ladakh is mostly populated by Buddhists but now even a few Kashmiris and Punjabisconsider it their home. It can be freezing at night and hot in the day. It doesn’t havemoisture so you can still feel the cold wind blowing while the sun is shining bright. Buteven so I love the place. Especially mountains. Everything about these stacks of rocksfascinates me. The height, the feeling after climbing and the view just breathtaking.

But in winter it is as quiet as can be. Most of the people in Leh possess two houses. So inwinter they travel down to other parts of the country and return after winter. The place isblooming with flowers at the peak of summer and my grandmom’s garden looks one of thebest. It’s also crowded with tourists at that time who enjoy the mountains and the hills. Abeautiful place not ever fully explored by me.

The local people there are very down to earth. But since it has a small population everyone knows each other. So if you’re going on a walk with your grandmother you aresure to find at least one relative that you’ve never met before.

The river Indus flows in Ladakh and it flows to Pakistan. The river is so crystal clear at thattime. My Grandpa actually used to drink river water once upon a time. But even as clear asit might look, people wash their clothes in it, so we don’t drink from it.

Leh is not very commercial but is famous for its gems, traditional wear, Pashmina shawlsand the food. It doesn’t have malls and shopping complexes. Which means its kept clean.Very less population so you can see the sky filled with stars. It still wears traditional clothesand mostly people hang out in Kos. Like Hindus wear kurta, it’s a long shirt with buttons onthe side not in the centre.

Mostly people take farming as a secondary profession because you can only farm insummers. At Buddh Purnima all the people visit monasteries, at new year they visit eachothers houses. It has a lovely community.

What I love most are the hills dry but high. Sandy but beautiful even snow capped. Theyjust make the world look much better.

— Losang Tsetan Sadutshang, Class 7


Creamy DelightI went to a hall,

In a great big mall,And what do I see? Oh! All these wonderful stalls. I went up to one, And found this delicious looking bunFilled with gooey, creamy sugary fun I threw it a glanceAnd went into a trance And was tempted to buy theSweet fancy dream. Cream, cream, cream

My stomach screamed,Horrified, it said no!

Please Sikandar, this is my foe! Give me some greens, Give me some beans,Give me some fruits And some vegetable roots,Anything but cream, To help me stay clean. Beans make me strong,

Nuts make me clever,Rice, roti, brown bread for energy,

Milk I drink for my bones,But cream!

Oh! that’s so terribly wrong. So let’s set aside the junk,

And eat the healthy stuff,A balanced diet I advocate,

full of nutrients and ‘chocolate’? From eating disorders,

We don’t want to suffer,But only eat nutritious,

healthy and proper.

— Sikandar Muqbil, Class 7


A Healthy Diet

Drink water everyday,If you want to live and play Vitamins & minerals in small pieces, Will help me resist scary diseases You should take in fats,Or you’ll be skinny as bats. Carbohydrates & Proteins in the food, Will keep you healthy & in good mood. A healthy diet every day,Will help me live in a healthy way.

— Nikhil Khurana class7

Harry the WearyOnce there was a man named HarryWho had a big huge load to carryThis load was his big huge gigantic bodyBecause he ate foods rich in only carbohydrates and fats One day the doctor said, " Harry you better eat a balanced diet

And also start to exercise Or else you will always be weary."

— Losang Tsetan Sadutshang, Class 7


FoodFood is goodFood is badIt depends on your tasteYou cannot call it a waste.Food is sumptuous,And deliciousHalwa, puri, jalebi,A feast fit for a king Burgers, pizzas, macoroniThis generation loves itAlu curry, paratha, pickleEven Zeuswill fall for it.Be it peasantsBe it merchantsAll love fruits.Guavas, apples, and mangoesA basket cannot holdthese heavenly fruits. Oh food, what foodThese days haveFood descended from heavenI love themAs I am a childOf this generationAh!Burghers, Spaghetti and cakeWith an astounding aromaBurgher bars all crammedSpaghetti with hot sauceA good thing to snack onChips of every kindNoodles of varied flavourscauses peoples mouths to water Why do I love fatty food?Coz it makes me feel good.

— Jyotsna, Class 7


BlindWhen you are an infant,Innocent and fresh as sun-rise,They do not see you

For you are a blank, unknowing thing.When you are a little child,Playful and curious as a butterfly

They do not see youFor you are naughty and stupidWhen you are a teenager,

confused and insecureThey do not see youFor you are moody, rude and rebellious

When you are a young adult,Struggling to fit into the whirlwind of the world,

They do not see youFor you are rash, amateur and ambitiousWhen you are middle aged,

finally settled into life,They do not see youFor you are boring and stressed,

Suffering from mid-life crisisWhen you are ancient and bent,Wise, calm and reflecting,

They do not see youFor you are helpless, slow andabsent-mindedWhen you are cold and lifeless,

They long to hear your voice,to feel your presenceAnd maybe then, they see you.

— Tarini Dhar Prabhu, Class 8


Pain

I came home,Waiting for a lovely meal,And a hearty chat,But, all I could hear was—Shouting, screaming and yelling,I wondered and watched helplessly. I was in my room,Picked up the phone,And two voices aroseBut all I could hear wasShouting, screaming and yelling,I wondered and watched helplessly. Guests came over,We served and talked,They left and then we talked and talked,But all I could hear wasShouting, screaming and yelling,I wondered and watched helplessly. Time came when he was leaving,But all I could hear wasShouting, screaming and yelling,I wondered and watched helplessly.This time I screamed,Screamed in agony and pain.

— Rukmini Swaminatha


Helpless

I saw them that day,Taking Damini awayShe screeched and screamed,But her parents didn’t move a muscleThe men just said"She works well, you’ll be paid well".I stood there helplessNothing I could doI knew my turn will come soon...In the middle of an afternoon nap,They put Anand in a sackThey thrust few wads of cashRight into his parent’s handsAnd then the men said"He works well, you’ll be paid well. I stood there helplessNothing I could doI knew my turn will come soon... One day I heard my parentsTalk to some strangersA shiver ran up my spineI stood there stillThey broke into my roomMY turn had come.Once again I heard the men say"She works well, you’ll be paid well."

— Shayista


The Letter

It all began on a fine sunny morning in their village. Gangadhar, a simple farmer, had justgot a letter from his son, Ramu, and his neighbour Rangappa was reading it out to him atbreakfast. "... So you can come and visit me here in Delhi. I’ve enclosed a plane tickets fortwo, in case you want to bring anyone else along. Do take care on the journey. Love,Ramu." read out Rangappa.

"How wonderful! Now you can go and see Ramu after three years ? he’s been so busy, poorthing..." said Gangadhar’s wife, bustling in with the idlis. "I can’t come with you of course,there’s the farm to look after, and the cows ? why don’t you take Rangappa along? He’s abachelor ? no one and nothing to tie him down..."

"Yes, Lakshmi, yes, that’s just what I’ll do," said Gangadhar, shooting a nervous glance atRangappa," yes, yes, precisely..."

Rangappa, smiled. He was glad he wasn’t married. But then, there was Chintu, the goat. Hewas worse than a wife. He ate shirts. And, Rangappa realised with a start, Chintu wouldhave to be taken on this trip to Delhi, because there was never anyone willing to keep himfor a few days... Rangappa groaned inwardly. He had a bad feeling about this journey...

And that’s how they were sitting in the bus a week later, with a bundle of clothes and threelarge tins of food. And a goat. As Rangappa thought, this wasn’t the most auspicious way tostart one’s first excursion from the village. His thoughts were interrupted by two voices.

The first was shrill and loud, and belonged to a middled-aged plump lady in the seatopposite. "Eeehh, the goat, the goat! My sari, sari, help, help!" She shrieked. "The goat’seating my sari oh rama, Vishnu, Ganesh!" was the cry of the lady. On investigation, it wasfound that Chintu had only taken a tiny nibble, and from the bottom at that, but he was stillscolded thoroughly.

The second voice was that of the conductor, asking about their trip.

"I say, never seen you on this bus before ? where are you headed? Began the conductor ina conversational tone.

"We’re going to the airport, to fly to Delhi," explained Gangadhar importantly, "My son isworking there and he wants us to visit. Have you been to Delhi? He asked.

"Me, no ? watch that goat ? I’ve been to Chennai only. I went there for a wedding. So manycars! So many people! Cities are amazing places, amazing but confusing and dangerous too.A sharp eye and quick wrist are essential. Delhi , did you say? Ah, Delhi is a wonderfulplace, so I’ve heard, and ? NO!!!

For it was Chintu again, and all conversation stopped as he was caught and soundlyreprimanded for the third or fourth time that day.

Finally they reached the airport, and after a lot of arguing with the security guards, werefinally allowed to take their tin cans, bundles and goat onto the flight. But there’s many a


slip between cup and lip, as they say, and there are metres and metres between a loungeand a plane. Our cheerful group, feeling that this distance was bit excessive, marched outin the runway, only to set off half a dozen alarms. Half an hour later, they were sent backonto the tarmac, to board their flight.

"I don’t understand," said Gangadhar, "they scolded us then, and now they tell us to go?Chintu nibbled at the stewards spotless shoes.

"Still," remembered Rangappa, "we’re on our way ? to Delhi.

And they were!

— Aranya Koshy, Class 9

A Good Diet

Its important to eat all the food on your plateWhether you are healthy, weak or frailDecide the six nutrients that rule your fateThey fight diseases that make you pale. Don’t eat too much, not too littleFor that’s when your life goes out of orderEat enough to be as fit as a fiddleYou don’t want to get an eating disorder Have veggies, fruits, nuts and beansBread, buttermilk, eggs, and meatThey’ll make you better than even the food of a queenA balanced diet is what you should eat.

— Chhavi Mathur, Class 7


A Memory

I have always enjoyed all sorts of music and much of this interest was cultivated by myHindustani - music teacher Mankotia Madam in my school Amity international. We had achoir which comprised of students from third standard to fifth and the best part was thatwe got to perform in competitions in large auditoriums and win prizes.

I was in fifth standard when it was announced that our school would go for the Delhi JuniorInter School Hindustani music competition. This was just the kind of thing Mankotia Madamloved; to train us for an objective, to make us win trophies. The song to be performed wasquickly chosen: Hamasa Hindustan, a patriotic song which according to Mankotia Madam,possessed an insatiable number to consume the audience and a fire which could make allhearts swell with pride.

Practice for the competition almost invariably meant that our music classes would have toextend beyond the usual zero period, an early morning slot reserved for miscellaneousactivities. My friend Arnav and I were chosen to do the solo introduction which meant thatwe had to spend even more time than the rest of the group. Every morning MankotiaMadam would be waiting for us in the basement music room with her electric Tampura. Therehearsal would always begin with hoarse throats causing Mankotia Madam to recite astring of curses under her breath. She was a very exceptionally dedicated woman and a fewloud expletives didn’t hurt if you had to get things right.

As the date of the competition drew closer the rehearsals began eat away most of our classtime, something which I would have been delighted about in other circumstances. Nowhowever I had a great deal of anxiety and nervousness in my head; I was wondering whata shame it would be if our choir, after so much effort put in my Mankotia Madam andeveryone of us, would come back empty handed.

On the day before the competition, we spent 7 hours in the basement room with MankotiaMadam discussing things like stage fright and how to disguise mistake made duringperformance. All of us were terribly excited and nervous but there was also thisconfidence which by looking at Mankotia Madam’s face of knew we had the potential of getright to the top and so did she.

The day came and we all found ourselves in a school scorpio, speeding our way to AmityGurgaon, a sister school of ours where the competition was being held. After-reaching wehad a quick snack and went to the large theatre where we were supposed to perform. Thesize of the place was enough to make me go weak in the knees.

The competition began sharp at ten and the numerous schools began performing. Some were great, some mediocre and some downright ugly. Our name was called and we allnervously shuffled our way on to stage. It seemed like my heart was doing hurdles as I tooka deep breath and began to sing. As the song progressed we became more and moreconfident and the outcome was nothing short of perfect (or so I have heard!). Clapsresounded in the background as we sighed with relief and got back to our seats.


Results were announced almost immediately. The second prize was awarded to D.P.S R. KPuram. Before the announcement of the first prize there was a pause (one which I reallyhated) and when they said our school’s name I went dizzy. I dizzily collected the trophy andreceived thunderous claps form every where. That was the level of exhilaration passingthrough me then, I just briefly remember thinking, it was all because of Mankotia Madam.That was one of the best moments in my life.

— Yashaswi Mohanty, Class 9

The Match Living in a family which had produced magnificent chess players for generations, it wasnatural that I would have a passion for the game. Both my parents had played chess for thecountry and I intend to do as well.

So imagine my excitement when I read in the papers that a state level chess competitionwas being held in a months time, for players under the age of 16. I told my father that Iwanted to participate in the tournament. His immediate reply was, yes, but he said that Iwould require a lot of practice to perform well. He was sure that I had the potential ofwinning the competition.

The following month was one of the most enjoyable and memorable months of my life.Everyday I would practise with my father and mother. My mother bought me some bookscontaining popular openings and strategies used by players. I had to learn how to use theseto my advantage and defend against these effectively.

We also looked through some famous games played by world by world famous players. Weanalysed their moves and how perfectly each move was thought out. My father told me"every move you make must have a purpose". Do not be wasteful as it opens up gaps andweaknesses in your game", he cautioned.

Gradually I also began to develop a style of game play. Looking at the legends of he gameand analysing their moves showed me that each of them had a style of their own. So Idecided that I would play defensively. This came naturally to me. I would build a solidposition and wait for my opponent to attack. Every attack leaves behind gaps which I wouldthen exploit.

Time flies when you’re having fun. And soon my month of preparation was over. On the day of the competition all of my family wished me just as luck and hoped I brought backthe trophy.

My father and mother escorted me to the hall where we would be playing. I saw lots ofnervous looking boys of my age, talking to their parents, who were comforting them,telling them to be confident.


Soon the game began. There were 5 rounds to the finals. The crowds around me gazed atme and my parents as we ensured the arena. When my name was called, I slowly walkedahead and faced my opponent. We shook hands and the game began.

I tried to stay calm and play normally. Everyone around us were gazing at us. My opponentwas an ordinary player and I could beat him in the game with ease.

The next few rounds were particularly enjoyable. Nearly all my opponents were veryaggressive and rather careless while defending. I explored their weakness accurately andwon with considerable ease. My mother’s teaching was really paying off. I was very happywith myself.

It wasn’t long before I reached the finals. My parents congratulated me and advised me sobe careful in the finals. They had seen my opponent play and he was technically sound, notvery easy to beat. They were right. My opponent in the finals was called Ram Kumar. I hadmet him before in an inter-school meet. He was genuinely good. He too had won all hisprevious games straight and proved to be challenging opponent.

I played in my normal defensive fashion. He too was rather defensive, not taking any initiative to attack. He left no gaps in his defense and was rather frustrating. So I took theinitiative and attacked. This came as a surprise and after long hours of disparate defendinghis walls collapsed. I had won!!

When the trophy was presented to me I was overjoyed!! All my hard work had payed off.Back at home everyone congratulated me for my achievement. They said I would becomea world champion some day. I had no words to say. I grinned through it all. I was on top ofthe world!

— Arpan Banerjee, Class 9

Krishna Brothers

"Tring, Tring...," the cycle bell rang. It was Lalu, the postmaster, who had come to give me aletter. I looked at the letter carefully. My heart beat rose. There was a sudden pause. Ilooked at the postmaster. He looked at me. I asked him to read the letter out to me. Hesaid, "This letter is from Amul Dairy Group asking me to come to their company, forteaching their fellow students how to milk goats." I took a deep breath and asked Laluwhere the Amul Milk complex was located. He said it was located in Mumbai. I asked himhow would I get there.

Suddenly something fell out of the letter. It was a ticket — Lalu bent down and put his handon his back for support and picked up the ticket. Lulu wore his spectacles and stared at it.The ticket said Rama Krishna Makanwala and there was another ticket with no nameprinted on it. Lalu continued reading the letter with anxiety, after a while he was done. He


looked at me and said, these two tickets are for you and your assistant. They haven’tprinted your assistants name. If you want you can take Balakrishna with you."

I said, "Isn’t he too young to go with me to Mumbai. "

The postmaster had nothing to say about this because he didn’t want to engage in theirfamily matter. I thought to myself about taking my brother to Mumbai. Finally I had decidedto take him with me.

Next morning, a phone call came. It was a manly voice. He said that he is from Amul milkgroup and wants to know who I was taking as my assistant. I told that Balakrishna, myyounger brother would go with me. I asked him how he got to know my phone number. Hesaid that Lalu the postmaster had given it to him.

The phone call shortly ended, I called my brother. I told him about this whole incident andasked him if he wanted to come with me. He was very happy. He said that he would love tocome with me. Our flight was next day. I started packing in the night . I had packed a rope,some butter and a few milk kettles . My brother shaved his beard and brought out his newpair of banyan and dhothi.

Next day we got up early and got ready to catch the flight. We went to the airport. Peopleglared at us. We entered the airport. We didn’t have any luggage. There was a man who wassent from airport authority to help us. We went to the security check in . They didn’t allowus inside the lounge because we were taking a goat with us. A lot of police officers cameand told us that we weren’t allowed to take the goat inside.

Meanwhile, I saw a man going inside the lounge with dog I pointed at him. I asked them ifit was not injustice to let man with dog enter the lounge . A huge amount of peoplesupported me. The airport authority couldn’t do anything. They let us in. There was anannouncement saying that we had to go to the plane immediately.

We took out milk kettle and waked towards the plane. On the the way, a policeman witha Walkie -talkie in his hand smiled at us and showed us the way to plane. We climbed upthe stairs and took our places and tied the goat to a handle. It took us two hours to reachMumbai. We reached Mumbai.

A man from the back came to us and asked in Hindi, If we were Krishna brothers. We saidyes and walked with him. He took us to a car waiting outside for us. From the next day westarted teaching students how to milk goats. Now after 20 years me and my brother areworld famous for our milking skills.

— Jinu George, Class 9


Escaped

Ashwath could not fathom how it had happened. Not too long ago, the prisoner had beenlocked up in his cell. How then, had he managed to escape? That would be typical of them,he mused. They found it sadistically amusing, watching him get into trouble with his boss.

He sighed, and rubbed his forehead. If he told them off, they’d complain to his boss. If hedidn’t tell them off ? hell!the boss would still hear from them. Ashwath Gulati did not fearmany people, but his boss terrified him. Oh! He adored her, but it was never a good idea toget her mad.

Shaking his head to bring himself back to the situation at hand, he looked around the cell.There was food and water scattered around. Stupid Prisoner! If he had to go, what was theneed to leave his cell looking like a bomb site? He felt around the floor of the cell. Maybehe’d find a loose stone, like Edmond of Monte Cristo. The cell floor made a hollow tappingsound, and he groaned. He had found a trap door. A small one, but a trapdoor nonetheless.

Now he was irate. A trapdoor! Somebody had definitely been helping him, and he wouldbet his salary it was Pranjal and Ankita. How would he tell Prakriti that her pet rat hadescaped aided by her younger brother and sister? She would never (not in a million years)believe him. He could hear her saying, "Ashu, I am extremely disappointed in you. You letChunchu get away. I hope your silly prisoner ideas..." and she would go on. Pranjal andAnkita would snigger in a corner at their brother in law’s crestfallen expression(crestfallen because their sister had refused to cook for him for a week).

He heard the front door bang shut. It was time to tell his wife that the prisoner hadescaped.

— Aradhana Verma, Class 9

My Mother’s Influence on Me

My mother has influenced me in many ways. She has influenced me to be hardworkingwhich I think is very important for anyone. I am influenced by her because she alwaysseems to be doing very hard work. My mother doesn’t get any time for herself. If you askher favourite past time, she would say that she doesn’t get any free time.

My mother is a very strong and hard working woman. She has to be because she works inthe Police Department. She puts her mind, heart and soul into her work. As a result, she isalways praised by the other staff and the DSP. She works before she goes to work in thepolice station. She works after she comes back from the police station. She has to work inthe house. Since she is the only head of the house, she has to take care of the house. She isthe owner of the house, but she is also the worker.


I watch my mother working hard and I think that I should also work hard. It influences me.Although my mother does all the work in the house, and also works outside, she doesn’tever show that she is tired. She never shows that she wants to be rid of us. That alsoinfluences me. I never want to give up. Even when I am exhausted and irritated I neverwant to give up. One other thing that she has taught me is that after all the hard work onehas to be happy. You should be happy and try to make others happy. You should not showoff or praise your own self for all the hard work you have done.

This has had a great impact on me. I started working hard in my studies. I am always readyto take up a challenge. Even if I don’t achieve anything, I keep trying my best in everythingI do. My results have begun to improve a lot over the year. I thank my mother with all myheart for the influence she has on me.

— Pratima Kumari, Class 9

My BrotherEveryone has someone whom they idolize, whom they want to be like when they grow up,whether it’s a sports person or a relative. Children get easily influenced by people they livewith ? either their close relatives or their parents.

I was influenced by my brother, Shashank Srinivasan. He is an environmental scientist andis ten years older to me. He has worked on various issues ? extinction, protection ofanimals. He manages to balance his life between his work and enjoyment, somehowmanaging to do both at he same time. He has travelled around the whole of India, and has also travelled abroad on work.

I began to feel his influence over me when I was around ten or eleven, when I realisedwhat sort of work he was going to spend the rest of his life doing. Till then, I thoughtgrowing up was about working somewhere and earning a lot of money. I thought that lifewas all about that. But then, my brother was going to work as an environmentalist, a jobwhich is really productive, but one that doesn’t give you much money. My brother’s mindwas set. Initially, my parents were against his decision, but then they realised that he wasgoing to enjoy what he was doing even though he wouldn’t get as much of a salary as myfather.

When I was small, my brother used to help me with my homework. He would tell me aboutenvironment and all its problems. Initially, I was forced into sitting and listening to hislectures because my mother wanted me to know about the world. But later on, I becameused to listening to him talk, and soon, I was eager for his lectures, which were basicallyabout the world and its issues. Then he decided to be an environmentalist and has beenhaving all the fun in the world.

When I grow up, I have not decided what I would like to become, but I ‘ve realised that itdoes not matter how much I earn as long as I have fun doing my work.

— Kanishk Srinivasan, Class 9


A Question of Equality

Since as long as I can remember, I’ve always had an innate belief, an axiom that I took forgranted, for it seemed so perfect it could not help but be true; I believed that, one way orthe other, everyone was equal in their capabilities.

This, while it may not appear so on first impression, is a rather powerful idea. What itmeans is that I may be excellent at academics, good at art and poor at sports and someoneelse maybe a genius at making good friends, fantastic at charming teachers and abysmal atthinking up jokes, but in the end, the two of us are equal. Our skills and strengths may be indifferent fields, but in the immense spectrum of experiences, challenges, strengths andweaknesses that is life, we are both equally capable of achieving greatness.

Recently, I was introduced to a contrasting idea that gripped me tight and has never let gooff me since. The idea was almost elegant in its simple contrast to my axiom of equalityand can be best expressed as ‘everyone isn’t equal.’ Initially, the idea was far toofrightening, so I simply ignored it. Gradually, I began to come to terms with it. It was stillvery frightening, but I picked up the courage to explore this villain of naivety and itsimplications.

I have often seen people (including my self) as simply not been as endowed as others ? lesscapable than others. I always comforted myself with my dear faith in equality by thinkingthat surely these people have hidden potential waiting to be discovered that will beingthem to the same level as the rest and as capable as every one of them. The purpose of lifewas to realise your full potential and unleash all your capabilities onto the world, or so Iimagined.

This new demonic idea, champion of inequality, implied that, well if a person appears lessendowed, maybe he is. Maybe some people are more capable than others. Why was thisidea such a blow to me? I cannot say. But I have come up with a solution to soothe mytroubled mind. I realized that the foundation of my belief in the equality of everyone wasmy underlying belief that everyone is equally entitled to greatness. As I explored the ideathat everyone needn’t be equal, I began to think that it wasn’t so very natural thateveryone was entitled to the same trophy of greatness. ‘Greatness’, I concluded, was aphony word. Every one’s greatness is his own; there is no common ‘greatness’. Life is but aquest to use what you have been given to become as much as you can, and if you haverealised this, (here I quote Rudyard Kipling), ‘yours is the world and everything in it, myson!’

— Aravind Prashant Gollakota, Class 10


Not Such a Perfect Day After AllWe were all commenting on how it was an unusually bright day on the dining table as weleisurely ate our breakfast. Even the awful Tuesday idlis and sambar tasted surprisinglygood! It wasn’t one of those ice-bitten cold mornings nor was it an uncomfortably hot one,it was a perfect blend of both, best suited to me. The least fact yet, was that the fear of the Economics exam in a few hours, wasn’t eating me up! So we were all sitting, without a carein the world, enjoying our Rishi Valley Tuesday breakfast and commenting on how todaydidn’t feel like the first day of our second series Examination.After our rarely delicious breakfast, we carried on slowly to the Assembly hall enjoying thebrilliance of the perfect amount of sunlight on us. At the senior school assembly hall wewere pleasantly surprised to find out that it was Gieve Patel’s poetry assembly. Now onewould have to be as ignorant as rock to not know Gieve Patel and his excellent Rishi Valleypoetry assemblies! We all sat down on the neatly spread mats and waited for everyone tosettle down so that the assembly could start.The assembly ended with an excellent poem by Bavatarak which was like a bright redcherry to the perfect assembly. On our way to class we were all having quite a colourfuldiscussion on all our favourite poems. Mine was "OK, I’ll down it!" by Rinchen and how myfavourite word was "Lady!" when I saw Sir standing by the doorway of our classroom.I was quite happy to see him , till I realised that I was wearing my rubber slippers and thathe was looking straight down at my feet with an annoyed expression. Not wanting a darkpatch on my perfect day I quickly turned around, handed my books over to my friends andheaded in the opposite direction. I quickened my pace, but was still quite relaxed for it’snot uncommon to get caught wearing rubber slippers in Rishi Valley and definitely notuncommon for me. But my air of relaxation quickly disintegrated, when Kaya, my friendcalled me and told me with a petrified expression clouding her face that he was calling me.My nonchalant attitude was quickly replaced with one of fear.I walked towards Sir with what I thought was an apologetic face, but it clearly proved be noteffective enough. His fierce eyes pierced straight into mine and said, "Go back home andchange your disgusting footwear! And don’t ever look at me and walk away like that againor else you are going to have to face serious consequences!" I didn’t have to be told twiceto leave as fast as I could.It was the first time he was ever scolding me in person. I had seen him scold others and heard him scold all of us, but never had I looked into these brown eyes when he was in atemper and never ever had I stood alone to face him while he scolded me alone! It mighthave been a matter of two minutes, but at least to me it felt like two years. I might havebeen standing amongst a whole school of people, but to me it felt like it was just the two ofus face to face on a stage. There might have been millions of voices talking there, but to meit was just his icy voice like shards piercing though me.Till then I had only heard of his anger! Those two minutes were enough to ruin the nexttwo days for me.

— Rhea K, Class 10


A Tale of Two Brothers

That badly white washed buildings that you’ll see when you walk down the pot-holesroads of Attur, a small insignificant town in southern Tamilnadu are not very old. In fact theproud shop owner in the small tin shop opposite the house will say that its only two yearsold. It’s rough white walls are now caked in mud and reek somehow of bovine urine.

Arumugam knew that the building was built by some rich man who had come to the townthree years ago and gave a long speech about the greatness of our state. It was around thetime when other people dressed in new white veshti’s had gone around giving us flag of some sun rising over a hill. Well that’s how they decided to build our school. A whole yearlater when the construction was almost complete they came around giving all the childrena white shirt , a pair of brown shorts and a new slate. My! how proud Arumugam was ofthat uniform!

But everyday as he would run to school you could see a streak of guilt that swiped his face.He would tell only his friend Arul why. When the school was built his father had decidedthat one of the children had to study to make the family prosper. So Ramakrishnan hiselder brother had to go to Sivakasi to work day and night in a cracker factory to giveArumugam his school’s meagre fees. Arumugam had been heart broken that time when Ramakrishnan had returned for pongal. His hands where all chaffed and his hair wasgraying at the age of fifteen. He wanted to run out and play with his brother like they usedto in the old days, but Ramakrishnan couldn’t run anymore.

And for that reason Arumugam hated school. If you were to go there on a usually SunnyTuesday morning you could see him ducking out of school, through the back fence near thathand pump that never worked. His parents didn’t know about it but Arumugam stole out ofthe school . Only the older boys in those dusty flea ridden streets knew that Arumugamdid. Only they would see him running along beating his old source of happiness.

Where Arumugam really spent his time was by the gutter playing with Arul. Seeing whosepalmyra leaf would flow faster in that gutter with its thick black water, occasionally gettingstuck in womens hair that was grayed by the old nasty shampoo sachets that they used. Heloved beating Arul in their bicycle-wheel beating races near the dusty Murugan Temple.He liked jumping into the putrid, green water of that temple tank where the morebeautiful of the religious town girls bathed. He waited for the days when he would chasestray buffaloes with his tamarind stick and the days when stray dogs chased him for tryingto steal their puppies.

But in the day when he sat quietly with Arul and his bicycle wheel in the quietness of thatpongamia tree near the river watching a sobbing sun set over this dirty, disgusting town allhe felt was sorrow.

Piteous sorrow! Would days ever get brighter for him? Would Ramakrishnan ever comeback? There was no one to answer Arumugam’s question.

— Abhay, Class 10


Wet Fire Set Me Free

My body rejected sleep one night,Wanting not, that sweet bliss of dreams.My feet carried me away,Away into the wood. T’was a full moon, and breezy,I rejected objection;Alas! Oh Alas!For I soon came to regret it. I trudged on, somewhere, nowhere,In a drunken swoon.My feet, bare, upon the bare earth;On and on. The ground was littered,Stiff yellow leaves,Crackling under my feet.The naked trees, wincedAs their garments crumbled. The trees gathered close,Their gnarled limbs,Blotted out the moon, in vengeance;A quest of darkness, crept in with the wind. So dark, so dark, eyesight futile,Senses sharp;The extraction of my soul,Commenced. In the never ending darkness,The silent assassins moved in,Hungry for death;I ran. I ran ahead, the warm comfort ofA home, forgotten.I ran ahead, as the abyss of doom,Closed in on me.


In the nothingness, a glint of light,A glimmer of hope,But the forest was reluctantTo let go. The crooked spines, tore at my fleshBlood, quenched the parched earth.A jerk in their pursuit, and I broke free, My desperate being,Reached out towards the light.A slender, wet hand,Glistening in its own light,took mine. The loving touch of life,Set ablaze my consciousness,And brought it forth.I was free. My soul catapulted away,The sweet joy of freedom,Powered me through the gnarled ones,Through the sky, and into the stars. I left my body lying somewhere,Nowhere,Clutching a slender wet hand,Glistening in its own light.

— Rishiraj Rajashi Ramaswamy, Class 10

Free Writing

My English teacher walks around, enforces silence ??" as determined as Hitler ingenocide, She comes close, like Hitler, in succeeding, but never officially does. As the classis intent — except for the wobbling of tables, the whispering of restless students the,heavenly fan and the claps of people — in the attempt to exterminate mosquitoes fromthe planet. She silently gets down to her own work, unaware of the thought buzzing in allof our heads. In our minds there is pandemonium, caused by confusion — what are wesupposed to do?


Then, we get down to our books and lay our pens on the paper (although it is not exactlywhat she meant), and put our hands on our foreheads, still in the state of confusion welook around, see whether anyone knows what to do, and when we realize that otherpeople are intently doing it, we wonder why we can’t. Since we can’t and don’t want to doit, we search for a loophole. Only if something could save us from this mess. Then, anepiphany, and he has a stroke of genius. His plan goes into action, he distracts otherpeople, and ‘Voila!’, the teaches reacts just as expected: ‘Ikram, please go out. ‘Mission’success. Blissful freedom to look forward to sitting outside in the open air, with the natureand light chatter of the senior school, and no work to be done. Blissful indeed.

A strange paradox of life: what you enjoy, it harms you, what you dislike, it does you good.Medicine is bitter, soft drinks are sweet. To study is beneficial, to procrastinate isdangerous. Smoking, drinking and drugs are addictive, but generosity, kindness, andhonesty are not. Life is a game of survival, where one is against all odds. The more you tryto be good, the more it will pull you towards doing evil. Life is a black hole. When you crossa point, there is no way you can escape from the vicious cycle of evil. In the end, it kills youin the most torturous manner, breaks you, rips you apart piece by piece.

— Suket Karnawat, Class 11

Money is the Root of all Evil?

A few thousand years ago, our ancestors recognized something important, t ??? they said???Anything in excess leads to ruin ??" anything, including money. Money is not the rootcause of all evil. All objects are merely tools ??" none of them have an inherent nature.Ultimately, it is the self which is responsible for actions, be they good or evil.

Objects have no inherent nature. Whether they are considered good or evil depends uponperception. Is a knife evil? A Cook and a potential murderer each look at it differently. Aknife is an instrument in our hands and so is money. It cannot cause evil for it makes nodecisions of its own. You can let it lead you to ruin or you can let it lead you great good. Youcan use money to get yourself addicted to drugs, or you can use money to give somebodya life.

When a murder is committed, it is neither the knife nor the hand that is arrested, but theman responsible, the doer. Ultimately the doer is responsible for his actions, therefore,whether money is a cause for evil is determined by he who is responsible for wielding it.When there is a court case for money-laundering for example, the judge considers thecriminal responsible, and not the money involved.

As objection raised might be that circumstances force decisions, that one did what onecould surely have done in the situation ??" that the self is not responsible, in short.


However in this case, as much responsibility rests upon money as upon the self, this beingnone. Thus if the self cannot be held responsible, neither can money.

Money, therefore, is not the root cause of all evil. It is surely the self and perhaps fatewhich are responsible for any evil. I would advocate that all humans grow acres ofdiamonds and put them to good use.

— Hamsini Sukumar, Class 11

Money is the Root Cause of all Evil

Humans have existed on this planet for over two hundred thousand years. As a species,homo sapiens have evolved from hunter-gathers to what we are now - money ??" makers.Today, the modern society is driven by the urge to make more and more money. Behindevery transaction, every individual has the vested interest of making a large profit. Societytends to evaluate people based on their wealth and property, rather than other noblesqualities.(Unfortunately, the flip-side is that ‘money’ can help one purchase anything isthis greedy world.) Thereby, I claim that money is the root cause of all evil.

There are two fundamental problems with money. Firstly we depend on it to a largeextent. Even though its just paper and has no intrinsic value, the real value is felt whilemaking a purchase. Secondly, a universally accepted notion regarding money is - ‘themore, the better’. In today’s market economy, these two problems are thoroughlyexploited. Every firm produces its goods just for the sake of making profits. Thus, noconcern whatsoever, is given to the quality of the commodity produced. In market terms,this phenomenon is known as ‘Obsolescence’. Manufacturers tend to produce theirproducts in such a way that it deteriorates rapidly. This is done so that consumers are forcedto replace these products with new ones. As a result, firms expand their profitsexponentially by maximizing sales. For instance, take the example of the ‘mobileindustry’. Today, Practically three out of five people in the world own mobile. Interestingly,they keep replacing old cell phones with new ones. This is primarily due to two reasons.Firstly, since new products are being launched every now and then, people want to be upto date. Secondly, in the case of mobiles land money other electronics. Some small, yet inintegral part of the gadget is made of poor quality. As a result, it degenerates very quickly.Also, it’s never available anywhere in the market. Thus, consumers are forced to make yetanother purchase. Thus we see how the profit-oriented industrialists, who crave to makemore money, exploit customers by providing poor quality goods that become obsolete inno time.

Another reason why money is the root of all evil in society in that most people tend toevaluate others based on their property and wealth rather than their qualities, Even inschool today, children try and indirectly inquire about a newcomer’s family wealth andwhether or not he/she lives in a posh locality, rather than asking him/her about their


hobbies and interests. Similarly, in the late twentieth century in France, diamond andother precious stone sellers used to closely examine the attire of their customers beforeletting them in. A silk shirt and a golden fabric tie would mean a free entry whereasunbranded and non-aristocratic clothes would spell out a blatant ‘EXIT’ . Thus, we see howsociety evaluates others based on money, Yet again, money happens to be the root of allevil.

The third and final reason I shall give to support my argument is the popularly talked topicabout ‘corruption’. The word ‘corruption’ resonates among our bureaucratic politicians.Most of them eat up half the money for which is actually meant ‘funds’ for the growth andwelfare of the poor. Their craving for money is unparalleled. They make heartless promisesand distribute hundred rupees to every household just for the sake of a vote. Once inpower, they exploit their position and these promises obviously remain unfulfilled. A veryrecent example of this is that of the commonwealth games. India had voluntarily agreed tohost the games. Eight years ago the budget of the whole project was declared to be 700core rupees. However, a month before the games presumed, the Nehru Stadim stoodunfinished and the expenditure was extended to a staggering 40000 crore rupees. Itsunknown as to where the funds have vanished but the money, which happens to be a verylarge amount, hasn’t been used for any productive purpose, but has instead, almostcertainly, filled the pockets of ???Mr??? Kalmadi and his fellow associates here again.

We see how the humans desire for money results in inefficient governments (especially inIndia) and appalling levels of corruption. It seems as though every decision, made by us isdetermined by the profit that one makes out of it .

Now, the very popular objection to the arguments stated above is that in case of a healthdisorder, money is essential to save one’s life. People who think so believe that wealth canbuy health too. However, it isn’t really so. Its time that money is necessary if one wishes toundergo an operation. Nevertheless, this doesn’t imply that we care for more and moremoney. This greedy approach actually makes one feel further insecure. The increasingdependency on money has proven to cause various kinds of psychological disorders,ranging from depression to insomnia, studies from the Neurological survey of Amsterdamhave shown. In other words, being satisfied of your income and being cheerful ensuresbetter mental and physical health rather than possessing a villa and flaunting your wealth( which results in a dissatisfied and disconsolate life).

To conclude, the superfluous importance given to money leads to various problems likecorruption, differentiation in society (based on wealth), poor mental health andexploitation of consumers in markets (to make profits). Thus, due to these reasons, I amconvinced that money is the not of all evil.

— Tarun Sharma, Class 11


Flipping through a Poet’s Note Book...

Strange how a thing like rain should be mud soaking, coat drenchingOceans rise to the sky and slush into the ground cumulus clouds,Large, vast, watchful and white,Dissipate as mist, thin drizzle,or the silence of the morning fog. Through the streets, dim lit lampsRoads glistening wetFrom a last night’s shower, the air damp and soggy,Prolongs the sleepy hour. A new sheet,Coll and clear is cast upon the waking city From a breath of lofty giants in the sky. An accidental cycle,It seems, for small talk on the weather,The dew on a petal,A trickle down the misting windowAs you sit up, ;look out, hazy and dim,, At the washed new world that still, after centuries of rain,Stirs a thought, a smile; a few loose words.

Hookey

At the end of the year, slim books get heavy. The pagesTurn to lead: visited often, scrawled on and soiled, the most elegant proseMay go stale and dry. Minds, perhaps, are made to get bored;Voices of the classroom grow familiar tones,Dustbins and eyes turn empty and vacant, Walls seem to lean in, suspiciously close; as thoughLiving here too long would cave us in. May be thenWe’ll rise from the rubble, like weeds and wild flowers; growing awkward,Sprawling in the new sun. Maybe we’ll know then,How sloe time turns in the bones of ruin; For so muchHas been lain to waste in hours and days untouched by the idleness. Of playing hookey in the sun. Looking back,So much was lost Of a world suffused with light,And the gold Savannahs of time left unkilled.


****** Stars whiz whirglimmer and glint sparkle as themoon climbs, The moon sets, a cough of dust —Orange sheen clinging for the white touch,The strange phosphorous orb in the sky. Mist is brown, the lightPurple. Dark weeds just, uncertain, grappling and reachingInto the void, this ancient heady airof a world that changes, with so frail a thingAs light? Come, see, grope and grieveAt the centuries of empty windows, undusted and danglingBy rusty hinges, feeling only the sway and brush of silver rays, do they know what is, what follows?What once were hands and mirrors,screws and nails, o r waiting eyes that rummaged the clouds,A purpose beneath the silent dustto be? Or a forgotten moonto gaze from the sky, watchful of a world now hung,somewhere, uncertain of a past that sits soft, glowing,moth light in the sky. ********** The sunlight is soft and paling. It spreadsAcross the walls in the sweep of long, honey dipped fingers. Abandoned booksForgotten scraps of scribbling,idle on the floor, shrugged off; the shelvessigh, relieved, They get up and stretch; they yawn, And watch the flushed day creep, weary and red,Into the dust. ********


Someone has lifted a rim of the skyAnd peers under it. The trees are grim monsters at night; the road aheadShrinks and crumbles into darkness.

— Mustafa, Class 12


The Beginning of the EndEveryone is sad when great warriors die. Hundreds of thousands of people throng thestreets, crying as they see the body of the brave and courageous man, who fought for themwith heart and soul. But here is another story of something else. It had been there forever!That lovely, huge, shady tamarind tree. When I was born, there it stood beside my house.I was sure it would be there when I died too!

I grew up with it, every summer, hundreds of fat brown tamarinds would appear on it. Myfriends and I would climb up the tree, along with sugar, salt and chilly powder, and eattamarinds, till our tongues were sore, our stomachs hurt, and our throats stung.

That tree was my favourite tree out of all the ones in the neighbourhood. It was the biggestand the shadiest. It had the perfect hiding places when you didn’t want to go home. The best part was its cracks, roots, bark — everything! They were positioned in the perfect way for a person to climb up.

We even tried building a tree-house on it once. Thankfully (for the tree, and for us) itdidn’t work out, we took pieces of wood, and we were equipped with hammer, nails etc.But then, the branch which we were on, suddenly started creaking, and we scampereddown the tree. That night, I heard an almighty crash! And when I ran out, I couldn’t seeanything .

The next morning, we went out, and saw the branch we had been planning to build thetree-house on, on the ground. My friend and I started laughing with relief at our escape butI had the distinct feeing something was wrong. When I went closer and examined, it lookedas if nothing was different ? the branch had fallen because of too much weight. But I knew-I realised ? that it was getting old. That incident was, perhaps, the beginning of the end.

We played on it, the next few summers, just like we had before. We would clamber up andsettle down in our favourite positions, and read books. We still ate the tamarinds . We stilllaid down in the shade and slept. But all along, I think that the tree was giving out subtlesigns that its time on earth was up. More of its branches fell. Sometimes, we even thoughtit had died, but then new leaves would suddenly spring up. Some summers, it did notproduce tamarinds!

The end came, sadly, when I wasn’t there. I had gone to spend a week at my grandmother’splace, and when I returned, the tree was still there. It still stood where it had always been,but some thing was different ? it looked like it was being tortured! It had ropes tied aroundvarious parts of it. Which went in different directions. I was upset, and shocked. Howcould...?

My friends told me that someone had realised that the tree had had a termite attack, andwas dead inside. That was why they were cutting it down. I was so upset I couldn’t sayanything. But I understood that it was gone.

Last week, however, I saw a tiny plant (it couldn’t have been more than an inch tall!)springing up from the earlier one’s grave. Perhaps... Perhaps...

— Karunya Shirali, Class 12


Home Bound

Would you like some juice, Ma’am?" the clipped British accents of the stewardess woke mefrom my hazy stupor. "No thank you" I replied. ‘Juice! Why would I want sterilized , meltedplastic British juice when I was going home. Home! The most beautiful city on earth andthe most ugly. Bombay, Mumbai ? my home. The air craft loses height and I peer out of thewindow eagerly, attracting stares from a very prim English grandmother seated beside me.It is two o’clock in the morning by Indian standard Time and Mumbai, as usual is alive andpartying. As the plane gets closer and closer to the ground, Mumbai rises up to meet me.It’s glittering, diamond lights get brighter and brighter till at last, with a satisfyingly solidshudder, the plane touches earth. I am home. I wait impatiently in line behind red facedEnglishmen and sari-clad Hounslow Gujjus’. It is extremely difficult to describe how I feel.Happy, obviously, to return to my city, apprehensive ? will it be very much changed?,excited - I can’t wait to sit in the familiar black and yellow auto, drink sugarcane juice fromRamji’s handcart and a little fearful ? will Ramji still be there?’

I see the little door, the entrance to the aircraft, forming an archway that opens out to thehot, black, Mumbai night. Sweaty and grimy like the long clammy fingers of a familiar andfriendly monster. I duck out of the low door and lo! It is pure magic. I am truly in Mumbainow. I smell people, dirty, hot people, happy people. — People who don’t let anythingstop them. Whose black faces and white smiles are testimony to my city’s magic.

I hear shouts, yelled out directions in Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati ? comfortable, warmlanguages that roll off the tongue like the famous ‘ice-gola’. Languages that soothe myears after three years of clipped British accents (as if words were stones to be thrown atpeople) and the harsh American twang. All the Indians off the plane begin yelling as well,we Mumbaiites drive great pleasure from yelling. In this city, yelling freely, yell loudly,nobody will mind, cry just one drop. However, and the whole city will be on it’s feet tostand beside you.

I am standing on the tarmac, like a moon struck maiden, gazing at Mumbai ? the magicalmetropolis. As I gather my bags and leave the airport, a barrage of taxi drivers, porters,hotel agents and tour guides hit me. A fitting welcome to the city of enterprise, here a cheffrom Singapore can become a millionaire film actor.

I drive through the streets and I find that "all is changed, changed utterly" the roads arenarrower than ever , the shops more plentiful, the cars more glittering and the hawkershealthier . I re-acquaint myself with the glitz and the glamour ? Indians film capital, fashioncapital and financial capital. No sooner does the thought enter my head than the car cruisespast a formidable, towering structure, the ivory tower’ of the Reserve bank of India. Theleft turns take me to the tree-lived street that houses the Bombay Stock Exchange ? the temple of India’s’ emerging market’.

I am filled with a sense of immense pride and joy. I feel like jumping on to the roof ofElphinstone college and yelling out to the world, "Me Mumbaikar - I am a Mumbaiite. Mycity is Mumbai ? the most perfect city in the world and the most imperfect. I pass the Asiatic


library and the clock tower, the oval Maiden, Mahim Church and pass into Bandra, my homeaway from home.

As the car squeezes through the shady paths lived still with quaint little villas, I feel tearsprick my eyes as memory after memory surfaces in my head like never ending stream ofbubbles. I cry for the times I played, hide and seek’ with lost friends behind these samevillas, I cry for the times. We sat on the rocks beside the sea sharing stories and tears overtea and peanuts. The sea is Mumbai’s mother ? when we cry the sea is the first to know,when we laugh the sea laughs with us. It is Mumbaikars best friend and worst enemy. Itheals all hurts and magnifies all joy. A true Mumbaikar has sea water in his blood

Mumbai, like all its residents, is a city of conflicts, a paradoxical blend of all that is good andall that is evil. It is the richest city in India and the poorest. It is the home of Shah Rukh Khanand Abu Salem. It is beautiful and ugly . It is passionately, intensely free. You are free tochoose ? crime or cinema, Dharavi or Malabar Hills, free to set up business ? no matterwhere you come from, who you are. Mumbai is passionate in everything ? intensely eviland passionately brilliant ? it is a city of youth, of life of colours, to see Mumbai in all itsglory, where the messiah and the mercenary share sweat on the public bus, is to glimpsean intensified, concentrated brew of life. It is hardly unsurprising , therefore, to find that Iam besieged by conflicting emotions ? like mother like daughter?

— Rukma Sen, Class 12

"Boys will be Boys"

Over the vast and varied stretch of time which has seen the birth of humans, from the timeof Adam and Eve, there has been a tryst for a gender dominion of sorts. Of course, the storyof Adam and Eve was formulated (or told) much after the beginning of human existence. Inmost early pagan cultures, it was the female, and the mother earth ,that was revered. Later, with the development of Modern religions, the male form became the focal point,all goods (most) depicted as male figures.

Currently, we are witnessing an enthusiastic surge in the feminist movement as womenbegin to break the social bonds which had previously been holding them down. Whetherthis is to lead to another loop in the cycle , or a final balance, is not easy to predict, but Ibelieve that at least temporarily, we are all looking for equality.

I’m all for this movement, personally, yet, history shows us that there is some divide inthese two sects of humans, which is not that easy to ignore.

Of course, there are the obvious physical differences, but that can, for the most part , beoverlooked. The difference in ability to perform some activities, however, does largelyinfluence behaviour.


The bottom line here is that there are some clear patterns of divergence in the generalactions, and psychology of boys and girls, and these are very prominent during childhood.

After three or four years of childhood, and even more noticeably as the child becomesprogressively older, differences emerge in child behaviour. Girls tend to be happierplaying with toys, dressing up, drawing, reading or trying to dress up like their parents,than the boys. Girls tend to be quieter, and probably more sensitive. Which is not to saythat any of this is bad though it may seem as though I have put it negatively. I know for afact that my mother wanted me to be a girl, and when my brother was to be born, she was(due to experience) wishing, positively pleading for one.

Boys can me louder, more energetic and consequently, more destructive. Most childpsychiatrists reach a consensus on boys being more aggressive than girls, and much morewilling to settle confrontations physically.

As they grow older, girls tend to become tidier, and may see the need for organization. Onthe contrary, boys (predictably) are messier. This tends to invite a certain amount ofdistress on the part of the unfortunate parents, guardians, or Rishi Valley house masters.

Though I personally do not mind things being messy, were someone to suggest enteringJacaranda House, I would (out of concern and respect for the aesthetic values of others)strongly advise against it.

These characteristics, though discouraging, do come with a bonus. Boys tend to be livelier,funny and entertaining ? we do wonders to those in a bad mood. It is not easy for things toget dull when a boy is around. Though we may sometimes be called stubborn and selfish,it is all because of our fun-loving, but otherwise well meaning spirit. And when the needis felt, we can be quite helpful.

So, putting aside all other socially considered bad habits and natural tendencies, finally, itis the — to put it modestly — flair, charisma, the cheerfulness, and the charming smilesthat take precedence in a boys character, to the delight of the on looker. Which is whymothers, though exasperated, cannot help smiling when they see us. Boys will always beboys.

— Tushar Khurana, Class 12


Farewell

Step into a journey, intimate yet distant.Short and then shorter Meet faces, learn names,let time trickle onas you pick up smooth pebblesfrom the stream bed....storing eachcollected memoryin your pockets. I know these pebbles will stayand not wear away,They feel in my pockets,solid,and present. This poem in dedicated to each of the various people that I met in my two years here...

— Ira Sharma,Class 12

The Library

Black, a complete black,and yet it reflects the window,each inch of the windowcan be seen on the floor,ever so minutely ? clearly. The one moving object is composedof the fan over my head andthe tip of my pen.The window’s bright and ajar,Let in the sounds of insects,


loud ? as if evening.There are books towering over me,warm, friendly and wisely knowledgeable,each with a new strange story.Eyeflies ? millions of them,crowd around me,making me itch;while Butterflies,gleaming beautifully in the sun,flatter by outside the windows,Light and joyous. I want to fly with them,laugh with them,cry with them.So light ! so carefree, so beautifully pretty.They enchant the world,lives up the trees and fill the airwith their sweet colorings. The heat doesn’t bother them,like lovers they do their dance,in pairs.And in groupsthey sing aloud a toastto this lovely summer. I leave the library and walk out,I walk down a stormy pathsurrounded by a thicket of tall tress,And suddenly ! They burst open,hundreds of butterflies ... and me. They engulf me,enchant me,cried around and make a crown.I stand,alone,mesmerized;surrounded by a million butterflies.

— Ira Sharma, Class 12


Graffix Galore ...


Julius Caesar— Kabir, Bhuvanesh, Class 8


Animal Farm— Inika, Class 8


Live it up with Languages...


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- |ÉhÉÒiÉ, EòIÉÉ 4


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- nùÒCIÉÉ, EòIÉÉ 6


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- nùÒCIÉÉ , EòIÉÉ 6

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- iÉxªÉÉ , EòIÉÉ 6

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gRiLi»¡ ≠s¨szmsLiøR¡≤R∂Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V, ˙xmsºΩ ¨s≠sVxtsQLi INRP ∏R∂VVgRi™´sVVÕÿ @¨sˆr°ÚLiμj∂. "Æ©s[©´sV≠sLi»¡V©yı©´s©´sı AaRPª][ FyhSÃ¡V ¬ø¡xmsoªRΩV©´sı DFyμ≥y˘∏R∂VV¨s\|ms" «ÿ÷¡ Æ™s[xqsVÚLiμj∂. @LiVV©y gRiLi»¡Æ™sWgRi≤R∂Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. FyxmsLi A gRiLi»¡ZNP[Li æªΩÃ¡VxqsV ... ˙xmsºΩL][«¡⁄ Gμ][ xqs™´sV∏R∂VLiÕ‹[ Fs™´sL][ ™´s¿¡ËgRiLi»¡©´sV N]≤R∂ªyLRiV. @μj∂ @Õÿlgi[ ©´sLi»¡W Æ™sWgRiVªRΩVLiμj∂. gRiLi»¡N]NRP ™´sV©´sxqsV ™´soLi¤…¡[ FsLiªRΩÀÿgRiVLi»¡VLiμ][... ™´sV©´s Àÿμ≥R∂Ã¡©´sV @LÛRiLi ¬ø¡[xqsVN]¨s ™´sWNRPV FsxmsˆV≤R∂V NS™yÃ¡Li¤…¡[ @xmsˆV≤R∂VÆ™sWlgi[μj∂, BxmsˆV≤R∂V BμR∂Liªy AÕ‹[¿¡Li¿¡ G≠sV ˙xmsπ∏∂W«¡©´sLi?.., 5 ¨s≠sVuyÃ¡V, 10 ¨s≠sVuyÃ¡V,15 ¨s≠sVuyÃ¡V C N˝SxqsV FsxmsˆV≤R∂V xmspLRiÚ™´soªRΩVLiμ][, ™´sWrÌyLRiV ¬ø¡}msˆμj∂ G FyhRiÆ™sW NRPW≤R∂ ©yNRPVæªΩ÷¡∏R∂VμR∂V.


≠s©´sNRPVLi≤y ™´soLi≤R∂≤R∂Li Æ™sWxqsÆ™s[V NS¨s G≠sV ¬ø¡[}qsμj∂? C gRiLi¤…¡[Æ™sW Æ™sWgRi≤R∂Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. NRPŒœ¡ßæªΩLji¿¡ NRPÃ¡Ã¡V NRP©´s≤R∂Li Æ™sVVμR∂…”¡ 10 ¨s≠sVuyÃ¡V, }msxmsLRiV ≠dsVμR∂ zms¿¡ËgkiªRΩÃ¡V gki∏R∂V≤R∂Li ™´sVL][ 10¨s≠sVuyÃ¡V BÕÿlgi[ gRi≤T∂¿¡F°ªRΩVLiμj∂ N˝SxqsVÕ‹[ \¤…¡Li. A≈¡LjiNTP !! gRiLi»¡ Æ™sWgjiLiμj∂! gRiLi»¡ Æ™s[VÃ¡VN]¨s™´so©´sı»˝¡V DLiμj∂!!

©y xmsgRi…”¡ NRPÃ¡Ã¡NRPV, ™´sWrÌyLRiVgSLji ™ygÙS…”¡NTP xmnsQoÕfi rÌy£ms |ms…Ì”¡ ªRΩ©´sV ™´sW˙ªRΩLi gRifl·gRifl· gRifl·@Li»¡W Æ™sWgjiLiμj∂.

c xqsLi«¡©´s LS™´so. zqs

BμÙR∂LRiV }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡V ™´sW…˝ÿ≤R∂V NRPVLi»¡V©yıLRiV.

LS™´sVV : @xqsÃ¡V xqs™´sVV˙μyÃ¡V, ¬ø¡LRiV™´soÃ¡V ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[ ™´sVLi¿¡μj∂. ™´sV©´sVxtsvÃ¡Vds…”¡Õ‹[ ™´sVV¨sgji øy™´sLRiV NRPμy!

LRiÆ™s[V£tsQ : dsŒœ¡ß ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[Æ©s[ ™´sV©´sVxtsvÃ¡V øR¡¿¡ËF°ªyLRiV. FsLiμR∂VNRPLi¤…¡[ dsŒœ¡Õ‹[øR¡¿¡Ë©´s ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ æªΩ[Ã¡øR¡VË, @Æμ∂[ dsŒœ¡ß ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[?

0-0-0

gjiLji : ™´sW ©y©´sı øyÕÿ g]xmsˆ™y≤R∂V. øR¡¿¡ËF°π∏∂[V xmsLjizqÛsºΩÕ‹[ D©´sı™´sV©´sVxtsvÃ¡©´sV ¡ºΩNTPryÚ≤R∂V. ™´sW ©y©´sı INRP ≤yNÌRPL`i!

xqsV dsÕfi : ™´sW ©y©´sı ≠dsV ©y©´sı NRPLi¤…¡[ BLiNS FsLiª][ g]xmsˆ™y≤R∂V. FsLiμR∂VNRPLi¤…¡[ ™´sW©y©´sı ™´sV©´sVxtsvÃ¡©´sV øy™´s ¿¡ªRΩN]‰≤R∂ªy≤R∂V. ™´sW ©y©´sı ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[ ≠dsV©y©´sı FsLiμR∂VNRPW xms¨sNTPLS≤R∂V.

0-0-0

INRPL][«¡Ÿ INRP xqsLÙSL`i “¡ |§¶¶¶÷¡NSxmÌsLRiVÕ‹[ ˙xms∏R∂Wfl”·xqsVÚ©yı≤R∂V. @xmsˆV≤R∂V ªRΩ©´sÕ‹[ ªRΩ©´sV"@Àÿ˜ FsLiªRΩ øR¡Ã˝¡gS DLiμ][" @¨s @©´sVN]¨s "øR¡÷¡NSÃ¡LiÕ‹[ NRPW≤y G ™´sW˙ªRΩLi ¡VμÙj∂ ¤Õ¡[NRPVLi≤R∂Fny˘©˝sV Æ™s[ryÚLRiV" @¨s ¿¡NSNRPV, N][xms™´sVVª][ Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ |§¶¶¶÷¡NSxmÌsLRiV\|ms D©´sı Fny˘¨sı A}msaS≤R∂V.

c xmsXμ≥k∂*


μ]LigRi ryLRiLigRi

μ]LigRi ryLRiLigRi @Æ©s[ gRi«¡μ]LigRi ªRΩ©´sV ¬ø¡[}qs xms¨sÕ‹[ @LiμR∂Lji NRPLi¤…¡[ ªyÆ©s[ øyÃ¡ æªΩ÷¡≠sgRiÃ¡™y≤R∂¨s gRiLRi*™´sVVª][ DLiÆ≤∂[™y≤R∂V. ryLRiLigRi NRPXuÒyxmsoLRiLi @Æ©s[ ™´spLjiÕ‹[ DLiÆ≤∂[™y≤R∂V. A ELji©y˘∏R∂Wμ≥j∂NSLji xmsLRi™´sW©´sLiμR∂LigSLRiV ˙xms«¡Ã¡ NRPuÌyÃ¡V ≠sÆ©s[ ™´s˘QQNTPÚªRΩ*Li D©´sı ™´s˘QQNTPÚ. @ªRΩ©´sVBLiªRΩNRPV ™´sVVLiÆμ∂[ ryLRiLigRiV≤T∂ gRiVLjiLi¿¡ ≠s©yı≤R∂V. xmsÆμ∂[ xmsÆμ∂[ @ªRΩ¨s μ]LigRiªRΩ©yÃ¡ gRiVLjiLi¿¡ NRP¥R∂Ã¡VNRP¥R∂Ã¡VgS ≠sLi»¡V©´sı @ªRΩÆ©s[ μ]LigRiªRΩ©´sLi ¬ø¡[aS≤R∂V @¨s Aμ≥yLRiLi μ]LRiNRPNRPVLi≤y D©´sıμj∂. BLiNRP@ªRΩ¨sª][ ≠szqsgjiF°LiVV©´s xmsLRi™´sW©´sLiμR∂LigSLRiV ryLRiLigRiVfl”·ı zms÷¡zmsLi¿¡ "Æ©s[©´sV ©y LiVVLi…”¡ ™´sVVLiμR∂VlLiLi≤R∂V ¡LigSLRiV gRiLi»¡Ã¡V NRP≤R∂ªy©´sV. ©´sV™´so* @≠s G Aμ≥yLRiLi μ]LRiNRPV‰Li≤y ºdΩxqsVNRPV¨sÆ™s◊¡æªΩ[ ds™´soæªΩ÷¡≠s gRiÃ¡™y≤T∂™´s¨s IxmsˆVNRPVLi…ÿ©´sV" @¨s @©yı≤R∂V.

μy¨sNTP IxmsˆVNRPV©´sı ryLRiLigRiV≤R∂V "Æ©s[©´sV ªRΩxmsˆNRPVLi≤y @≠s μ]Ligji÷¡ryÚ NS¨s ™´sVW≤R∂VxtsQLRiªRΩVÃ¡V' @¨s @©yı≤R∂V. xqslLi[ G≠sV…‹[ ¬ø¡xmsˆV @¨s ªRΩÃ¡ ExmsoªRΩW @©yıLRiVxmsLRi™´sW©´sLiμR∂LigSLRiV. " ≠dsVLRiV ™y…”¡¨s FsNRP‰Q\Æ≤∂©y |ms»Ì¡VN][Li≤T∂! (1) ©yNRPV A gRiLi»¡Ã¡V ≠dsV BLi…”¡˙FyLigRifl·LiÕ‹[NTP ˙xmsÆ™s[bPLiøR¡gSÆ©s[ NRP¨szmsLiøy÷¡. 2) ≠dsVLRiV NSNRPVLi≤y BLiZNP™´s\lLi©y ™y…”¡¨s NSxmsÕÿNSπ∏∂VVøR¡VË. (3) BμÙR∂LRiV NRPLi¤…¡[ FsNRPV‰™´s ™´sV©´sVxtsvÃ¡V NSxmsÕÿ NS∏R∂VNRPW≤R∂μR∂V. @¨s æªΩ[÷¡Ë¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. xqslLi[ @¨s xmsLRi™´sW©´sLiμR∂LigSLRiV @©yıLRiV.

A L][«¡Ÿ LS˙ºΩ xmsLRi™´sW©´sLiμR∂LigSLji BLi…˝‹[ D©´sı Àÿ≠s Æ™s©´sNSÃ¡ ©´sVLi≤T∂ ryLRiLigRiV≤R∂V¿¡©´sıgS NTP…”¡NUP øR¡V™´s*Ã¡V ™´sLi¿¡ BLi…˝‹[NTP «ÿLRiVNRPV©yı≤R∂V. ryLRiLigRiV≤R∂V xmsLRi™´sW©´sLiμR∂LigSLji ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V μ≥R∂LjiLi¿¡ NSxmsÕÿ NSxqsVÚ©´sı BμÙR∂LRiV À≥œ¡»¡VÃ¡ μR∂gÊRiLjiNTP Æ™s◊¡˛, g]LiªRΩV ™´sWLjiË"æªΩÃ˝¡™yLRiÀ‹[ª][Liμj∂. BLiNRP A μ]LigRi ryLRiLigRiV≤R∂V GÆ™sVVryÚ≤R∂V

B≠s Æ©s[©´sV Õ‹[xmsÃ¡ |ms≤R∂ªy©´sV. ≠dsVlLi◊¡˛ xms≤R∂VN][Li≤T∂" @¨s A lLiLi≤R∂V gRiLi»¡Ã¡V ≠szmsˆºdΩxqsVZNPŒ˝ÿ≤R∂V. F~μÙR∂VÆ©s[ı ¤Õ¡[¿¡ øR¡W¿¡©´s xmsLRi™´sW©´sLiμR∂Li gSLRiV ≈¡LigRiVºΩ¨s À≥œ¡»¡VÃ¡©´sV @≤R∂VgRigS NRP¥R∂@LÛRiQ\Æ™sVLiμj∂.

xmsLRi™´sW©´sLiμR∂LigSLji ™´sVLi¿¡ ™´sW»¡Ã¡V ≠s©´sı ryLRiLigRiV≤R∂V ªRΩ©´s æªΩ÷¡≠s æªΩ[»¡Ã¡©´sV ™´sVLi¿¡xmsμÙR∂ºΩÕ‹[ Dxmsπ∏∂WgjiLiøR¡≤R∂Li Æ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V |ms…Ìÿ≤R∂V.

c $™´sVLiª`Ω


xms≤R∂™s

N]LiªRΩ™´sVLiμj∂ INRP xms≤R∂™´sÕ‹[ Æ™sŒœ¡ßªRΩV©yıLRiV. @xmsˆV≤R∂V A xms≤R∂™´sNTP NRP©´sıLi GLRiˆ≤T∂Liμj∂. Axms≤R∂™´s π∏∂VVNRP‰ ∏R∂V«¡™´sW¨s ™´sV©´s™´sVV ™´sV©´s÷¡ı NSFy≤R∂V N][™yÃ¡Li¤…¡[ NRP dsxqsLi ™´sVVgÊRiVLRiV xms≤R∂™´s ©´sVLi¿¡μR∂WZNP∏R∂W˘÷¡ @¨s @Li…ÿ≤R∂V.

@xmsˆV≤R∂V INRP @Æ™sVLjiNRP©±s ¤Õ¡[¿¡ xms≤R∂™´s ©´sVLi¿¡ μR∂WZNP[ryÚ≤R∂V. ªRΩLS*ªRΩ INRP \¬ø¡ ds∏R∂VV≤R∂V xms≤R∂™´s©´sVLi¿¡ μR∂WZNP[ryÚ≤R∂V. ¿¡™´sLRiNRPV INRP À≥ÿLRiºdΩ∏R∂VV≤R∂V ¤Õ¡[¿¡ \¤«¡ z§¶¶¶Liμ`∂ @¨s ¬ø¡zmsˆ ªRΩ©´s xmsNRP‰©´s D©´sı™y≤T∂¨s ª][}qsryÚ≤R∂V.

™sVWÃ¡

xmsaRPı : INRP g][≤R∂ BLiN]NRP g][≤R∂ª][ G™´sV¨s ¬ø¡zmsˆLiμj∂?

«¡™y ¡V : ™´sVWÃ¡Õ‹[ NRPÃ¡VxqsVNRPVLiμyLi.

N][LjiNRP

™´sVVgÊRiVLRiV ≠sV˙ªRΩVÃ¡V INRP @LRifl·˘LiÕ‹[ ¿¡NRPV‰NRPV©yıLRiV. @xmsˆV≤R∂V ™´s©´sÆμ∂[™´sªRΩ ™´s¿¡Ë ≠dsV@LiμR∂LjiNTP IN]‰NRP‰ N][LjiNRP ºdΩLRiVryÚ©´sV @≤R∂gRiLi≤T∂ @¨s ¬ø¡xmsoÚLiμj∂.

LS™´sVV : ©´s©´sVı ™´sW BLi…”¡NTP xmsLixmso.

LS«¡Ÿ : ©´s©´sVı NRPW≤y ™´sW BLi…”¡NTP xmsLixmso.

™y◊¡˛μÙR∂LRiW Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ ™´sW∏R∂V\Æ™sVF°ªyLRiV.

LRiÆ™s[V£tsQ : ©y ≠sV˙ªRΩVÃ¡V ¤Õ¡[NRPVLi≤y Æ©s[©´sV ILi»¡LjigS ™´soLi≤R∂¤Õ¡[©´sV ™yŒœ¡˛©´sV BxmsˆVÆ≤∂[BNRP‰≤R∂NRPV ºdΩxqsVNRPVLS! @Li…ÿ≤R∂V.

- c μj∂Æ™s[ £tsQ, 8™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ


aRP˙ªRΩV™´so

LS™´sWxmsoLRiLiÕ‹[ Ã¡ORPQQ¯∏R∂V˘, FyLRi*ªRΩ™´sV¯ @Æ©s[ μR∂LixmsªRΩVÃ¡V DLiÆ≤∂[™yLRiV. ™yLji Æ™sVVμR∂…”¡NRPV™´sWLRiV≤R∂V ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘. @ªRΩ¨s¨s ™yLRiV øyÃ¡ gSLS ¡LigS |msLiøR¡VNRPV©yıLRiV. A gSLS ¡Li ™´sÃ˝¡@ªRΩ≤R∂V r°™´sVLjiªRΩ©´s™´sVV©´sNRPV @Ã¡™y»¡V xms≤Ôy≤R∂V. ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘NTP FyhRiaSÃ¡NRPV Æ™sŒœ¡˛»¡Li,øR¡μR∂V™´soN][™´s»¡Li @Li¤…¡[ øyÃ¡ aRP™´sV @¨szmsLi¬ø¡[μj∂. FsxmsˆV≤R∂W BLi…˝‹[ DLi»¡W G xms ds ¬ø¡[∏R∂VNRPVLi≤yDLi¤…¡[ ÀÿgRiVLi»¡VLiμR∂ ©´sVNRPVÆ©s[™y≤R∂V.

ªRΩ÷˝¡μR∂Li˙≤R∂VÃ¡V FsLiªRΩ ¬ø¡zmsˆ©y ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ ≠sÆ©s[™y≤R∂V NSμR∂V. ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ ªRΩ™´sVV¯≤R∂V ÀÿgSøR¡μR∂V™´soNRPVÆ©s[ ™y≤R∂V. ™´sVLi¿¡ ™´sWLRiV‰Ã¡V æªΩøR¡VËNRPVÆ©s[ ™y≤R∂V. ªRΩ™´sVV¯flÒ”· øR¡Wzqs Æ©s[LRiVËN][™´sV¨s@LiμR∂LRiW ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘NRPV ¬ø¡}msˆ™yLRiV. NS¨s ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ xms…Ì”¡LiøR¡VN][¤Õ¡[μR∂V.

BμR∂Liªy øR¡Wzqs©´s ªRΩ÷˝¡μR∂Li˙≤R∂VÃ¡V ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘NRPV G\Æμ∂©y xms¨s Æ©s[Ljiˆ}qsÚ ÀÿgRiVxms≤T∂ INRP˙ ¡ªRΩVNRPV æªΩLRiV™´so xqsLiFyμj∂LiøR¡V NRPVLi…ÿÆ≤∂[Æ™sW©´s¨s ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘NRPV ©´søR¡Ë¬ø¡zmsˆ ™´s˙≤R∂Ligji xms©´sVÃ¡VÆ©s[LRiVËN][™´sV¨s xmsLizmsryÚLRiV. INRP‰L][«¡Ÿ Æ™s◊˝¡, lLiLi≤][ L][«¡Ÿ Æ™sŒœ¡™´sVLi¤…¡[ "@μj∂ øyÃ¡ NRPxtÌsQLi. μy¨sNTPøyÕÿ ˙aRP™´sV xms≤y÷¡" @¨s Æ™sŒœ¡¤Õ¡[μR∂V.

ªRΩ÷˝¡μR∂Li˙≤R∂VÃ¡V ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘©´sV NRPVLi≤R∂Ã¡V ªRΩ∏R∂WLRiV ¬ø¡[∏R∂V»¡Li Æ©s[LRiVËN][™´sV¨s xmsLizmsryÚLRiV. ¡μÙR∂NRPLi ™´sÃ˝¡ lLiLi≤][L][«¡Ÿ μy¨sNTP NRPW≤y Æ™sŒœ¡¤Õ¡[μR∂V. ˙xmsºΩ xms¨sNTP BÕÿlgi[ ¬ø¡[ryÚ≤R∂¨s ªRΩ÷˝¡μR∂Li˙≤R∂VÃ¡VæªΩÃ¡VxqsVN]¨s G≠dsV ¬ø¡[∏R∂V¤Õ¡[NRP ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘©´sV xms…Ì”¡LiøR¡VN][™´s»¡Li ™´sWÆ©s[aSLRiV.

’≥¡ORPQÆ™sVªRΩVÚN][™´s»¡Li @¨sı…”¡NRP©yı xqsVÃ¡V\Æ™s©´s xms¨s μy¨sNTP ˙aRP™´sV xms≤R∂©´sNRP‰LRi¤Õ¡[μR∂V, @μj∂ G≠dsVNRPxtÌsQLi NSμR∂V. @¨s @©´sVN]¨s ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ ’≥¡ORPQ Æ™sVªRΩVÚN][™´s»¡Li Æ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V |ms…Ìÿ≤R∂V. @LiμR∂LRiW@ªRΩ¨s¨s øR¡Wzqs, " dsNRPV ¬ø¡[ªRΩVÃ¡V, NSŒœ¡ß˛ ÀÿgSÆ©s[ D©yıLiVVgS, øR¡NRP‰gS G\Æμ∂©y xms¨s ¬ø¡[xqsVNRPV¨s˙ ¡ªRΩNRP ™´søR¡VËgS!" @¨s ≠sxqsVNRPV‰Æ©s[™yLRiV. N]≤R∂VNRPV ’≥¡ORPQ Æ™sVªRΩVÚNRPVLi»¡V©yı≤R∂¨s æªΩ÷¡zqs øyÃ¡ Àÿμ≥R∂xms≤ÔyLRiV @ªRΩ¨s ªRΩ÷˝¡μR∂Li˙≤R∂VÃ¡V.

@LiμR∂LRiW "xms¨s¬ø¡[LiVV, øR¡μR∂V™´soN][ LSμy" @¨s ºΩ¤…Ì¡[xqsLjiNTP ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘NTP øyÕÿ Àÿμ≥R∂NRP÷¡gjiLiμj∂. xqsVÃ¡V\Æ™s©´s xms¨s @¨s FsLiøR¡VNRPV¨s ’≥¡ORPQ Æ™sVªRΩVÚNRPVLi»¡VLi¤…¡[ @LiμR∂LRiW ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘©´sVºΩ…ÌÿLRiV. ≤R∂ ¡V˜ ™´sW˙ªRΩ™´sVV μ]LRiNRP¤Õ¡[μR∂V. C xms¨sÕ‹[ NRPW≤y ºΩ»˝¡V À≥œ¡LjiLiøy÷¡=©´s NRPxtÌsQLi DLiμR∂¨sæªΩ÷¡zqs ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ G≠sV ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÕ‹[ æªΩ÷d¡NRP μj∂gRiVÃ¡VgS AÕ‹[¿¡xqsWÚ DLi…ÿ≤R∂V.

@Æμ∂[ xqs™´sV∏R∂VLiÕ‹[ A ELjiNTP INRP ry*≠dsV“¡ ™´søyËLRiV. A∏R∂V©´s\|ms @LiμR∂LjiNUP ©´s™´sV¯NRPLiGLRiˆ≤T∂Liμj∂. A∏R∂V©´s G xqs™´sVxqs˘Q\ZNP©y øR¡NRP‰¨s xmsLjiuy‰LSÃ¡V BryÚLRi¨s @LiμR∂LRiW @©´sVNRPVÆ©s[™yLRiV.


C ™´sW»¡ ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ ¬ø¡≠s©´s ¡≤T∂Liμj∂. Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ xmsLRiVgRiV©´s ry*≠dsV“¡ μR∂gÊRiLjiNTPÆ™sŒÿ˛≤R∂V. Fs™´s*LRiW ¤Õ¡[ s xqs™´sV∏R∂VLi øR¡Wzqs ry*≠dsV“¡¨s A˙aRPLiVVLiøy≤R∂V. " ry*≠dsV! ≠dsVlLi[ ©yNRPVxqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡[∏R∂VgRiÃ¡LRiV. Æ©s[©´sV G xms¨s ¬ø¡[∏R∂V¤Õ¡[NRP F°ªRΩV©yı©´sV, FsLiμR∂VNRPLi¤…¡[ ©yNRPV NRPxtÌsQxms≤R∂»¡LiBxtÌsQLi DLi≤R∂μR∂V. @¨sı xms©´sVÃ¡Õ‹[ NRPxtÌsQLi DLi»¡VLiμj∂ NS ¡…Ì”¡ Æ©s[©´sV ’≥¡ORPQ Æ™sVªRΩVÚN][™´s»¡Li Æ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V|ms…Ìÿ©´sV. NS¨s ©´s©´sıLiμR∂LRiW 'ÀÿgSÆ©s[ D©yı™´sogS, xms¨s ¬ø¡[xqsVNRPV¨s ˙ ¡ªRΩNRP ™´søR¡VËgS' @¨sºΩ≤R∂VªRΩV©yıLRiV. ©yNRPV øyÕÿ Àÿμ≥R∂ NRPÃ¡VgRiVª][Liμj∂. ≠dsVlLi[ FsÕÿ\lgi©y ©yNRPV NRPxtÌsQLi ¤Õ¡[NRPVLi≤y, ≤R∂ ¡V˜xqsLiFyμj∂Li¬ø¡[ ≠sμ≥y©´sLi ¬ø¡xmsˆLi≤T∂. @¨s ªRΩ©´s Àÿμ≥R∂©´sV ry*≠dsV“¡ª][ ≠s©´sı≠sLiøR¡VNRPV©yı≤R∂V.

ry*≠dsV“¡ N]LiªRΩ}qsxmso @ªRΩ¨s\Æ™sxmso øR¡Wzqs, " INRP DFy∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡ ¡Vªy©´sV ≠s©´sV, ds™´so ¿¡LiºΩLiøR¡©´sNRP‰LRi ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. NS¨s ds™´so ©yNRPV ds NSÃ¡V ©ØNRPμy¨sı B™y*÷¡. @Õÿ ds NSÃ¡V©´sV ºdΩzqs B}qsÚ Æ©s[©´sVdsNRPV FyºΩNRP Æ™s[Ã¡V BryÚ©´sV. ds™´so •¶¶¶LiVVgS “¡≠sLiøR¡™´søR¡VË" @©yı≤R∂V.

ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ INRP L][«¡Ÿ gRi≤R∂V™´so @≤T∂gS≤R∂V. ry*≠dsV“¡ IxmsˆVNRPV©yı≤R∂V. ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ BLi…”¡NTPÆ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂W≤R∂V. BLi…˝‹[ LS˙ªRΩLiªy INRP‰ NSÃ¡V ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[ “¡≠sªRΩLi FsÕÿ DLi»¡VLiμ][AÕ‹[¿¡Liøy≤R∂V.

Æ™sVVμR∂…˝‹[ NSÃ¡V ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[ GLi, FyºΩNRPÆ™s[Ã¡V ™´sryÚLiVV, BLiNS @LiμR∂LRiW ©´s©´sVı øR¡Wzqs«ÿ÷¡xms≤T∂ ≤R∂ ¡V˜Ã¡V BryÚLRiV. ºΩ»˝¡V gRiW≤y ªRΩxmsˆVªyLiVV @©´sVNRPV©yı≤R∂V. @Õÿ AÕ‹[¿¡xqsWÚDLi≤R∂gS, ˙NRP™´sV ˙NRP™´sVLigS A NSÃ¡V ≠sÃ¡V™´s æªΩÃ¡VxqsVNRPV©yı≤R∂V.

INRP NSÃ¡V ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[ FsxmsˆV≤R∂W xmsLjilgiºΩÚ©´s»˝¡V xmsLjilgiªRΩÚ¤Õ¡[©´sV, FsxmsˆV≤R∂W ™´sVL]NRPLji xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLiNS™y÷¡= ™´sxqsVÚLiμj∂. ¤Õ¡[μy NRP¤…Ì¡ xms»Ì¡VNRPV¨s ©´s≤R∂™y÷¡= ™´sxqsVÚLiμj∂. ≤R∂ ¡V˜Ã¡V©yı NSÃ¡V ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[, A≤R∂ ¡V˜ ™´sXμ≥y. ≤R∂ ¡V˜ ™´sÃ˝¡ ≠sÕÿxqs™´sLiªRΩ\Æ™sV©´s “¡≠sªRΩLi xmspLjiÚgS @©´sVÀ≥œ¡≠sLiøR¡¤Õ¡[NRP F°ªy©´s¨sryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ æªΩÃ¡VxqsVNRPV©yı≤R∂V.

™´sVLSı≤R∂V DμR∂∏R∂VLi ry*≠dsV“¡ μR∂gÊRiLRiNTP Æ™s◊¡˛ "ry*≠dsV! ©yNRPV NSÃ¡V øyÕÿ ≠sÃ¡V\Æ™s©´sμj∂ NRP©´sVNRPNSÃ¡V ¡μR∂VÃ¡VgS ¬ø¡[LiVV BryÚ©´sV ≠dsVNRPV @À≥œ¡˘LiªRΩLRiLi ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[" @¨s @≤T∂gS≤R∂V.

μy¨sNTP ry*≠dsV—¡ ™´sV©´sxqsVÕ‹[ ©´s™´so*NRPVLi»¡W "@Õÿlgi[ NS ds ©y∏R∂V©y! NS ds lLi[xms…”¡Õ‹[gS ds¬ø¡[LiVV ©yNRPV NS™y÷¡" @©yı≤R∂V.

ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ BLi…”¡NTP Æ™sŒÿ˛NRP ¬ø¡[LiVV gRiVLjiLi¿¡ AÕ‹[¿¡Liøy≤R∂V. Æ™sVVμR∂…˝‹[ NSÃ¡VNRPV@©´sVNRPV©´sı»˝¡VgSÆ©s[ GLi xmnsLRi™y¤Õ¡[μR∂V @©´sVNRPV©yı≤R∂V NS ds ¬ø¡[LiVV ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[ øyÕÿ xms©´sVÃ¡V¬ø¡[∏R∂V¤Õ¡[©´sV. INRP‰ ¬ø¡[ª][Ú G xms¨s ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÃ¡©yı NRPxtÌsQÆ™s[V.


≤R∂ ¡V˜ ™´sμÙR∂V ¬ø¡LiVV˘ NS™y÷¡ @¨s ¨sLÒRiLiVVLiøR¡V NRPV©yı≤R∂V. ≤R∂ ¡V˜ NRP©yı ≠sÃ¡V\Æ™s©´sμj∂ ªRΩ©´saRPLkiLRiLi. ™y…”¡¨s ™´sLi¿¡ ≤R∂ ¡V˜ xqsLiFyμj∂Liøy÷¡ @©´sVNRPV©yı≤R∂V. “¡≠sªRΩLiÕ‹[ NRPxtÌsQxms≤R∂NRPVLi≤y ≤R∂ ¡V˜LSμR∂¨s æªΩ÷¡r~¿¡ËLiμj∂. @ªRΩ¨sNTP ªRΩ©´s ˙Fyfl·Li ≠sÃ¡V\Æ™s©´sμR∂¨s, r~LiªRΩgS NRPxtÌsQxms≤T∂ xms¨s¬ø¡[xqsVN][™yÃ¡¨s, ¡μÙR∂NRPLi xms¨sNTP LSμR∂¨s æªΩÃ¡VxqsVNRPV©yı≤R∂V.

ªRΩ©´s NRPŒœ¡ß˛ æªΩLjizmsLi¿¡©´sLiμR∂VÃ¡NRPV ry*≠dsV“¡NTP NRPXªRΩ«Ï¡ªRΩÃ¡V ¬ø¡zmsˆ, ªRΩ©´sV N]ªRΩÚ “¡≠sªy¨sı˙FyLRiLi’≥¡LiøR¡≤y¨sNTP AbdP*LRiLjiLiøR¡™´sV¨s @≤T∂gS≤R∂V. G≠sV ¬ø¡[}qsÚ ÀÿgRiVLi»¡VLiμ][ xqsÃ¡•¶¶¶LiVV™´sV¯©yı≤R∂V.

ry*≠dsV“¡ G\Æμ∂©y xms¨s Æ©s[LRiVËNRPV¨s, Fs™´s*Lji ds Æ™sWxqsLi ¬ø¡[∏R∂VNRPVLi≤y, s«ÿLiVVºdΩgS ¡ªRΩNRP™´sV¨s¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V.

ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘ ™´s˘™´sry∏R∂VLi xms©´sVÃ¡V Æ©s[LRiVËNRPV¨s, \lLiªRΩVÕÿ ™´sWLRiªy≤R∂V. N]≤R∂VNRPVÕ‹[ ™´s¿¡Ë©´s™´sWLRiVˆ©´sV øR¡Wzqs ªRΩ÷˝¡μR∂Li˙≤R∂VÃ¡V xqsLiª][ztsQLi¿¡, ryLi ¡∏R∂V˘NRPV |ms◊¡˛ NRPW≤y ¬ø¡[ryÚLRiV. À≥ÿLRi˘©´sVxqsLiª][xtsQLigS DLiøR¡VªRΩW, ªRΩ©´sNRPV D©´sıμyLi…˝‹[Æ©s[ ªRΩXzmsÚgS DLi»¡W “¡≠sªRΩLi gRi≤T∂}msryÚ≤R∂VryLi ¡∏R∂V˘.

@LiμR∂VZNP[ FsxmsˆV\Æ≤∂©y r°™´sVLjiªRΩ©´sLi ¤Õ¡[ s “¡≠sªRΩÆ™s[V ™´sVLi¿¡μj∂. “¡≠sgS xmso…Ì”¡©´s ˙xmsºΩ INRPLRiWNRPxtÌsQxms≤T∂ xqsLiFyμj∂Li¿¡ ªRΩ©´s “¡≠sªy¨sı rygjiLiøy÷¡. INRPLji\|ms Aμ≥yLRixms≤R∂LSμR∂V.

c ÀÿÃ¡ μ≥R∂XºΩ


xqsLiμ≥y˘LSgRiLi

"xqsLiμ≥y˘! …‘¡.≠ds. øR¡WzqsLiμj∂ øyÃ¡V, À≥‹[Li ¬ø¡[μÙR∂V™´so LS!" @™´sV¯ ™´sLi…”¡Li…˝‹[Li¿¡ ZNP[NRP |ms…Ì”¡Liμj∂.©yNRPV øyÕÿ BxtÌsQ\Æ™sV©´s u° …‘¡.≠ds. Õ‹[ ™´sxqsVÚ©´sıμj∂.

"HμR∂V ¨s≠sVuyÃ¡V ™´sV≠dsV¯!" @¨s Æ©s[©´sV xqs™´sWμ≥y©´sLi BøyË©´sV.

"xqs™´sV∏R∂W¨sNTP ºΩ©´sNRPF°æªΩ[ AL][gRi˘Li Fy≤R∂™´soªRΩVLiμR∂™´sW¯," @¨s @™´sV¯ ™´s¿¡Ë …‘¡.≠ds.A}mszqsLiμj∂. Æ©s[©´sV N][xmsLigS \Æ≤∂¨sLig`i ¤…¡[ ¡VÕfi ≠dsVμR∂ NRPWLRiVË©yı©´sV.

ø≥y! C L][«¡Ÿ u° FsLiªRΩ ÀÿgS rygRiVªRΩW D©´sıμ][! ©yNRPV ANRP÷¡ NRPW≤y Æ™s[∏R∂V»¡Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V.Æ©s[©´sV À≥‹[Li ¬ø¡[∏R∂VNRPF°æªΩ[ @™´sV¯ZNP[™´sV»¡? Æ©s[©´sV Æ™s[≤T∂Æ™s[≤T∂ @©´sıLi gRi ¡gRiÀÿ ≠sVLilgi[zqs …”¡.≠s.|ms¤…Ì¡[LiªRΩÕ‹[}ms u° xmspLjiÚ @LiVVF°LiVVLiμj∂.

"xqsLiμ≥y˘! øR¡μR∂V™´soN][™´sW¯!" @¨s @™´sV¯ |msμÙR∂ g]LiªRΩVª][ @Lji¿¡Liμj∂. ©yNRPV N][xmsLi™´sVLi≤T∂F°LiVVLiμj∂. F~μÙR∂V©´s ¨s˙μR∂¤Õ¡[¿¡ ©´sxmsˆ…”¡ ©´sVLi≤T∂ LS˙ºΩ xms≤R∂VNRPVÆ©s[LiªRΩ ™´sLRiNRPV C g][¤Õ¡[! Æ©s[©´sV@™´sV¯ ™´sW»¡ ≠s©´sNRPVLi≤y ©y gRiμj∂Õ‹[ZNP◊¡˛ ¨s˙μR∂F°∏R∂W©´sV.

™´sWμj∂ ™´sVμR∂©´sxms¤Õ˝¡. NS¤Õ¡[“¡ |qsÃ¡™´sÃ¡¨s BLi…”¡NTP ™´søyË. @™´sV¯ FsxmsˆV≤R∂W øR¡μR∂V™´soN][ @¨s ©y˙Fyfl·Li ºdΩxqsVÚLiμj∂. ©y©´sı FsxmsˆV≤R∂W Gμ][ INRP xms¨s ≠dsVμR∂ DLi…ÿ≤R∂V. ©yNRPV …”¡.≠s. u°Ã¡Li¤…¡[ À≥œ¡##¤Õ¡[BxtÌsQLi. NS ds @™´sV¯ ™y…”¡¨s xmspLjiÚgS øR¡W≤R∂ ds∏R∂VμR∂V.

lLi[xmso ™´sW μR∂WLRixmso ¡Liμ≥R∂V™´soÃ¡ |ms◊¡˛NTP @™´sW¯©y©´sı Æ™sŒœ¡ßªRΩV©yıLRiV. A L][«¡Liªy•¶¶¶LiVVgS …”¡.≠s. øR¡WxqsWÚ DLi≤R∂øR¡Ë¨s xqsLiª][ztsQLiøy©´sV.

F~μÙR∂V©´s Fs¨s≠sVμj∂ gRiLi»¡Ã¡NRPV ©y gRi≤T∂∏R∂WLRiLi Fy»¡NTP ¨s˙μR∂ ¤Õ¡[øy©´sV. A™´s÷¡xqsWÚ, xmsŒœ¡ß˛ª][™´sVVNRPV¨s Æ™sVVx§¶¶¶Li NRP≤R∂VNRPV‰©yı©´sV. Æ™sVÃ˝¡gS Æ™s◊˝¡ r°Fny\|ms NRPWLRiVË©yı©´sV.

"@™´sW¯! NS{mns! @¨s gRi…Ì”¡gS @Ljiøy©´sV. Fs™´sLRiW xmsÃ¡NRP¤Õ¡[μR∂V. " ™´sV≠dsV¯, NS{mns |ms…Ìÿ™y?" @¨sBLiN][ryLji @≤T∂gS©´sV. @LiVV©y xqs™´sWμ≥y©´sLi LS¤Õ¡[μR∂V. FsLiμR∂VNRPV xmsÃ¡NRP¤Õ¡[μR∂Àÿ˜....@©´sVNRPVLi»¡WLi¤…¡[ ©yNRPV |ms◊¡˛ xqsLigRiºΩ gRiVL]Ú¿¡ËLiμj∂. ©y ¨s˙μR∂™´sVªRΩVÚ hRiNUP™´sV¨s F°LiVVLiμj∂. CL][«¡Liªy ©y NTPxtÌsQLi ™´s¿¡Ë©´s»˝¡V DLi≤R∂™´søR¡Ë¨s A©´sLiμj∂Liøy©´sV.

BLi…”¡ ™´sVVLiμR∂LRi xms≤T∂©´s ™yLSÚxms˙ºΩNRP©´sV Õ‹[xmsÃ¡NRPV æªΩ¿¡Ë ™y…”¡ }ms“¡Ã¡V ºΩLRilgi[aS©´sV.

™´sLi…”¡Li…˝‹[ ZNP◊¡˛ @™´sV¯ LS˙ºΩ NRP÷¡zms |ms…Ì”¡©´s μ][aRP zmsLi≤T∂ª][ |ms©´s™´sVV ≠dsVμR∂ J μ][aRP F°aS©´sV.BLiªRΩÕ‹[ "F°£qÌs" @¨s F°xqÌsV™´sW©±s ZNP[NRP |ms…Ì”¡ DªRΩÚLS¨sı ªRΩÃ¡Vxmso μR∂gÊRiLRi xmsÆ≤∂[zqs Æ™s◊˝¡F°∏R∂W≤R∂V. Æ©s[©´sVªRΩÃ¡Vxmso ºdΩzqs øR¡WaS©´sV. ©y©´sıNRPV DªRΩÚLRiLi ™´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. Æ©s[©´sV μy¨sı FsºΩÚ |ms…Ìÿ©´sV.


x§¶¶¶hSªRΩVÚgS Gμ][ ™´sW≤R∂VªRΩV©´sı ™yxqs©´s ™´sxqsVÚ©´sıμj∂. |ms©´s™´sVV ≠dsVμR∂ D©´sı μ][aRP gRiVLRiVÚNRPV ™´s¿¡Ë,gRiÀ≥ÿÃ¡V©´s ™´sLi…”¡Li…”¡Õ‹[NTP xmsLRiVlgiªyÚ©´sV. ™´sW≤T∂©´s ™yxqs©´s À≥œ¡LjiLiøR¡¤Õ¡[NRP ™´sVVNRPV‰ ™´sVWxqsVN]¨s, xqÌs™±sA£mns ¬ø¡[aS©´sV. A•¶¶¶! μ][aRP |ms©´s™´sVV\|ms ©´sÃ˝¡gS ¨sgRi¨sgRi Õÿ≤R∂Vª][Liμj∂. ¨s»Ì¡WLRiVxqsWÚ μy¨s¨s¬ø¡ªRΩÚNRPVLi≤U∂Õ‹[ Æ™s[aS©´sV. @™´sV¯ øR¡NRP‰gS μ][aRPÃ¡V F°zqs, N]xqsLji N]xqsLji Æ™s[xqsVÚLi¤…¡[ NRP™´sV¯ NRP™´sV¯gSÕÿgjiLi¬ø¡[μy¨sı NRPμy @©´sVN]©yı©´sV.

Æ©s[©´sV ˙zmns≤Í∂ Õ‹[Li¿¡ INRP ™´sW˘gji F~…˝ÿ¨sı ºdΩxqsVNRPV¨s μy¨sı ¬ø¡[xqsVNRPV¨s ºΩ©yı©´sV. @μj∂ ÀÿgSNRPVμj∂LjiLiμj∂. Æ™s[≤T∂ Æ™s[≤T∂ ©´sW≤T∂Õfi= ºΩLi»¡W …”¡.≠ds. øR¡WμÙy™´sV©´sVNRPVLi¤…¡[ FyμyÃ¡\|ms Gμ][DLiμR∂¨szmsLi¿¡Liμj∂. NTPLiμR∂ øR¡Wzqs©´sxmsˆV≤R∂V @μj∂ À‹μÙj∂LiNRP @¨s æªΩ÷¡zqsLiμj∂.

"À‹μÙj∂LiNRP ! À‹μÙj∂LiNRP! " @¨s @Ljiøy©´sV. @μj∂ Æ©s[Ã¡ ≠dsVμR∂ FyNRPVªRΩW F°ª][Liμj∂. BxmsˆV≤R∂V@™´sV¯ D∑¤…¡[

À‹μÙj∂LiNRP©´sV Æ™sÃ¡Vxms÷¡NTP FylLi[zqs DLi≤R∂V©´sV NRPμy! @¨s @©´sVNRPV©yı©´sV. Æ©s[©´sV ¿d¡xmsoLRiVºdΩxqsVNRPV™´s¿¡Ë À≥œ¡∏R∂VLi À≥œ¡∏R∂VLigS À‹μÙj∂LiNRP©´sV BLi…”¡ ¡∏R∂V»¡ FylLi[aS©´sV.

ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ Æ©s[©´sV ryı©´sLi ¬ø¡[zqs, ºdΩLjigÊS …‘¡.≠ds. øR¡WμÙy™´sV©´sV NRPVLi»¡VLi≤R∂gS BLi…”¡ ¡∏R∂V»¡FyÕÿ∏R∂V©´s zms÷¡øy≤R∂V. Æ©s[©´sV Æ™s◊˝¡ ªRΩÃ¡Vxmso ºdΩaS©´sV.

"DμR∂∏R∂WÆ©s[ı zms÷¡}qsÚ ≠dsVLRiV xmsÃ¡VNRP¤Õ¡[μR∂™´sW¯. ¡x§¶¶¶ßaS ¨s˙μR∂F°ªRΩWLi»¡WLRiV" @©yı≤R∂VFyÕÿ∏R∂V©´s. Æ©s[©´sV FyÃ¡V ºdΩxqsVNRPV¨s ™´sLi…”¡Li…˝‹[ |ms…Ìÿ©´sV.

@xmsˆV≤R∂V ˙…”¡Ligì... ˙…”¡Ligì.. ™´sV¨s Fn°©´sV Æ™sWgjiLiμj∂. Æ©s[©´sV xmsLRiVlgiªRΩVÚNRPVLi»¡W Æ™s◊¡˛ Fn°©±sFsªyÚ©sV.

"«‹[ªy=Qı FsÕÿ D©yı™´so «‹[ªy=Qı?" @¨s Fn°©´sV Õ‹[Li¿¡ ™´sW»¡Õ‹øyËLiVV. ≠dsÆ≤∂™´s˙LSÀÿÀ‹[∏∫∂V @¨s Æ©s[©´sV Fn°©´sV |ms¤…Ì¡[aS©´sV.

™´sV◊d¡˛ Fn°©´sV Æ™sWgjiLiμj∂. Æ©s[©´sV FsºΩÚ©´sxmsˆV≤R∂V ™´sV◊d¡˛ @Æμ∂[ g]LiªRΩV ≠s¨szmsLi¿¡Liμj∂. "«‹[ªy=Qı?«‹[ªy=Qı?" @©yıLRiV.

"LSLigì ©´sLi ¡Lì @Li≤U∂," @¨s ≠sxqsVNRPV‰Li»¡W Fn°©´sV |ms¤…Ì¡[aS©´sV. @μj∂ ™´sV◊d¡˛ LjiLigì @LiVVæªΩ[FsªRΩÚNRPVLi≤yÆ©s[ Fn°©´sV \Æ™sLRiV N][xmsLiª][ {msZNP[aS©´sV.

BLiªRΩNRPV ™´sVVLiμR∂V ©yNUP xqs™´sVxqs˘ FsxmsˆV≤R∂W LS¤Õ¡[μR∂V. ˙xmsºdΩ Fn°©´sV NSÕfi @™´sV¯ FsæªΩ[Úμj∂. BÕÿLSLigì ©´sLi ¡Lì Fn°©±s= ™´sxqsVÚ©yı @™´sV¯ Æ©s™´sV¯μj∂gSÆ©s[ DLi»¡VLiμj∂. NS ds ©yÕÿgRi FsxmsˆV≤R∂W \Æ™sLRiV{msNRP¤Õ¡[μR∂V.


@xmsˆV≤R∂V ≤][L`i ¤À¡Ã˝¡V Æ™sWgjiLiμj∂. Æ©s[©´sV ºdΩzqs øR¡W}qsÚ @NRP‰≤R∂ NRPWLRigS∏R∂VÃ¡V @Æ™s[V¯ A∏R∂V©´sD©yı≤R∂V.

"≠dsVLRiV @≤T∂gji©´s ¨s™´sV¯NS∏R∂VÃ¡V, ™´sLiNS∏R∂VÃ¡V, ’d¡LRiNS∏R∂VÃ¡V, »¡Æ™sW…ÿÃ¡V, NSNRPLRiNS∏R∂VVÃ¡V B≠sg][©´s™´sW¯" @¨s INRP |msμÙR∂ xqsLi¿¡ ©y ¬ø¡[ªRΩVÕ˝‹[ |ms…Ìÿ≤y∏R∂V©´s. "@Liªy NRP÷¡zms©´sWLRiV LRiWFy∏R∂VÃ¡V @LiVV˘LiμR∂™´sW¯" @©yı≤R∂ªRΩ©´sV. Æ©s[©´sV «‹[’d¡Õ‹[ ≤R∂ ¡V˜Ã¡V N][xqsLi øR¡W}qsÚ@NRP‰≤R∂ ¤Õ¡[™´so.

" INRP ¨s≠sVxtsQLi D∑≤R∂V" @¨s NRPWLRigS∏R∂VÃ¡ A∏R∂V©´sª][ ¬ø¡zmsˆ, xqsLi¿d¡¨s ™´sLi…”¡Li…˝‹[ |ms…Ì”¡, ©yxmsLRiV=Õ‹[ ≤R∂ ¡V˜Ã¡ N][xqsLi Æ™sºΩNS©´sV. @μj∂ NRPW≤y Δÿ◊d¡gS D©´sıμj∂.

"≤R∂ ¡V˜Ã¡V lLi[xmso @™´sV¯ BxqsVÚLiμj∂¤Õ¡[", @¨s A∏R∂V©´sª][ ¬ø¡Fyˆ©´sV. ªRΩ©´sV @Õÿlgi[©´s¨sÆ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂W≤R∂V.

Æ©s[©´sV NRPWLRigS∏R∂VÃ¡ dsı IN]‰NRP‰…‘¡ ºdΩzqs ˙zmns≤ÍT∂Õ‹[ |ms…Ìÿ÷¡. @™´s dsı ˙zmns≤ÍT∂Õ‹[ xms»Ì¡¤Õ¡[μR∂V.˙zmns≤ÍT∂Õ‹[©´sV©´sı ry™´sW©´sVÃ¡ dsı xqsLÙjiæªΩ[ NRPWLRigS∏R∂VÃ¡NTP xqÛsÃ¡Li NRP¨szmsLi¿¡Liμj∂.

@™´sV¯∏R∂V˘... @©´sVNRPVLi»¡W …”¡.≠ds. øR¡WμÙy™´sV©´sVNRPVLi¤…¡[ ™´sV◊d¡˛ ≤][L`i ¤À¡Ã˝¡V Æ™sWgjiLiμj∂. Æ©s[©´sV≠sxqsVNRPV‰Li»¡W ªRΩÃ¡Vxmso ºdΩaS©´sV.

"@™´sV¯ DLiμy ¡V“Í¡?" @¨s INS≠s≤R∂ ©´s©´sVı @≤T∂gjiLiμj∂. ªRΩ©´s Æ™s©´sNSÃ¡ INRP |msμÙR∂ gRiVLixmsoDLiμj∂. ™yŒœ¡˛LiμR∂LRiW xms»Ì¡V ™´sryÚQ˚Ã¡V, ¡LigSLRiV ©´sgRiÃ¡V μ≥R∂LjiLi¿¡ D©yıLRiV.

"¤Õ¡[μyLi…‘¡, BLiªRΩNUP ≠dsVlLi™´sLRiV? @¨s Æ©s[©´sV @≤T∂gS©´sV.

"F° ds ©y©´sı D©yıLS™´sW¯?" @¨s AÆ™sV ©´s©´sVı ª][xqsVNRPVLi»¡W BLi…˝‹[NTP ™´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. ªRΩ©´sÆ™sLi»¡ D©´sı 'gRiVLixmsLiªy ªRΩ©´sª][ ™´s¿¡Ë NRPWLRiVË©yıLRiV.

"¤Õ¡[μyLi…‘¡ " @¨s Æ©s[©´sV xqs™´sWμ≥y©´s≠sVøyË©´sV.

"G≠dsV ¤Õ¡[μR∂V.. ™´sW @™´sW¯LiVV |ms◊¡˛ N]μÙj∂L][«¡ŸÕ˝‹[ DLiμR∂™´sW¯. |ms◊˝¡ xms˙ºΩNRPB¿¡ËF°μy™´sV¨s ™´søyË™´sVV. ≠dsVLRiLiμR∂LRiW ªRΩxmsˆNRPVLi≤y LS™yÃ¡™´sW¯", @©´sıμy≠s≤R∂. ™yŒœ¡ß˛Fs™´sL][ æªΩ÷¡∏R∂VNRP F°LiVV©y ªRΩÃ¡WFy©´sV.

™yŒœ¡ß˛ Æ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂WNRP À≥‹[«¡©´sLi ¬ø¡[}qs JzmsNRP ¤Õ¡[NRP FyÃ¡V NSøR¡VNRPV¨s ªygRiVμy™´sV©´sVNRPVLi¤…¡[ xqÌs™±s≠dsVμR∂ FyÃ¡V æªΩ¿¡Ë©´s Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ |ms»Ì¡©´sLiμR∂V©´s @≠s ¬ø¡≤T∂F°∏R∂WLiVV.

@xmsˆV≤R∂V øyNRP÷¡ ªRΩÃ¡Vxmso ªRΩ…Ìÿ≤R∂V. ªRΩ©´s ¬ø¡[ºΩÕ‹[ B{qsÚQ˚ ¬ø¡[zqs©´s ¡»Ì¡Ã¡ ™´sVW»¡ D©´sıμj∂. ªRΩ©´sV


BLi…˝‹[N]¿¡Ë ¤Õ¡NRP‰ øR¡W≤R∂™´sV©yı≤R∂V. ©yNRPV ¤Õ¡NRP‰Ã¡V ˙™yzqs©´s xmsoxqsÚNRPLi FsNRP‰≤R∂VLiμ][ æªΩ÷¡∏R∂VμR∂V.@LiμR∂V™´sÃ¡©´s BÃ˝¡Liªy Æ™sªRΩNS÷¡= ™´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. FsLiªRΩ Æ™sºΩNTP©y A xmsoxqsÚNRPLi NRP©´s ¡≤R∂¤Õ¡[μR∂V. BNRPÆ™sºΩNTP©y ÕÿÀ≥œ¡Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂©´sV NRPVLi»¡WLi≤R∂gS c øyNRP÷¡ @™´sV¯ A xmsoxqsÚNRPLi FsNRP‰≤R∂ |ms≤R∂VªRΩVLiμ][¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. @μj∂ ºdΩxqsVN]¿¡Ë ¤Õ¡NRP‰Ã¡V øR¡WaS©´sV. ©y BLi…˝‹[ ©yNRPV æªΩ÷¡∏R∂V¨s≠s BªRΩLRiVÃ¡NRPV ÀÿgSæªΩÃ¡Vxqs¨s ©´s™´so*NRPV©yı©´sV. øyNRP÷¡ Æ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂WNRP Æ©s[©´sV ™´sVLiøR¡Li\|ms NRPWÃ¡ ¡≤T∂ Δÿ◊d¡ NRP≤R∂Vxmsoª][¨s˙μR∂F°∏R∂W©´sV.

"xqsLiμ≥y˘, ¤Õ¡[™´sW¯" @¨s @™´sV¯ ©´s©´sVı ¨s˙μR∂ ¤Õ¡[zmsLiμj∂. "™´s¬ø¡[ËaS™y ™´sV≠dsV¯", @¨s Æ©s[©´sV@™´sV¯©´sV gRi…Ì”¡gS N_gRi÷¡LiøR¡VNRPV©yı©´sV. " C L][«¡Ÿ Æ©s[©´sV @xqs=Ã¡V …”¡.≠s. øR¡W≤R∂¤Õ¡[μR∂V æªΩÃ¡Vry?øR¡WμÙy™´sV©´sVNRPVLi¤…¡[ Fs™´sL][ INRPLRiV ™´sxqsWÚÆ©s[ D©yıLRiV. Fn°©±s NSÕfi=.... ©´sV™´so* L][«¡⁄ Fs¨sı xms©´sVÃ¡V¬ø¡[∏R∂WÕ‹[ BxmsˆV≤R∂V ©yNRPV æªΩ÷¡zqs ™´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. ©´sV™´so* C xms©´sVÃ¡ dsı øR¡WxqsVNRPVLi»¡V©yı™´so NS ¡¤…Ì¡[©yNRPV …”¡.≠s. øR¡W}qsLiμR∂VNRPV N]LiªRΩ xqs™´sV∏R∂V™´sV©yı μ]LRiVNRPVª][Liμj∂. ™´sVlLixmsˆV≤R∂W ds\|ms ©y N][Fy¨sıøR¡WzmsLiøR¡©´sV. ©´sV™´so* ¬ø¡zmsˆ©´s ™´sW»¡ ≠sLi…ÿ©´sV ™´sV≠dsV¯" @©yı©´sV.

@™´sV¯ ¿¡LRiV©´s™´so* ©´s≠s*, " ©´sV™´so* BμR∂Liªy æªΩÃ¡VxqsVN][™yÃ¡Æ©s[ Æ©s[©´sW, ≠dsV ©y©´sı ¨s©´sVı|ms◊¡˛NTP zmsÃ¡VøR¡VNRPV F°NRPVLi≤y BLi…˝‹[Æ©s[ DLiøyLi." @¨s @©´sıμj∂. Æ©s[©´sV ©´s™´so*ªRΩW ªRΩ©´s¨s™sVL][ryLji ™y¤…¡[xqsVNRPV©yı©sV.

c ryLiVV ™´sW©´sxqs Fs©±s.zqs.

xqs ¡V˜ ’¡Œœ¡˛ c J ™´sVLi¿¡ NRP¥R∂

\|§¶¶¶μR∂LSÀÿμR∂V Fs©±s.…”¡.AL`i. FyLRiV‰Õ‹[ INRP ¤À¡Li¿¡ ≠dsVμR∂ NRPWLRiVË©yı≤R∂V ANS£tsQ lLi≤ÔT∂.ry∏R∂VLi˙ªRΩ™´sVV 6:30 gRiLi»¡Ã¡V @LiVVLiμj∂. FyLRi‰Liªy ˙xmsaSLiªRΩ™´sVVgS DLiμj∂. BÕÿ L][«¡⁄ ™´s¿¡Ë¤À¡Li¿¡ ≠dsVμR∂ NRPWLRiVËLi…ÿ≤R∂V ANS£tsQ. Fs™´sLji ds øR¡W≤R∂NRPVLi≤y, Fs™´sLjiª][ ™´sW…˝ÿ≤R∂NRPVLi≤y, ªRΩ©´sÕ‹[ªy©´sV AÕ‹[¿¡xqsWÚ DLiÆ≤∂[™y≤R∂V.

ANS£tsQ ¿¡©´sıxmsˆ…”¡ ©´sVLi≤T∂ @…˝ÿÆ©s[ D©yı≤R∂V. ™y≤T∂NTP «¡©´s™´sVV @Li¤…¡[ BxtÌsQ™´sVV DLi≤R∂μR∂V c@Li¤…¡[ G xmsoxqsÚNRPÆ™sW xms»Ì¡VNRPV¨s ªRΩ©´sLiªRΩ»¡ ªyÆ©s[, Fs™´sLji ª][≤R∂W ¤Õ¡[NRPVLi≤y DLiÆ≤∂[™y≤R∂V.

24 GŒ‹˛¿¡Ë©´sxmsˆV≤R∂V ¡Ã¡™´sLiªRΩ™´sVVgS |ms◊¡˛ ¬ø¡[μÙy™´sV¨s ™y≤T∂ ªRΩ÷˝¡μR∂Li˙≤R∂VÃ¡V¬ø¡xmsˆVN][™´s≤R∂Li ≠s©yı≤R∂V. A xmsp¤…¡[ BLi…˝‹[ ©´sVLi¿¡ FyLjiF°LiVV ™´søyË≤R∂V. ¿¡©´sı Dμ][ gRi™´sVV¬ø¡[xqsWÚ, BÕÿ ILi»¡LjigS ≠ds\¤Õ¡©´sxmsˆV≤R∂Õ˝ÿ FyLRiV‰NTP ™´s¿¡Ë NRPWLRiVËÆ©s[™y≤R∂V.


NS ds, C L][«¡Ÿ ANS£tsQ ≠s¿¡˙ªRΩLigS NRP©´s ¡≤R∂VªRΩV©´sı ™´sV¨sztsQ¨s øR¡WaS≤R∂V. J BLRi\Æ™sc™´sVV\|ms#ˆGŒœ¡˛ ™´s∏R∂VxqsV=Li»¡VLiμj∂. A∏R∂V©´s gRi…Ì”¡gS "¥R∂W!" @¨s c BLiNS øyÕÿ @©´sLS¨s ™´sW»¡Ã¡V @¨sc ¤À¡Li¿¡ ≠dsVμR∂ NRPWLRiVË©yı≤R∂V. ANS£tsQ A ™´sV¨sztsQ¨s øR¡Wzqs "≠dsÆ≤∂™´s˙≤y Àÿ ¡W!" @¨s@©´sVNRPV©yı≤R∂V. @LiVV©y c A ™´sV¨sztsQª][ ™´sW…˝ÿ≤yÃ¡¨s @¨szmsLi¿¡Liμj∂ FsLiμR∂VNRP©Ø[ @LÛRiLi NS¤Õ¡[μR∂V.

"≠dsVLRiV ™´sVLi¿¡ ™´sVW≤R∂VÕ‹[ ¤Õ¡[©´s»Ì¡V©yıLRiV?" ˙xmsbPıLiøy≤R∂V ANS£tsQ. ≠dsVLRiV NRPW≤y ©y zqÛsºΩÕ‹[DLi¤…¡[

B…˝ÿÆ©s[ DLi…ÿLRiV!" @¨s @Ljiøy≤R∂V ™´s˘QQNTPÚ.

"G\Æ™sVLiμj∂ ≠dsVNRPV?" @≤T∂gS≤R∂V ANS£tsQ.

"©y “¡≠sªRΩLiÕ‹[ Æ©s[©´sV FsxmsˆV≤R∂W BLiªRΩ æªΩ÷¡≠sªRΩNRPV‰™´s xms¨s ¬ø¡∏R∂V˘¤Õ¡[μR∂V."

"@Æμ∂[ ! G≠sV»¡Li≤U∂ A xms¨s!"

"Æ©s[©´sV ™´sV¿¡÷d¡xms»¡ıLi ©´sVLi≤T∂ ™´søyË. ©yNRPV \|§¶¶¶μR∂LSÀÿμR∂VÕ‹[ Fs™´sLRiW ¤Õ¡[LRiV. xmsμj∂¯ dsx§¶‹[»¡Ã¡VÕ‹[ LRiW™´sVV ºdΩxqsVNRPV©yı. xqs ¡V˜ ºdΩxqsVNRPV LS™´s≤R∂™´sVV ™´sVLjiËF°∏R∂W©´sV. ©yNRPV x§¶‹[»¡Ã¡Vxqs ¡V˜ ©´søR¡ËμR∂V. @LiμR∂VNRP¨s N]LiøR¡™´sVV μR∂WLRi™´sVVÕ‹[ ©´sV©´sı N]»Ì¡VZNP◊¡˛ xqs ¡V˜ N]©yı. xmsμj∂¯ dsJ ds Õÿ≤ÍT∂LigRiV NS ¡…Ì”¡ …”¡zmns©´sV N][xqs™´sVV @»¡W B»¡W ºΩLjigS©´sV. ™´sV◊d¡˛ A xmsμj∂¯ dsNTP Æ™sŒÿ˛Ã¡Li¤…¡[μyLji ªRΩzmsˆF°∏R∂W©´sV. A…‹[NTP ≤R∂ ¡V˜¤Õ˝¡[™´so. BLiZNPNRP‰≤T∂NUP Æ™sŒœ¡˛¤Õ¡[NRP C ¤À¡Li¿¡ ≠dsVμR∂NRPWLRiVË©yı©´sV. ©y μR∂gÊRiLRi lLiLi≤R∂V LRiWFy∏R∂VÃ¡V D©yıLiVV" @¨s NRPŒœ¡˛ dsŒœ¡ß |ms»Ì¡V©yı≤R∂V ™´s˘QQNTPÚ.

ANS£tsQ C ≠s¿¡˙ªRΩ ™´s˘QQNTPÚ s øR¡W¿¡ AÕ‹[¿¡Liøy≤R∂V. ≠ds≤R∂V μ]LigS, ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[ ¨s«¡LigS B…˝ÿ«¡LjigjiLiμy @¨s ÀÿgS AÕ‹[¿¡Liøy≤R∂V. "©yNRPV B…˝ÿ «¡LjigjiLiμR∂¨s ≠dsVLRiV ©´s™´sV¯¤…˝¡[μR∂V NRPμR∂W? ©y™´sW»¡ Fs™´sLRiV ©´s™´sVV¯ªylL˝i[..."

"@¤À¡[ ! @…˝ÿ GLi ¤Õ¡[μR∂V! ©yNRPV NRPW≤y xqsLjigÊS B…˝ÿÆ©s[ «¡LjigjiLiμj∂. @μj∂ B»¡÷d¡Õ‹[. @xmsˆV≤R∂V™´sW @©´sı∏R∂V˘ NRPW≤y ©yª][ D©yı≤R∂V. ™y≤T∂ Fn°©´sVª][ ≤T∂lLiNÌRPLki ™yŒœ¡˛NRPV ¬ø¡[zqs NRP©´sVNRPV‰©yı™´sVV.NS¨s.." " NS ds ??"

≠dsVLRiV N]©´sı xqs ¡V˜ øR¡Wzms}qsÚ.. Fs™´s\lLi©y ©´s™´sVV¯ªyLRiV. μk∂¨sNTP A ™´s˘QQNTPÚ ¤Õ¡[¿¡ ¤À¡Li¿¡ @LiªyÆ™sºΩNS≤R∂V. æªΩÃ˝¡À‹[∏R∂W≤R∂V. xms≤T∂F°∏R∂VVLi»¡VLiÆμ∂[.. ™´s˘QQNTPÚ @©yı≤R∂V.

≠dsVNRPV øyÕÿ ¨sLRiORPQQ˘™´sV©´sVNRPVLi…ÿ©´sV. IZNP[ lLi[«¡ŸÕ‹[ x§¶‹[»¡Ã¡V ds, xqs ¡V˜¨s NRPW≤yF°g]»Ì¡VNRPV©yılLi[!" @¨s ©´s™y*≤R∂V ANS£tsQ.


x§¶¶¶®! @¨s Æ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂W≤R∂V ™´s˘QQNTPÚ.

FyxmsLi zmsø][Ë≤R∂V... ©yZNP[ …‹[zms Æ™s∏R∂W˘Ã¡¨s øR¡WryÚ≤y! C ©´sgRiLSÕ˝‹[ @LiæªΩ[. @Liªyμ][zms≤U∂Ã¡V, μ]LigRiªRΩ©yÃ¡V, ™´sVLÔRiLRiV, @ dsı! ¿≥d¡ ¿≥d¡! @LiμR∂VNRPÆ©s[ ©yÕÿgS @LiμR∂LRiW D∑≤y÷¡.Æ™sVVμR∂…”¡ øR¡WxmsoÕ‹[Æ©s[ xms¤…Ì¡[ry.. ≠ds≤R∂V Æ™sWxqsgS≤R∂¨s... @LiVV©y Æ™sWxqsLi ¬ø¡∏R∂W˘Ã¡Li¤…¡[ @ÕÿLi…”¡NRP¥R∂ ºdΩxqsVNRPVLi…ÿLS Fs™´s\lLi©y? Fs™´sLRi©yı xms¤…Ì¡[r°‰LRiW! FsNRP‰≤T∂¨sLiø]øyË≤][ GÆ™sW.... xqs ¡˜Li»¡xqs ¡V˜! gS≤T∂μR∂ gRiVÆ≤Ô∂[LigSμR∂V?" @¨s ©´s™´so*NRPV¨s NRPWLRiVË©yı≤R∂V ANS£tsQ.

Æμ∂[ sNRPLiªRΩ ©´s™´so*ªRΩV©yı™´so ©y∏R∂V©y?" @¨s J ™´sVVxqs÷¡ ™´sV¨sztsQ ™´s¿¡Ë ANS£tsQ ¨s @≤T∂gS≤R∂V.

GLi ¤Õ¡[μR∂V ªyªy! INRP≤R∂V ©yNRPV …‹[{ms Æ™s∏R∂W˘Ã¡¨s øR¡Wry≤R∂V c Æ©s[©´sV xms¤…Ì¡[xqsV‰©yı @LiæªΩ[.

Jx§¶‹[ ! C FyLRiV‰Õ‹[ @LiμR∂LjiNUP …‹[{ms Æ™s∏R∂W˘Ã¡¨s øR¡WryÚLRiV Àÿ ¡V! ™´sV©´s™´sVV «ÿ˙gRiªRΩÚgSDLi≤y÷¡.

@™´so©´sV ªyªy! Æ©s[©´sV Æ™sWxqsgSŒœ¡©´sV ¿¡…”¡ZNPÕ‹[ xms¤…Ì¡[ryÚ!"

@LiμR∂LRiW @ÕÿÆ©s[ @©´sVNRPVLi…ÿLRiV ©y∏R∂V©y... @¨s A ™´sVVxqs÷¡ªyªRΩ FyLRiV‰ ©´sVLi≤T∂Æ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂W≤R∂V.

C∏R∂V©´s NRPW≤y zmsø][ËŒ˝ÿ D©yıÆ≤∂[! @¨s @NS£tsQ @©´sVNRPV©yı≤R∂V. ¬ø¡xmsˆVÃ¡VxqsLji¬ø¡[xqsVN][™´s≤y¨sNTP ™´sLigS≤R∂V. ¤À¡Li¿¡ NTPLiμR∂ Gμ][ FyZNP»Ì¡V DLiμj∂. ANSa`P μy¨s¨s øR¡Wry≤R∂V. ºdΩzqsøR¡W}qsÚ c xqs ¡V˜ ’¡Œœ¡˛.

@π∏∂W˘! ªRΩxmsˆLiVVF°LiVVLiÆμ∂[! ≠ds≤T∂ NRP¥R∂ ¨s«¡Æ™s[V©´s©´sı ™´sW»¡! Æ©s[Æ©s[μ][ @©´sVNRPV¨s ©y©y™´sW»¡Ã¡Æ©s[ry. BxmsˆV≤R∂V ≠dsÆ≤∂NRP‰≤R∂VLi…ÿ≤R∂W @¨s ANS£tsQ L][≤ÔR∂V μy…ÿ≤R∂V. B»¡W, @»¡WºΩLjigS≤R∂V. "FsNRP‰≤T∂ZNPŒÿ˛≤R∂Àÿ˜! ™y≤T∂ μR∂gÊRiLRi ≤R∂ ¡V˜¤Õ˝¡[™´so NRPμy.."@¨s ANS£tsQ |§¶¶¶ø`¡.…”¡.AL`i,˙’¡≤ÍT∂ ≠dsVμR∂NRPV ™´søyË≤R∂V. A ™´s˘QQNTPÚ ˙’¡≤ÍT∂ ¿¡™´sLRiNRPWLRiVË©yı≤R∂V. øyÕÿ μR∂VM≈¡LiÕ‹[ D©´sı»Ì¡V©yı≤R∂V.

"J∏∫∂V! G∏∫∂V! ds xqs ¡V˜ μ]LjiNTPLiμj∂!" ANS£tsQ @Ljiøy≤R∂V. A ™´s˘QQNTPÚ \Æ™sxmso xmsLjilgiºΩÚ ds NRP¥R∂NTPLRiV«¡Ÿ™´so

©yNRPV μ]LjiNTPLiμj∂ @¨s xqs ¡V˜ BøyË≤R∂V.

≠dsVZNPÕÿ μ]LjiNTPLiμR∂Li≤U∂!"

"¤À¡Li¿¡ NTPLiμR∂ DLiμj∂. ryLki. ©´sV™´so* @ ¡μÙR∂™´sVV ¬ø¡xmsoªRΩV©yı™´s¨s Æ©s[©´s©´sVNRPV©yı©´sV. xqs ¡V˜μ]LjiNTP©´s Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ ds N][xqsLi xmsLjilgiªyÚ©´sV. ¿¡™´sLjiNTP BNRP‰≤R∂V©yı™´so


xqs ¡V˜ ≠dsVNRPV μ]LRiNRP≤R∂Li ©y @μR∂XxtÌsQLi ryL`i.

xqslLi[ C ™´sLiμR∂ LRiWFy∏R∂VÃ¡VLiøR¡V. Æ©s[©´sV ¡LigSŒÿ Fny…fi= c ©´sLi.39 Õ‹[ DLi…ÿ©´sV.FsxmsˆV\Æ≤∂©y ™´s¿¡Ë B¬ø¡[ËμÙR∂VLRiVgS¨s xqslLi[©y?"

¥yLiN`P= @Li≤U∂ Æ™sŒ‹˛ryÚ©´sLi≤T∂. @¨s A ™´s˘QQNTPÚ Æ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂W≤R∂V.

FyxmsLi Æ©s[©y ≤R∂ ¡V˜Ã¡V B™´s*NRPF°æªΩ[ FsNRP‰≤R∂VLiÆ≤∂[™y≤][?" @¨s @©´sVNRPVLi»¡W FyLRiV‰NRPV™´søyË≤R∂V ANS£tsQ. @NRP‰≤R∂ ™´sVV©´sVxmso NRP©´s ¡≤ÔR∂ ™´sVVxqs÷¡ ™´s˘QQNTPÚ ¤À¡Li¿¡ NTPLiμR∂ Æμ∂[ sN][ Æ™sªRΩVNRPV©yı≤R∂V.

"GLi ªyªy ™´sV◊d¡˛ ™´søyË™´so? Æμ∂[ s N][xqs™´sVV Æ™sªRΩVNRPV©yı™´so?" @¨s ˙xmsbPıLiøy≤R∂V ANS£tsQ.

"GLi ¤Õ¡[μR∂V ©y∏R∂V©y... xqs ¡V˜ ’¡Œœ¡˛ ™´soLiÆμ∂[Æ™sW©´s ds!!!"

'xqsNUP' ˙™yzqs©´s ALigRi NRP¥R∂NRPV @©´sVxqsLRifl·c

c g_ªRΩ™±sV zms≤R∂WLji, 9™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ

I NRP¥R∂

¬ø¡FyˆÃ¡Li¤…¡[ ©y gRiVLjiLi¿¡ ¬ø¡xmsˆ…ÿ¨sNTP øyÕÿ DLi»¡VLiμj∂. Fs©Ø[ı g]xmsˆÃ¡V ¬ø¡xmsˆVN][™´søR¡VË.@ dsı ªRΩxmsˆVÃ¡V ¬ø¡xmsˆVN][™´søR¡VË. G™´sVVLiμj∂? G ™´sW™´sVWÃ¡V ™´sV¨sztsQ @LiVV©y @LiæªΩ[. NS¨s ©yzqÛsºΩ ™´sW™´sVV\¤Õ¡©´sμj∂ NSμR∂V. NRPxtÌsQ\Æ™sV©´s zqÛsºΩ . ©y ™´sV©´sxqsV ˙xmsºΩ ORPQfl·Li Àÿμ≥R∂ª][ ¨sLi≤T∂F°LiVVG≤R∂VxqsVÚLiμR∂¨s Fs™´sLjiNTP æªΩÃ¡VxqsV? ¬ø¡xmsˆVN][™´s…ÿ¨sNTP Fs™´s\lLi©y DLi¤…¡[Æ©s[ NRPμy! Æ™s[lLi[ ™yLjiNTP æªΩ÷¡}qsμj∂.A≈¡LjiNTP “¡≠sLiøR¡≤R∂Æ™s[V BLiªRΩ NRPxtÌsQ™´sW! @¨szmsxqsVÚLiμj∂. C μR∂VMΔÿ¨sNTP NSLRiflÿÃ¡V FsNRPV‰™´sgSDLi≤R∂™´so. ™´sVV≈¡˘Q\Æ™sV©´s NSLRifl·™´sVV INRP¤…¡[. ©yNRPV @™´sV¯ ¤Õ¡[μR∂V.

μy¨sZNP[™´sVVLiμj∂? C ˙xmsxmsLiøR¡LiÕ‹[ FsLiª][ ™´sVLiμj∂ zmsÃ˝¡Ã¡V. ªRΩLi˙≤T∂ ¤Õ¡[NRP ªRΩ÷˝¡ª][ xqsLiª][xtsQLigS˙ ¡ªRΩVNRPV ªRΩV©yıLRiV. @™´so©´sV, D©´sı INRP‰ ªRΩ÷˝¡ ¤Õ¡[NRP ªRΩLi˙≤T∂ ™yLji¨s ˙}ms™´sVgS øR¡VxqsVNRPVLi…ÿLRiV.©yNS N]LiøR¡Li ˙}ms™´sV NRPW≤R∂ ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. FsLiª][™´sVLiμj∂ @©yμ≥R∂Ã¡V ˙ ¡ªRΩNRPVªRΩV©yıLRiV. ™yLjiNTP G≠dsV ¤Õ¡[μR∂V¨s«¡Æ™s[V. ™yLji¨s ˙}ms™´sVgS øR¡WxqsVNRPVÆ©s[™yLRiV Fs™´sLRiW ¤Õ¡[LRiV. @μj∂ ™yLRiV @LÛRi™´sVV ¬ø¡[xqsVN][gRiÃ¡LRiV.©´s©´sVı ˙}ms™´sVgS øR¡WxqsVN][…ÿ¨sNTP ªRΩLi˙≤T∂ D©yı øR¡WxqsVN][¤…˝¡[μR∂V @Li¤…¡[ BLiNRP Æ©s[Æ©s[≠sV ¬ø¡[∏R∂V©´sV?

™´sW ªRΩ÷˝¡μR∂Li˙≤R∂VÃ¡V ©y ¿¡©´sıxmsˆVÆ≤∂[ ≠s≤T∂F°∏R∂WLRiV. ™´sW ªRΩLi˙≤T∂ ™´sV™´sV¯÷¡ı ™´sμj∂¤Õ¡[zqsÆ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂WLRiV. Æ™s[V™´sVV μy¨s ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ FsxmsˆV≤R∂V A∏R∂V©´s¨s NRPÃ¡™´s¤Õ¡[μR∂V. lLiLi≤R∂V xqsLi™´sªRΩ=LSÃ¡˙NTPªRΩLi ™´sW @™´sV¯ NRP©´sVı™´sVWaSLRiV. N][LÌRiV ™´sW ªRΩLi˙≤T∂NTP ©´s©´sVı øR¡WxqsVN][™yÃ¡¨s A«Ï¡ B¿¡ËLiμj∂.


A L][«¡Ÿ ©´sVLi≤T∂ ™´sW ªRΩLi˙≤T∂ª][ DLi»¡V©yı©´sV.

™´sW ªRΩLi˙≤T∂ ©´s©´sVı ÀÿgS øR¡WxqsVN][LRi¨s ¬ø¡xmsˆ¤Õ¡[©´sV. A∏R∂V©´s BÃ˝¡V |msμÙR∂μj∂. μy¨sÕ‹[ ©yN][xqsLiINRP |msμÙR∂ gRiμj∂ DLiμj∂. Æ©s[©´sV ™´sVLi¿¡ xqsW‰Ã¡VÕ‹[ øR¡μR∂V™´soNRPVLi»¡V©yı©´sV. ©yZNP[≠sV NS™yÃ¡Li¤…¡[ @μj∂¬ø¡[zqs|ms≤R∂ªyLRiV. NS¨s ©y ≠dsVμR∂ ˙}ms™´sV DLi≤R∂μR∂V. ©´s©´sVı A©´sLiμR∂Liª][, xqsLiª][xtsQLiª][ øR¡WxqsVN][LRiV.@xqsÃ¡V BLiªRΩLiVV©y øR¡WxqsVNRPVLi»¡V©yıLRi¨s xqsLiª][xtsQxms≤y÷¡. NS¨s A ˙}ms™´sV ¤Õ¡[NRPF°æªΩ[ B™´s dsı@©´s™´sxqsLRiLi @¨szmsxqsVÚLiμj∂.

xqsW‰Ã¡VÕ‹[ Æ©s[©´sV ™´sW©´szqsNRP Æ™s[μR∂©´sNRPV gRiVLji NS™´s»¡Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V AaRPËLRi˘LigS. N˝SxqsVÕ‹[@LiμR∂LjiNRPLi¤…¡[ ÀÿgS øR¡μR∂V™´soªy©´sV. A»¡Ã¡V NRPW≤R∂ ÀÿgS A≤R∂ªy©´sV. NS¨s }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡V ¤Õ¡[LRiV.D©´sı }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡V ¨s«¡LigS ©´s©´sVı BxtÌsQxmsÆ≤∂[™yLRiV NSLRiV. ÀÿgS øR¡μR∂V™´soªy©´s¨s, A≤R∂ªy©´s¨sæªΩ÷¡zqs ©yNRPV }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡VgS @™´s…ÿ¨sNTP ˙xms∏R∂VºΩıLiøyLRiV. ¨s«¡LigS ©´s©´sVı BxtÌsQxms≤T∂ ©y gRiVLjiLi¿¡æªΩÃ¡VxqsV©´sı ™yLRiV NSLRiV. xmsÆμ∂[ xmsÆμ∂[ ©y Æ™s©´sNS¤Õ¡[ ª][NRPÕ˝ÿ ºΩLjilgi[ ™yLRiV ™´sμÙR∂V ©yNRPV. @xqsÃ¡V ™yLjiNTP©Ø[LRiV™´sVWxqsVN][™´s≤R∂Æ™s[V NRPxtÌsQLi. ™´sW…˝ÿ≤R∂»¡Li ™´sLRiZNP[ NS¨s ≠s©´s≤R∂Li æªΩ÷¡zqs©´s ™yLRiV NSLRiV. @ÕÿLi…”¡™yLji¨s Æ©s[Æ©sÕÿ BxtÌsQxms≤R∂gRiÃ¡©´sV?

¬ø¡FyˆÃ¡Li¤…¡[ ©y gRiVLjiLi¿¡ ¬ø¡xmsˆ…ÿ¨sNTP øyÕÿ DLiμj∂. Fs©Ø[ı ≠sxtsQ∏R∂WÃ¡V ≠dsVNRPV¬ø¡xmsˆ™´søR¡VË. ©y }msLRiV, øR¡W≤R∂…ÿ¨sNTP FsÕÿ DLi…ÿ©´sV. ©yZNP[≠sV BxtÌsQLi? FsNRP‰≤R∂ DLi…ÿ©´sV?B™´s dsı ≠dsVNRPV æªΩ÷¡∏R∂V¨s ≠sxtsQ∏R∂WÃ¡V. NS¨s ≠dsVLRiV æªΩÃ¡VxqsVN][©´sNRP‰LRi¤Õ¡[μR∂V. ©ygRiVLjiLi¿¡ ≠dsVNRPV¨s«¡LigS æªΩ÷¡∏R∂W÷¡=©´s≠s BÆ™s[. xmsºΩ L][«¡Ÿ Æ©s[©´sV Àÿμ≥R∂ xmsÆ≤∂[ ≠sxtsQ∏R∂WÃ¡ gRiVLjiLi¿¡ @xqsÃ¡V A≈¡LjiNTPC L][«¡Ÿ ©y xmso…Ì”¡©´s L][«¡Ÿ©´s NRPW≤R∂ BÕÿ Àÿμ≥R∂gS Fy≤R∂V ¬ø¡[xqsVNRPVLi»¡V©yı©´sV. BLiμR∂VÕ‹[ N]ªRΩÚG™´sVVLiμj∂? Bμj∂ ©y NRP¥R∂.

©yNRPV B©yıŒœ¡®˛ μj∂∏R∂W B»¡V™´sLi…”¡ Àÿμ≥R∂ª][ ˙ ¡ªRΩVNRPVªRΩV©´sı ≠sxtsQ∏R∂V™´sVV æªΩ÷¡∏R∂VμR∂V. ©yNRPVμj∂∏R∂Wª][ xmsLjiøR¡∏R∂VLi ¨s«¡LigSÆ©s[ øyÃ¡ ªRΩNRPV‰™´s. ©y ªRΩLRigRiºΩÕ‹[ D©yı, ªRΩ©´sª][ FsxmsˆV≤R∂WøR¡©´sV™´sogS ¤Õ¡[©´sV. øyÕÿ ÀÿgS øR¡μj∂Æ™s[μj∂, AÆ≤∂[μj∂. ™´sW @LiμR∂LjiNRPLi¤…¡[ ÀÿgS FsxmsˆV≤R∂WxqsLiª][xtsQLigS NRP¨szmsLi¬ø¡[μj∂. ªRΩ©´sNTP, ªRΩ©´s Æ™sLi»¡ ºΩLjilgi[ }qsıx§¶¶¶, aRPXºΩ NRPW≤y BxtÌsQLi ¤Õ¡[LRiV. ™´sVLki..

"μk∂zmsNS! ©´sV™´so* Ã¡Li¿¡NTP ™´sxqsVÚ©yı™y ¤Õ¡[μy? @Õÿlgi[ NRPWLRiVË©yıÆ™s[Li? ™´sW }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVLSÃ¡VdsÕÿ ©´s©´sVı zms÷¡¿¡Liμj∂.

©y }msLRiV μk∂zmsNRP. Æ©s[©´sV ª]≠sV¯μR∂™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ øR¡μR∂V™´soªRΩV©yı©´sV. Æ™s[V™´sVV \|§¶¶¶μR∂LSÀÿμR∂VÕ‹[DLi…ÿ™´sVV. ©yNRPV ™´sW ªRΩ÷˝¡μR∂Li˙≤R∂VÃ¡V, @©´sı∏R∂V˘ D©yıLRiV. ©yNRPV øyÃ¡™´sVLiμj∂ }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩV©yıLRiV.¿¡©´sıxmsˆ…”¡ ©´sVLi≤T∂ Æ©s[©´sV xqsV≈¡LigSÆ©s[ ˙ ¡ºΩNS©´sV. ©´s©´sıLiμR∂LRiW BxtÌsQLigS øR¡WxqsVNRPVLi…ÿLRiV. ©yNRPV


“¡≠sªRΩLiÕ‹[ NRPuÌy¤Õ¡[ ªRΩNRPV‰™´s. @LiμR∂V™´sÃ¡©´s Àÿμ≥R∂Ã¡V @LÛRiQ\Æ™sV©y, ªRΩ©´sNTP xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLi FsÕÿ ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÕ‹[ªRΩ»Ì¡¤Õ¡[μR∂V.

™´sW @LiμR∂LjiNTP μj∂∏R∂W BxtÌsQLi. ªRΩ©´sV FsLiªRΩ ÀÿgS ¬ø¡[zqs©y, FsLiªRΩ ÀÿgS A≤T∂©y, ªRΩ©´sNTPgRiLRi*Li DLi≤R∂μR∂V. Fs™´sLji¨s øR¡Wzqs©y ©´s™´so*ªRΩW xmsÃ¡NRPLjiLiøR¡»¡Li ªRΩ©´sNTP @Ã¡™y¤…¡[. NS¨s ªRΩ©´sV¬ø¡zmsˆ©´s»˝¡V, ªRΩ©´sª][ ™´sWZNP™´sLRiNTP øR¡©´sV™´so ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. ªRΩ©´sV }qsı•¶¶¶¨s, aRPXºΩ¨s BxtÌsQxmsÆ≤∂[μj∂ @©´sVNRPV©yıLi.NS¨s BxmsˆV≤R∂V ©yNRPV ¨s«¡Li æªΩ÷¡zqsLiμj∂. G≠sV ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÕ‹[ æªΩ÷¡∏R∂VNRP dsÃ¡NTP ≠sxtsQ∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡Fyˆ©´sV.©yÕÿlgi[ dsÃ¡ C ™´sW»¡Ã¡V ≠s¨s AaRPËLRi˘F°LiVVLiμj∂. N˝SxqsVÃ¡V ™´sVVgji∏R∂VgSÆ©s[, ˙xmsºΩ ™´sVLigRiŒœ¡™yLRiLiÕÿlgi[ NRPÃ¡zqs ™´sW BLi…”¡NTP Æ™sŒÿ˛Li. ©y gRiμj∂Õ‹[ NRPWLRiVË¨s @™´sV¯ NRP÷¡zms©´s «¡⁄˘xqsV ˙ªygRiVªRΩW,dsÃ¡ ™´sV◊d¡˛ A ≠sxtsQ∏R∂VLi gRiVLjiLi¬ø¡[ AÕ‹[¿¡LiøR¡≤R∂Li Æ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V|ms…Ì”¡Liμj∂.

"Æ©s[©´sV ©´s™´sV¯¤Õ¡[NRP F°ªRΩV©yı©´sV μk∂zmsNS! μj∂∏R∂W @xqsÃ¡V Àÿμ≥R∂ xms≤R∂VªRΩV©´sı»˝¡V FsxmsˆV≤R∂W@¨szmsLiøR¡μR∂V. @xqsÃ¡V @μj∂ @»¡V™´sLi…”¡μj∂ NSμR∂V.. Bμj∂ ¨s«¡Æ™s[V @Li…ÿ™y?"

"A NSgjiªy¨sı ©´sV™´so* øR¡μj∂™´soLi¤…¡[ ©´sVÆ™s[* ©´sÆ™s[V¯μy¨s≠s. @μj∂ ¨s«¡™´sVV NSNRPF°æªΩ[, @ÕÿFsLiμR∂VNRPV ˙™y}qsμj∂? ©yNRPV øyÕÿ «ÿ÷¡ Æ™s[r°ÚLiμj∂. FsLiª][ Àÿμ≥R∂gS DLiμj∂. dsÕÿ! ™´sV©´sLi ªRΩ©´sNTPFsÕÿ\lgi©´s xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂Vxms≤y÷¡.

ªRΩ©´sNTP μR∂gÊRiLRi ¬ø¡[Lji, ªRΩ©´s¨s xqsLiª][xtsQ |ms…Ìÿ÷¡."

"Bμj∂ ¨s«¡\Æ™sVæªΩ[ ©´sV™´so* ¬ø¡zmsˆLiÆμ∂[ NRPlLiNÌRPV NS¨s ¨s«¡Li NSNRP, Bμj∂ Gμ][ @ ¡μÙR∂Li @LiVVæªΩ[..."

" dsÕÿ ... Bμj∂ ¨s«¡Æ™s[V.... ¨s«¡Li @¨s ©´s™´sW¯÷¡ ©´sV™´so*."

"GÆ™sW μk∂zmsNS"

" dsÕÿ... {m˝s«fi"

"xqslLi[, xqslLi[, ©´s™´sVV¯ªRΩV©yı©´sV, NS¨s BxmsˆV≤R∂V ªRΩ©´sNTP xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡[∏R∂V≤R∂Li FsÕÿ?"

@Æμ∂[ NRPμy, ©yNRPV @LÛRiLi NS™´s¤…˝¡[μR∂V.

xqslLi[, xmsμR∂ AÕ‹[¿¡LiøR¡VμyLi @Li»¡W dsÃ¡ }msxmsLRiV |ms©´sVı ¡∏R∂V»¡NTP ºdΩzqsLiμj∂.

™´sWNRPV øyÕÿ DFy∏R∂WÃ¡V ªRΩ…ÌÿLiVV NS¨s @ dsı xqsLjigÊS ¬ø¡[∏R∂V¤Õ¡[Æ™s[VÆ™sW @¨szmsLi¿¡Liμj∂. ªRΩ©´sNTPxqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÃ¡Li¤…¡[ ªRΩ©´sª][ }qsıx§¶¶¶Li, øR¡©´sV™´so GLRiˆ≤y÷¡. @μj∂ ¬ø¡[∏R∂V»¡Li FsÕÿ @Æ©s[μj∂...

"F° ds ds xmso…Ì”¡©´sL][«¡ŸNTP N]LiªRΩ™´sVLiμj∂¨s zmsÃ¡VxqsVÚ©yı™´so NRPμy! ªRΩ©´s¨s NRPW≤y FyLÌkiNTP zmsÃ¡V." @¨sÆ©s[©´sV xqsÃ¡•¶¶¶ BøyË©´sV.


"¤Õ¡[μR∂V ©yNRPV μR∂gÊRiQ\lLi©´s ™yLji¨s ™´sW˙ªRΩ™´sVV zmsÃ¡VxqsVÚ©yı©´sV. ªRΩ©´sNTP ©yª][ ™´s¬ø¡[Ë ™ylLi™´sLjiª][©´sVøR¡©´sV™´so ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. ªRΩ©´sNTP øyÕÿ LiVV ¡˜Liμj∂gS DLi»¡VLiμj∂."

"©´sV™´so* @©´sVNRPV©´sı»˝¡V ¬ø¡[}qsÚ? xqsW‰Ã¡VÕ‹[ ªRΩ©´s N][xqsLi ¿¡©´sı ¿¡©´sı xms©˝sV ¬ø¡[zqs|ms≤R∂VªRΩW,ªRΩ©´sª][ ¨sμy©´sLigS }qsıx§¶¶¶Li |msLiøR¡VNRPVLi»¡W.. @NRP‰≤R∂ ©´sVLi≤T∂ Æ™s[V™´sVV INRP F˝y©´sV Æ™s[zqs, ªRΩ©´sª][}qsıx§¶¶¶Li FsÕÿ |msLiøR¡VN][™yÕ‹[ øR¡WxqsVN][™´s≤R∂Li Æ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V|ms…ÌÿLi.

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Bμj∂ Æ™s[V™´sVV Æ™s[zqs©´s DFy∏R∂VLi ˙xmsNSLRiLi Æ™s[V™´sVV ¬ø¡[∏R∂V™´sÃ¡zqs©´s xms¨s NSμR∂V. NS¨s Æ©s[©´sV ªRΩ©´sNTPFsÕÿ\lgi©´s, FsxmsˆV\Æ≤∂©´s xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÃ¡¨s, ©yNRPV øyÕÿ gRi…Ì”¡gS @¨szmsLi¿¡μj∂. Æ™sVVªyÚ sNTP ªRΩ©´sVLji—¡xtÌsQLRiV ©yZNP[ B¿¡Ë©y ©´s©´sVı øyÕÿ @©´sV™´sW©´sLigS øR¡WxqsWÚ Æ™s◊¡˛F°LiVVLiμj∂.

μy¨s ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ dsÃ¡ ©´s©´sVı gRiLi»¡}qsxmso ºΩ…Ì”¡Liμj∂. BxmsˆV≤R∂V ds ≠dsVμR∂ @©´sV™´sW©´sLi xmso…Ì”¡Liμj∂.BLiNRP ™´sV©´sLi GLi ¬ø¡[zqs©y, ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÃ¡©´sVNRPV©yı ªRΩ©´s @©´sV™´sW©´sLi ™´sÃ˝¡ NRPVμR∂LRiμR∂V. dsNRPW... @xqsÃ¡V©´sV™´sp* G≠sV ¬ø¡[xqsVÚ©yı™Ø[ AÕ‹[¿¡Li¿¡ ¬ø¡[∏R∂V™´so.... ¨s©´sWı...

ryLki dsÃ¡ NS™yÃ¡¨s ¬ø¡[∏R∂V¤Õ¡[μR∂V... ¨s«¡LigS

©Ø[LRiV ™´sVVLiVV˘. BxmsˆV≤R∂V GLi ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÕ‹[ AÕ‹[¿¡LiøR¡V.

©yNRPV BLiN][ AÕ‹[øR¡©´s ™´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. BxmsˆV≤R∂V ™´sV©´s DFy∏R∂VLi xmsNSLRiLi Æ™sŒÿ˛™´sV©´sVN][, ªRΩ©´sNTP@©´sV™´sW©´sLi |msLjigji, ˙xmsbPıLiøR¡≤R∂Li Æ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V ¤À¡≤R∂VªRΩVLiμj∂. @Õÿ ¬ø¡[zqs©´sxmsˆV≤R∂V ªRΩ©´sNTP ¨s«¡Li¬ø¡}msˆ}qsÚ ªRΩ©´sNTP ™´sV©´s ˙}ms™´sV, }qsıx§¶¶¶Li ©´s¿¡Ë..

J... @LÛRi™´sVLiVVLiμj∂. ds H≤T∂∏R∂W ÀÿgRiVLiμj∂. @Õÿlgi[ ¬ø¡[μÙyLi. N]¨sırylL˝i©y ds ¡V˙LRixms¨s¬ø¡[r°ÚLiμj∂.

Æ©s[©´sV ¬ø¡zmsˆ©´s»˝¡V Æ™s[V™´sVV ¬ø¡[aSLi. Æ©s[©´sV @©´sıQ¤…˝¡[ INRPL][«¡Ÿ μj∂∏R∂W ™´sV™´sV¯÷¡ı @≤T∂gjiLiμj∂.

"FsLiμR∂VNRPV? ©y N][xqsLi BÕÿ... BÕÿ ˙xms™´sLjiÚxqsVÚ©yılLi[≠sV…”¡?

dsÃ¡ BLiNRP AgRiNRPVLi≤y, ©y \Æ™sxmso ™´sV◊d¡˛ øR¡V≤R∂NRPVLi≤y, D©´sıμR∂Liªy ¬ø¡}msˆzqsLiμj∂. Æ™sVVªRΩÚLi¬ø¡xmspÚ DLi≤R∂gS μj∂∏R∂W ¨saRP+ Ù¡LigS ≠s©´sıμj∂. Æ™sVVªRΩÚLi ≠s©yıNS ¿¡LRiV©´s™´so* ©´s≠s*, @μj∂ Æ©s[©´sVæªΩÃ¡VgRiV x§¶‹[Li™´sLRiV‰NTP ˙™yzqs©´s NRP¥R∂ @¨s @Liμj∂. C ™´sW»¡ Æ™s[V≠sVμÙR∂LRiLi ≠s©´sgSÆ©s[....

c @LiVVuy μR∂LiªRΩVÃ¡WLji


@≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ gRiVx§¶¶¶

"Æ©s[©´sV øR¡WaS©´sV LS! I»Ì¡V! @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ Æ©s[©´sV Æ©s[lLi[≤R∂VNS∏R∂VÃ¡V øR¡WaS. NS ds @xmsˆV≤R∂V @≠sBLiNS xmsLi≤R∂¤Õ¡[μR∂V" @©yı≤R∂V NSLkiÚN`P.

"Æ©s[©´sV FsxmsˆV≤R∂W øR¡W≤R∂¤Õ¡[Æμ∂[ ! xqslLi[¤Õ¡[ c ds™´so @LiªRΩgS ¬ø¡ ¡VªRΩV©yı™´sogS, Æ™s◊¡˛øR¡WμÙy™´sVV¤Õ¡[ @©yı≤R∂V xqsLiª][£tsQ.

BμÙR∂LRiV ≠sV˙ªRΩVÃ¡V ™yLji xms¤Õ˝¡ ©´sVLi≤T∂ @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ sNTP ˙xms∏R∂Wfl·Li Æ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V |ms…ÌÿLRiV. F°ªRΩWF°ªRΩW DLi≤R∂gS INRP ¿¡©´sı ¬ø¡»Ì¡VNRPV©´sı Æ©s[lLi[≤R∂V NS∏R∂VÃ¡V NRPŒœ¡ ¡≤ÔyLiVV.

©´s≠s* NSLkiÚN`P c G™´sV©yı©´sVLS? @©yı≤R∂V.

"xqslLi[¤Õ¡[LS c ds™´so ¬ø¡zmsˆ©´sμj∂ ¨s«¡™´sVV. ©´sV™´so* ©´s©´sVı ™´sVLki INRP A»¡ xms…Ì”¡xqsVÚ©yıÆ™s[Æ™sW©´s¨s@©sVNRPV©yı©sV."

"¤Õ¡[μR∂VLS! @xmso≤R∂xmso≤R∂V Æ©s[©´sV ¨s«¡™´sVV NRPW≤y ¬ø¡ ¡Vªy¤Õ¡[!" @Li»¡W, ©´s™´so*ªRΩWc ©´s™´so*ªRΩWA»¡Õÿ≤R∂VªRΩW ≠sV˙ªRΩV¨sª][ μR∂»Ì¡\Æ™sV©´s @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[NTP Æ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂W≤R∂V NSLkiÚN`P.

@LiªRΩÕ‹[xmso ™yLRiV ºΩLi»¡V©´sı Æ©s[lLi[≤R∂V NS∏R∂VÃ¡V @LiVVF°∏R∂WLiVV. øyÃ¡ μR∂»Ì¡\Æ™sV©´s @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[NTPÆ™s◊¡˛F°∏R∂WLRi¨s ˙gRiz§¶¶¶Li¬ø¡[Õ‹[xmso GμyLji ºdΩxqsVNRPV¨s BLi…”¡NTP ºΩLjigji Æ™sŒÿ˛Õ‹[ æªΩ÷¡∏R∂V¤Õ¡[μR∂V.BμÙR∂LRiV }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡NRPV À≥œ¡∏R∂V™´sVV. G≤R∂Vxmsoª][ ˙xmsπ∏∂W«¡©´s™´sVV ¤Õ¡[μR∂ ds æªΩÃ¡VxqsV. øR¡V»Ì¡W øR¡WxqsWÚD©´sıxmsˆV≤R∂V INRP gRiVx§¶¶¶ @gRiVzmsLi¿¡Liμj∂.

"μy¨sÕ‹[NTP Æ™s¤Œ¡[ \Æμ≥∂LRi˘™´sVVLiμj∂LS, dsNRPV?" @©yı≤R∂V NSLkiÚN`P.

"A! Æ™sŒÙÿLi xmsμR∂LS! ™´sV©´s @™´sW¯,©y©´sıÃ¡V FsÕÿ\lgi©y ™´sV©´s÷¡ı Æ™s©´sNRPV‰ ºdΩxqsVN]¨sF°™´s…ÿ¨sNTP ™´sV©´sVxtsvÃ¡¨s xmsLizmsryÚLRiV."

"BμR∂Liªy ds ™´s¤Õ˝¡[. dsÆ™s[gS ©y \Æμ≥∂LS˘¨sı ˙xmsbPıLi¿¡Liμj∂?" @©yı≤R∂V xqsLiª][£tsQ.

"©´sV™´so* ©Ø[LRiV ™´sVWxqsVN][LS! Æ©s[ sÕÿLi…”¡≠s ¬ø¡xmsoªRΩVLi…ÿ©´sV gS ds, dsÕÿLi…”¡ ™ylLi[ ¨s«¡™´sVVgS¬ø¡[ryÚLRiV." @©yı≤R∂V NSLkiÚN`P.

" ds™´so ©Ø[LRiV ™´sVWxqsVN]¨s DLi¤…¡[ ÀÿgS DLi≤R∂V NRPμy! C Fy…”¡NTP LiVVÃ˝¡V NRPW≤y¬ø¡[LRiVLi≤R∂™´søR¡VË."

@Õÿ F°…˝ÿ≤R∂VªRΩW, ™´sVVNRPV‰ ™´sVWxqsVNRPVLi»¡W, ©´s≤R∂VxqsWÚ, DLi≤R∂gS, ™yLjiNTP INRP NSLiºΩlLi[≈¡NRP©´s ¡Æ≤∂©´sV.


".... @NRP‰≤R∂ øR¡W≤R∂VLS! Gμ][ μy*LRi™´sVV D©´sı»Ì¡VLiμj∂."

A Dªy=x§¶¶¶™´sVVª][ F°…˝ÿ»¡ ™´sVLjiËF°LiVV, A lLi[≈¡ μj∂aRPÕ‹[ Æ™sŒÿ˛LRiV.

@NRP‰≤R∂ INRP ¿¡©´sı NTP…”¡NUP øR¡WaSLRiV. BμÙR∂LRiV ≠sV˙ªRΩVÃ¡V AÕ‹[¿¡LiøR¡NRP μy¨sÕ‹[NTP ˙xmsÆ™s[bPLiøyLRiV.

Õ‹[xmsÃ¡ Æ™sŒœ¡ßªRΩVÆ©s[ Æ™s[lLi[ ˙xmsxmsLiøy¨sı øR¡WaSLRiV.

L][≤R∂V øyÕÿ aRPV˙À≥œ¡™´sVVgS øyÕÿ ÀÿgS NRP©´s ¡≤ÔyLiVV. BŒœ¡ß ÀÿgS @Ã¡LiNRPLjiLixms ¡≤T∂™so©yı.LiVV.

NSLkiÚ, xqsLiª][£tsQ øR¡Wzqs BÕÿLi…”¡ ø][»˝¡V C ˙xmsxmsLiøR¡™´sVVÕ‹[ DLi…ÿ∏R∂W? @©´sVNRPV©yıLRiV.

NSLkiÚ c Æ©s[©´sV A NRP©´s ¡Æ≤∂[ @ªRΩ¨sª][ ™´sW…˝ÿ≤T∂ øR¡WryÚ©´sVLS. FsNRP‰≤R∂V©yıÆ™sW, G≠sV«¡LRiVgRiVª][Liμ][ æªΩÃ¡VxqsVNRPVLi…ÿ©´sV @©yı©´sV.

xqslLi[LS, Æ™sŒœ¡ß˛, ©yNRPV @LÛRiÆ™s[V NS™´s¤…˝¡[μR∂V!" @©yı≤R∂V xqsLiª][£tsQ.

NSLkiÚN`P @ªRΩ¨sNTP FsμR∂VLRiV ¨s÷¡¿¡ ™´sW…˝ÿ≤T∂Liøy≤R∂V. NS ds @ªRΩ©´sV NSLkiÚN`P \Æ™sxmso øR¡W≤R∂NRPVLi≤y,ªRΩ©´s μyLji©´s ªy©´sV Æ™s◊˝¡F°∏R∂W≤R∂V.

FsLiμR∂VNRPÕÿ ¬ø¡[aS≤R∂V? @©yı≤R∂V xqsLiª][£tsQ.

dsNRPV æªΩÃ¡VxqsVLS! @©yı≤R∂V NSLkiÚN`P @ªRΩ¨sNTP ™´sV©´s™´sVV NRP©´s ¡≤R∂¤Õ¡[μR∂V @©´sVNRPVLi…ÿ øR¡WxqsVÚLi¤…¡[,BÆμ∂[μ][ BLi˙μR∂«ÿÃ¡xmso Õ‹[NRP™´sVVÕÿ DLiμj∂. ©yN]NRP AÕ‹[øR¡©´s ªRΩ…Ì”¡Liμj∂LS! ™´sV©´s™´sVV xmsLiøyLiVVºdΩ˙gRiLiμ≥yÃ¡∏R∂V™´sVV DLiÆμ∂[Æ™sW øR¡Wø]μÙy™´sVV. ™´sV©´s xms¤Õ˝¡Õ‹[ DLiμj∂gS!

™´sVLi¿¡ DFy∏R∂V™´sVVLS! xmsμR∂ Æ™sŒÙÿLi.

BμÙR∂LRiW ≠sV˙ªRΩVÃ¡W ©´s≤R∂VxqsWÚ INRP À‹[LÔRiV øR¡WaSLRiV. μy¨s\|ms ™yLji xms¤Õ˝¡ }msLRiV NRP©´s ¡≤T∂Liμj∂.μy¨s NTPLiμR∂ xqsLi™´sªRΩ=LRi™´sVV NRPW≤y ˙™yzqs DLiμj∂ 2065 @¨s.

BxmsˆV≤R∂V @LÛRi™´sVLiVVLiμj∂LS! ™´sV©´s™´sVV ™´sV©´s xms¤Õ˝¡ À≥œ¡≠sxtsQ˘ªRΩVÚÕ‹[ D©yı™´sVV @©yı≤R∂V xqsLiª][£tsQ.

@™´so©´sV. ™´sV©´sNRPV æªΩÃ¡VxqsVgS ™´sV©´s ˙gRiLiμ≥yÃ¡∏R∂V™´sVV FsNRP‰≤R∂VLiμ][ xmsμR∂ Æ™sŒÙÿLi!

™yLRiV ˙gRiLiμ≥yÃ¡∏R∂V™´sVV ¬ø¡[LSNS, ˙xmsNRP»¡©´sÃ¡ dsı ˙™yzqs @Li…”¡LiøR¡V ¡Ã˝¡ μR∂gÊRiLjiNTP Æ™sŒÿ˛LRiV.μy¨s\|ms INRP NSgjiªRΩ™´sVV \|ms

'2010Õ‹[ BμÙR∂LRiV ¿¡©´sızmsÃ˝¡Ã¡V NSLkiÚN`P, xqsLiª][£tsQ C xms¤Õ˝¡Õ‹[ s xmsLjixqsLSÃ¡©´sV, xmsLjizqÛsªRΩVÃ¡V@’≥¡™´sXμÙj∂ xmsLRiøyÃ¡¨s AÕ‹[øR¡©´sª][ ™´sVVLiμR∂VNRPV ™´søyËLRiV. ALiμR∂V™´sÃ¡©´s CL][«¡Ÿ BLiªRΩ aRPV˙À≥œ¡LigSDLiμj∂. @xmsˆV≤R∂V ≠dsLjiμÙR∂LRiW ZNP[™´sÃ¡Li 12 xqsLi™´sªRΩ=LSÃ¡ zmsÃ˝¡Ã¡V.'

BÕÿ ELjiÕ‹[ s @’≥¡™´sXμÙj∂ æªΩÃ¡VxmsoøR¡V, INRP xms˙ºΩNRPÕ‹[ Æ™sÃ¡V™´s≤T∂©´s ™yLRiÚ A ¡Ã˝¡\|ms DLiÆ≤∂©´sV.


Bμj∂ øR¡μj∂≠s©´s xqsLiª][£tsQ, NSLkiÚN`P Ã¡V FsLiª][ AaRPËLS˘©´sLiμyÃ¡NRPV Õ‹[\Æ©s, ©´s™´sV¯¤Õ¡[ s ™y\lLi, A˙gRiLiμ≥yÃ¡∏R∂V™´sVV ©´sVLi≤T∂ ¡∏R∂V»¡NRPV ™´s¿¡Ë, ™´s¿¡Ë©´s μylLi[ Æ™s©´sVμj∂Ljigji©yLRiV. @NRPry¯ªRΩVÚgS ™yLRiV@≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ sNTP ™´s¬ø¡[ËaSLRiV. Æ™s©´sVμj∂Ljigji øR¡W}qsxqsLjiNTP, @NRP‰≤R∂ gRiVx§¶¶¶ ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. @LiªRΩÕ‹[ ™yLji¨sÆ™sªRΩVNRPVªRΩW ™´sxqsVÚ©´sı ™yLji ELji ™´sV©´sVxtsvÃ¡V NRP©´s ¡≤ÔyLRiV.

xqsLiª][£tsQ, NSLkiÚN`P ™yLji ™´sV©´sxqsVÕ‹[ AÕ‹[øR¡©´sÃ¡V Æ™sVμR∂Ã¡VøR¡VLi≤R∂gS ™´sW…˝ÿ≤R∂NRPVLi≤y, ™yLji¨s@©´sVxqsLjiLiøyLRiV.

™´sVLRiVxqs…”¡ μj∂©´s™´sVV ™yLRiV ¡≤T∂NTP Æ™sŒœ¡ßªRΩW, ™yLji ELji xmsLjizqÛsªRΩVÃ¡©´sV gRi™´sV¨sLiøyLRiV. ™´sVVLjiNTPds…”¡ NSÃ¡V™´sÃ¡V, ¬ø¡ªyÚ¬ø¡μyLRi™´sVVª][ ¨sLi≤T∂, ™´sVVLjiNTP dsLRiLiªy L][≤ÔR∂\|msNTP ™´s¿¡Ë, μR∂VLS*xqs©´s ª][˙xms«¡Ã¡V B ¡˜Liμj∂ xms≤R∂VøR¡V©yıLRiV. A ™´sVVLjiNTP gRiVLi»¡Õ‹[ μ][™´sVÃ¡V \|qs#*LRi≠s•¶¶¶LRi™´sVV ¬ø¡[xqsVÚ©yıLiVV.˙xms«¡Ã¡V «¡*LRi™´sVVª][ Àÿμ≥R∂ xms≤R∂VªRΩV©yıLRiV. xqs\lLi©´s \Æ™sμR∂˘™´sVV ¤Õ¡[NRP, ©y©y™´sxqÛsÃ¡V xms≤R∂VªRΩV©yıLRiV.

BμÙR∂LRiV }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡NRPV INRP AÕ‹[øR¡©´s ™´s¬ø¡Ë©´sV. Fs™´sL][ ™´s¿¡Ë Gμ][ ¬ø¡[ryÚLRi©´sV FsμR∂VLRiVøR¡W}qsNRP©yı, ELjiÕ‹[ @LiμR∂LRiW NRP÷¡zqs FsLiª][N]LiªRΩ ˙aRP™´sVμy©´s™´sVV ¬ø¡[zqs, ELji¨s ÀÿgRiVxmsLRiVËN][™´søR¡Ë¨szmsLi¬ø¡©´sV. C AÕ‹[øR¡©´s ™´s¿¡Ë©´s Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ ™yLji }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡©´sV Dªy=x§¶¶¶xmsLji¿¡,@LiμR∂LRiW NRP÷¡zqs, Æ™sVV»Ì¡Æ™sVVμR∂»¡ ™´sVVLjiNTP NSÃ¡™´sÕ‹[ s ¬ø¡ªRΩÚ©´sV ºdΩ}qszqs, ™´sVVLjiNTP dsLRiV FylLi[≠sμ≥R∂™´sVVgS ªRΩ∏R∂WLRiV ¬ø¡[zqsLji. NSLkiÚN`P, xqsLiª][£tsQ Ã¡V μyøR¡VNRPV©´sı ≤R∂ ¡V˜ª][ μ][™´sVÃ¡©´sV LRiWxmso™´sW}ms™´sVLiμR∂VÃ¡V N]¨s, NSÃ¡V™´sÕ‹[ @Liªy øR¡÷˝¡Lji. μy¨sª][ μ][™´sVÃ¡ dsı ™´sV»¡V ™´sW∏R∂V™´sV∏R∂W˘LiVV.

xmsLiøyLiVVºΩ ˙|mszqs¤…¡Li»¡Vª][, xqsÀ≥œ¡V˘Ã¡ª][ ™´sW…˝ÿ≤T∂, ELjiÕ‹[ INRP Æ™sV≤T∂NRPÕfi NS˘Lixmso¨sLRi*z§¶¶¶Li¿¡ ELjiÕ‹[

«¡*LRi™´sVVª][ Àÿμ≥R∂xmsÆ≤∂[ ™yLRiLiμR∂LjiNTP \Æ™sμR∂˘™´sVV @LiÆμ∂[»¡»Ì¡VgS ¬ø¡[aSLRiV.

C xms©´sVÃ¡ dsı gRiW≤y ™yLRiV ™yLji }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡ª][ NRP÷¡zqs Aμj∂™yLSÃ¡V ™´sVLji∏R∂VV BªRΩLRi|qsÃ¡™´so μj∂©´s™´sVVÃ¡Õ‹[ ¬ø¡[ryLRiV. zmsÃ˝¡Ã¡V ¬ø¡[∏R∂VVøR¡V©´sı ™´sVLi¿¡ xms©´sVÃ¡©´sV øR¡W¿¡, |msμÙR∂Ã¡LiμR∂LRiWNRPW≤y ™´sVVLiμR∂VNRPV ™´s¿¡Ë ™yLjiNTP ¬ø¡[∏R∂VLiμj∂LiøyLRiV.

C ≠sμ≥R∂™´sVVgS A ELjiÕ‹[ s ˙xms«¡Ã¡LiμR∂LRiW NRP÷¡zqs, A ELjiNTP NS™´sÃ¡zqs©´s \|§¶¶¶xqsW‰Ã¡V,xqsLRi*«¡©´s AxqsVxms˙ºΩ, xmsaRPV™´soÃ¡ AxqsVxms˙ºΩ, N][cAxmslLi[…”¡™±s r~\|qs…‘¡¨s ˙xmsÀ≥œ¡VªRΩ* xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂V™´sVVª][GLSˆ»¡V ¬ø¡[xqsVN]¨sLji.

˙xms«¡Ã¡V ™´sVVLiμR∂VNRPV ™´s¿¡Ë, ™yLji ELji¨s @’≥¡™´sXμÙj∂ ¬ø¡[xqsVNRPV©´sı ≠sμ≥y©´s™´sVV øR¡Wzqs, LSxtÌsQ˚˙xmsÀ≥œ¡VªRΩ*™´sVV AμR∂LRi+ ˙gS™´sV™´sVVgS ˙xmsNRP…”¡Li¿¡Liμj∂.

c Æ™s[VxmnsV©´s, 9™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ


Fy™´soLRi™´sW! dsNRPV «‹[•¶¶¶LRiVÃ¡V!

(ALi˙μ≥R∂ ™´sV•¶¶¶À≥ÿLRiªRΩLiÕ‹[ 18 xmsLRi*™´sVVÃ¡V D©yıLiVV. BLiμR∂VÕ‹[ aSLiºΩ xmsLRi*LiÕ‹[ sªRΩXºdΩ∏R∂W aS*xqsLiÕ‹[ ’≥d¡xtsv¯≤R∂V μ≥R∂LRi¯LS«¡ŸNRPV aRPLRiflÿgRiªRΩ LRiORPQfl· gRiVLjiLi¿¡ ¬ø¡ ¡VªRΩW, C NRP¥R∂©´sVDμR∂x§¶¶¶LjiryÚ≤R∂V)

(’≥d¡xtsv¯≤R∂V, μ≥R∂LRi¯LS«¡Ÿ BμÙR∂LRiW NRPÃ¡zqs INRP ª][»¡Õ‹[ ©´s≤R∂VxqsWÚ DLi…ÿLRiV.)

’≥d¡xtsv¯≤R∂V J! μ≥R∂LRi¯LS«ÿ! ˙xmsºΩ INRP‰≤R∂V ¿¡©´sıxmsˆ…”¡ ©´sVLi≤T∂ @ºΩ¥j∂¨s FsÕÿxqsªRΩ‰LjiLiøyÕ‹[ Æ©s[LRiVËN][™y÷¡. @LiμR∂VZNP[ "™´sWªRΩXÆμ∂[™Ø[À≥œ¡™´s, zmsªRΩXÆμ∂[™Ø[ À≥œ¡™´s, AøyLRi˘ Æμ∂[™Ø[À≥œ¡™´s,@ºΩμ≥j∂Æμ∂[™Ø[ À≥œ¡™´s" @Æ©s[μj∂ À≥ÿLRiºdΩ∏R∂V xqsLixqs‰QXºΩ.

μ≥R∂LRi¯LS«¡Ÿ : @ÕÿgS ªyªRΩgSLRiW! (@Li»¡W ’≥d¡xtsv¯¨s \Æ™sxmso μk∂©´sLigS øR¡WryÚ≤R∂V.)

’≥d¡xtsv¯≤R∂V : J N_LRi™´sLS«ÿ! Bμj∂g][ dsNRPV @ºΩ¥j∂ xqsªy‰LRi™´sVV gRiWLjiË INRP NRP¥R∂≠s™sLjiryÚ©sV.

(INRP xms¤Õ˝¡Õ‹[ ≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘, LS™´sVVÃ¡™´sV¯ @Æ©s[ À≥ÿLS˘, À≥œ¡LRiÚÃ¡V DLiÆ≤∂[™yLRiV. INRP L][«¡Ÿ)

LS™´sVVÃ¡™´sV¯ : G™´sVLi≤U∂! ™´sÃ¡ ™´sVLRi¿¡F°∏R∂WLRiV. LS©´sV LS©´sV ≠dsVNRPV ™´sVºΩ™´sVLRiVxmso|msLjigjiF°ª][Liμj∂. (@Li»¡W gRiV≤T∂|qs ¡∏R∂V»¡NRPV ™´s¿¡Ë ™´sÃ¡©´sV ≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘¬ø¡[ºΩNTP @Liμj∂xqsVÚLiμj∂.

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : @LiæªΩ[ NRPμy ™´sVLji! ™´s∏R∂VxqsV= |msLRigRi≤R∂Liª][ ™´sVºΩ™´sVLRiVxmso NRPW≤y|msLRiVgRiVª][Liμj∂. (@Li»¡W LS™´sVVÃ¡™´sV¯ ¬ø¡[ºΩÕ‹[ ©´sVLi≤T∂ ™´sÃ¡©´sVºdΩxqsVNRPVLi…ÿ≤R∂V.)

LS™´sVVÃ¡™´sV¯ : A! xqslLi[¤Õ¡Li≤T∂! B™yŒœ¡ ™y©´s ™´s¬ø¡[Ë»¡»˝¡VgS DLiμj∂. ª]LiμR∂LRigS BLi…”¡NTPºΩLjigji LRiLi≤T∂. (\|ms©´s ANSaS¨sı øR¡WxqsWÚ @Li»¡VLiμj∂.) (≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ ¿¡©´sıgS©´s≤R∂VxqsWÚ DLi…ÿ≤R∂V.)

(LS™´sVVÃ¡™´sV¯ gRiV≤T∂|qsÕ‹[NTP Æ™s◊¡˛F°ªRΩVLiμj∂.) (≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ @≤R∂≠s \Æ™sxmso ©´s≤R∂VxqsWÚ DLi…ÿ≤R∂V.)

(@≤R∂≠sÕ‹[)

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : ANSaRPLiÕ‹[ ©´sÃ˝¡…”¡ Æ™s[VxmnsWÃ¡V NRP™´sVV¯N]xqsVÚ©yıLiVV. ™´sL<RiLixmsÆ≤∂[»¡»˝¡VLi»¡VLiμj∂. ª]LiμR∂LRigS ™sÃ¡ xms©yı÷¡.


(™´sÃ¡ xms©´sVıªy≤R∂V) A! @™´sV¯∏R∂V˘ ™´sÃ¡ xms©´sı»¡Li @LiVVF°LiVVLiμj∂. BLiNRPxmsORPVÃ¡V ™´sÃ¡Õ‹[ ¿¡NRPV‰NRPVÆ©s[LiªRΩ ™´sLRiNRPV Æ™s[¿¡ DLi≤y÷¡. @LiªRΩÕ‹[xmsÃ¡ INRPNRPV©´sVNRPV ºdΩryÚ©´sV. (@Li»¡W INRP ¬ø¡»Ì¡V NTPLiμR∂ xms≤R∂VNRPVLi…ÿ≤R∂V.)

(¿¡©´sı ¿¡©´sıgS ¿¡©´sVNRPVÃ¡V xms≤R∂VªRΩW DLi…ÿLiVV)

(INRP ¿¡©´sVNRPV ≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ ©´sVμR∂V…”¡ ≠dsVμR∂ xms≤R∂VªRΩVLiμj∂.)

(»¡xms, »¡Fy øR¡WxqsVÚLi≤R∂gSÆ©s[ |msμÙR∂ |msμÙR∂ ¿¡©´sVNRPVÃ¡V. ™´sL<RiLi|msμÙR∂μR∂™´soªRΩVLiμj∂.)

(¨s˙μR∂¤Õ¡[¿¡) @π∏∂W˘! ™´sL<RiLi LSÆ©s[ ™´s¬ø¡[ËzqsLiμj∂. ª]LiμR∂LRigS BÃ˝¡V ¬ø¡[LjiæªΩ[xqsLji. (@Li»¡W ª]LiμR∂LRigS xms¨sı©´s ™´sÃ¡©´sV ºdΩxqsWÚ DLi…ÿ≤R∂V.)

A∑ xmnsLS*¤Õ¡[μR∂V Gμ][ N]¨sı xmsORPVÃ¡V ™´sÃ¡Õ‹[ xms≤ÔyLiVV¤Õ¡[!

(™´sÃ¡ Æ™sVVμR∂\¤Õ¡©´s≠s ºdΩxqsVNRPV¨s BLi…”¡\Æ™sxmso ¡∏R∂VÃ¡V Æμ∂[LRiVªy≤R∂V.)

(N]Li¬ø¡Li }qsxmso @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ ©´s≤R∂¿¡©´s ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ)

@π∏∂W˘! C ™´sL<RiLi |msμÙR∂μR∂™´soª][LiÆμ∂[. FsNRP‰≤R∂ øR¡Wzqs©y dsŒœ¡ß˛ D©yıLiVV.@≤R∂VgRiV |ms…ÌÿÃ¡Li¤…¡[ NRPW≤y À≥œ¡∏R∂VÆ™s[Vr°ÚLiμj∂. G gRiVLiÕ‹[NTP xms≤R∂ªy©Ø[GÆ™sW! μR∂WLRiLigS @Æμ∂[μ][ gRiV ¡VLRiVgS D©´sı INRP |msμÙR∂ ¬ø¡»Ì¡V DLiμj∂ μy¨sNTPLiμR∂ INRP Fsæª^ΩQÚ©´s LSLiVV NRPW≤y DLiÆμ∂[! A•¶¶¶ G≠sV ©y @μR∂XxtÌsQLi.

(A ¬ø¡»Ì¡V \Æ™sxmso ©´s≤R∂VxqsWÚ DLi…ÿ≤R∂V. ¬ø¡[LRiVNRPV©yıNS)

NS¨s ÀÿgS ¿d¡NRP…”¡gS DLiμj∂. G≠sV NRP¨szmsLiøR¡≤R∂Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V.

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : BNRP‰≤R∂ ™´sL<RiLi xms≤R∂≤R∂Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. C LS˙ºΩNTP BNRP‰≤R∂ DLi≤T∂ xms≤R∂VN]¨s, lLi[xmsoF~μÙR∂VÆ©s[ı BLi…”¡NTP F°ªy©´sV. @xqs¤Õ¡[ G≠dsV NRP¨szmsLiøR¡≤R∂Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. (¿d¡NRP…”¡xms≤R∂Vª][Liμj∂)

(≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ xms≤R∂VN]¨s ™´so©´sı LSLiVV μR∂gÊRiLRi D©´sı |msμÙR∂ ¬ø¡»Ì¡V ª]˙LRiÕ‹[ ©´sVLi≤T∂INRP Fy™´soLRi™´sVV ¡∏R∂V»¡NRPV ™´sxqsVÚLiμj∂. (NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV)

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : ©y ¬ø¡÷d¡! FsNRP‰≤R∂ DLiμ][, C ™´sL<RiLiÕ‹[ FsNRP‰≤R∂ ¿¡NRPV‰NRPV F°LiVVLiμ][G™´sW, ©y NRPF°ºΩ G\Æμ∂©y AxmsμR∂Õ‹[ ¿¡NRPV‰NRPVLiμy! @π∏∂W˘! ©y˙}ms∏R∂VzqsNTP G\Æ™sVLiμ][ G≠sV…‹[! BLiNS BLi…”¡NTP ¬ø¡[LRi¤Õ¡[μR∂V. C gS÷¡™y©´sNTPFsNRP‰Q\Æ≤∂©y ¿¡NRPV‰NRPV F°LiVVLiμy? xqs–d¡ ©´sV™´so* ¤Õ¡[NRPVLi≤y Æ©s[©´sV FsÕÿ


“¡≠sLiøR¡©´sV? À≥œ¡gRi™´sLiªRΩV≤y... ©´sVÆ™s[* μj∂NRPV‰.

(™´sÃ¡ xms©´sVıªy≤R∂V) A! @™´sV¯∏R∂V˘ ™´sÃ¡ xms©´sı»¡Li @LiVVF°LiVVLiμj∂. BLiNRPxmsORPVÃ¡V ™´sÃ¡Õ‹[

¿¡NRPV‰NRPVÆ©s[LiªRΩ ™´sLRiNRPV Æ™s[¿¡ DLi≤y÷¡. @LiªRΩÕ‹[xmsÃ¡ INRP NRPV©´sVNRPV ºdΩryÚ©´sV.(@Li»¡W INRP ¬ø¡»Ì¡V NTPLiμR∂ xms≤R∂VNRPVLi…ÿ≤R∂V.)

(¿¡©´sı ¿¡©´sıgS ¿¡©´sVNRPVÃ¡V xms≤R∂VªRΩW DLi…ÿLiVV) (INRP ¿¡©´sVNRPV ≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘©´sVμR∂V…”¡ ≠dsVμR∂ xms≤R∂VªRΩVLiμj∂.)

(»¡xms, »¡Fy øR¡WxqsVÚLi≤R∂gSÆ©s[ |msμÙR∂ |msμÙR∂ ¿¡©´sVNRPVÃ¡V. ™´sL<RiLi|msμÙR∂μR∂™´soªRΩVLiμj∂.)

(¨s˙μR∂¤Õ¡[¿¡) @π∏∂W˘! ™´sL<RiLi LSÆ©s[ ™´s¬ø¡[ËzqsLiμj∂. ª]LiμR∂LRigS BÃ˝¡V ¬ø¡[LjiæªΩ[xqsLji. (@Li»¡W ª]LiμR∂LRigS xms¨sı©´s ™´sÃ¡©´sV ºdΩxqsWÚ DLi…ÿ≤R∂V.) A∑xmnsLS*¤Õ¡[μR∂V Gμ][ N]¨sı xmsORPVÃ¡V ™´sÃ¡Õ‹[ xms≤ÔyLiVV¤Õ¡[!

(™´sÃ¡ Æ™sVVμR∂\¤Õ¡©´s≠s ºdΩxqsVNRPV¨s BLi…”¡\Æ™sxmso ¡∏R∂VÃ¡V Æμ∂[LRiVªy≤R∂V.)

(N]Li¬ø¡Li }qsxmso @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ ©´s≤R∂¿¡©´s ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ) (A ¬ø¡»Ì¡V \Æ™sxmso ©´s≤R∂VxqsWÚDLi…ÿ≤R∂V. ¬ø¡[LRiVNRPV©yıNS)

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : BNRP‰≤R∂ ™´sL<RiLi xms≤R∂≤R∂Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. NS¨s ÀÿgS ¿d¡NRP…”¡gS DLiμj∂. G≠sVNRP¨szmsLiøR¡≤R∂Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. C LS˙ºΩNTP BNRP‰≤R∂ DLi≤T∂ xms≤R∂VN]¨s, lLi[xmsoF~μÙR∂VÆ©s[ı BLi…”¡NTP F°ªy©´sV. @xqs¤Õ¡[ G≠dsV NRP¨szmsLiøR¡≤R∂Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V.(¿d¡NRP…”¡ xms≤R∂Vª][Liμj∂)

(≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ xms≤R∂VN]¨s ™´so©´sı LSLiVV μR∂gÊRiLRi D©´sı |msμÙR∂ ¬ø¡»Ì¡V ª]˙LRiÕ‹[ ©´sVLi≤T∂INRP Fy™´soLRi™´sVV ¡∏R∂V»¡NRPV ™´sxqsVÚLiμj∂. (NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV)

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : ©y ¬ø¡÷d¡! FsNRP‰≤R∂ DLiμ][, C ™´sL<RiLiÕ‹[ FsNRP‰≤R∂ ¿¡NRPV‰NRPV F°LiVVLiμ][G™´sW, ©y NRPF°ºΩ G\Æμ∂©y AxmsμR∂Õ‹[ ¿¡NRPV‰NRPVLiμy! @π∏∂W˘! ©y˙}ms∏R∂VzqsNTP G\Æ™sVLiμ][ G≠sV…‹[! BLiNS BLi…”¡NTP ¬ø¡[LRi¤Õ¡[μR∂V. C gS÷¡™y©´sNTPFsNRP‰Q\Æ≤∂©y ¿¡NRPV‰NRPV F°LiVVLiμy? xqs–d¡ ©´sV™´so* ¤Õ¡[NRPVLi≤y Æ©s[©´sV FsÕÿ“¡≠sLiøR¡©´sV? À≥œ¡gRi™´sLiªRΩV≤y... ©´sVÆ™s[* μj∂NRPV‰.

(@Li»¡W DLi≤R∂gS ≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ ™´sÃ¡Õ‹[ ©´sV©´sı NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV)


NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : (ªRΩ©´sÕ‹[ ªyÆ©s[) ©y À≥œ¡LRiÚ x§¶¶¶XμR∂∏R∂VLiÕ‹[ BLiªRΩ rÛy©y¨sı Æ©s[©´sVA˙NRP≠sVLiøy©y! A•¶¶¶ Æ©s[©´sV FsLiªRΩ @μR∂XxtÌsQ™´sLiªRΩVLS÷¡¨s! ©y gRiVLjiLi¿¡, ©yÀ≥œ¡LRiÚ FsLiªRΩ Àÿμ≥R∂xms≤R∂VªRΩV©yı≤R∂V. ©y «¡©´s¯ μ≥R∂©´s˘Q\Æ™sVF°LiVVLiμj∂. BxmsˆV≤R∂VBLiNRP Æ©s[©´sV C À‹[∏R∂V™y≤T∂ ¬ø¡[ºΩÕ‹[ øy™´s≤y¨s\ZNP©y zqsμÙR∂Æ™s[V (˙xmsNSaRPLigS)ry*≠dsV! ry*≠dsV!

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : @Æμ∂[Li…”¡ ©y À≥ÿLRi˘ zmsÃ¡VxmsoÕÿ DLiÆμ∂[!

NRPF°ºΩ : LS«ÿ, Æ©s[©´sV BNRP‰Æ≤∂[ D©yı©´sV. (NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV NRPF°ºΩ¨s øR¡WxqsVÚLiμj∂.

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : @π∏∂W˘! BÆμ∂[Li…”¡LS Àÿ ¡V! ©´sV™´so* A À‹[∏R∂V ™´sÃ¡Õ‹[ FsÕÿ¿¡NRPV‰NRPV©yı™so?

NRPF°ºΩ : @Liªy ≠sμ≥j∂ ÷¡–¡ªRΩ™´sVV ry*≠dsV! G≠sV ¬ø¡[ryÚ™´sVV. μk∂¨s gRiVLjiLi¿¡ G≤R∂VxqsWÚNRPWLRiVËLi¤…¡[ ÕÿÀ≥œ¡Li ¤Õ¡[μR∂V. BμR∂Liªy xqslLi[¤Õ¡Li≤T∂. C À‹[∏R∂V™y≤R∂V ™´sV©´sBLi…”¡NTP INRP @ºΩ¥j∂Õÿ ™´søyË≤R∂V NS ¡…Ì”¡ A∏R∂V©´sNRPV @ºΩ¥j∂ ™´sVLS˘μR∂Ã¡V¬ø¡[∏R∂V»¡Li ™´sV©´s NRPLRiÚ™´s˘Li.

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : NS ds ...

NRPF°ºΩ : ™´sW…˝ÿ≤R∂NRPVLi≤y Æ©s[©´sV ¬ø¡zmsˆLiμj∂ ¬ø¡[∏R∂VLi≤T∂. C À‹[∏R∂V™y≤R∂V ™´sV©´sBLi…”¡NTP aRPLRifl·VN][Lji ™´søyË≤R∂V. @LiμR∂VNRPÆ©s[ A∏R∂V©´sNRPV ¬ø¡[∏R∂V™´sÃ¡zqs©´s™´sVLS˘μR∂Ã¡V ¬ø¡[∏R∂VLi≤T∂.

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : xqslLi[ (À‹[∏R∂V™y≤T∂¨s ¤Õ¡[xmsoªRΩVLiμj∂) J @©yı! ¨s©´sVı øR¡WxqsVÚLi¤…¡[ øyÕÿ@Ã¡zqsF°LiVV©´s»˝¡VgS D©yı™´so.

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : @™´so©´sV. (AaRPËLRi˘LigS)

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : @LiVVæªΩ[ dsNRPV Æ©s[©´sV G ≠sμ≥R∂LigS }qs™´s ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÕ‹[ ©yª][ ¬ø¡xmsˆV Æ©s[©´sV @μj∂Æ©sLRiÆ™s[LRiVryÚ©sV.

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : ¨s«¡LigS©y!

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : ¨s«¡LigSÆ©s[. ©´sV™´so* ¬ø¡Fyˆ¤Õ¡[ gS¨s.

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : @LiVVæªΩ[ Æ©s[©´sV C @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ øR¡÷¡gS÷¡NTP ªRΩ»Ì¡VN][¤Õ¡[NRP F°ªRΩV©yı©´sV. C øR¡÷¡Àÿμ≥R∂©´sV FsÕÿ\lgi©y F°g]»Ì¡V.


NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : J£qs @LiæªΩ[©y! (@Li»¡W @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ ©´sVLi≤T∂ N]¨sı NRP¤…Ì¡Ã¡V GLRiVªRΩVLiμj∂) CNRP¤…Ì¡ æªΩ[™´sVgS DLi≤T∂, ª]LiμR∂LRigS Æ™sÃ¡gRiμR∂V, Bμj∂ ÀÿgRiVLiμj∂. (æªΩ¿¡Ë≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ ™´sVVLiμj∂ A NRP¤…Ì¡Ã¡V |ms…Ì”¡)

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : BxmsˆV≤R∂V sxmsˆV FsNRP‰≤R∂ μ]LRiNRPVªRΩVLiμR∂Àÿ˜! A! ªRΩ…Ì”¡Liμj∂, μR∂gÊRiLRiÕ‹[ ©´sV©´sıxms¤Õ˝¡NRPV Æ™s≤T∂æªΩ[ μ]LRiNRP™´søR¡VË. (@¨s FsgRiVLRiVNRPVLi»¡W Æ™sŒœ¡ßªRΩVLiμj∂.)

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : C xmsOTPQ GLi ¬ø¡[r°ÚLiμ][ GLi…‹[? ©yNRPV ™´sW˙ªRΩLi øyÕÿ øR¡¤Õ¡[r°ÚLiμj∂.

(NRPF°ªRΩLi ºΩLjigji ™´sxqsVÚLiμj∂)

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : A ™´søyË™y!

NRPF°ºΩ : (™´sÃ¡Õ‹[ ©´sVLi≤T∂) @™´sV¯∏R∂V˘ ™´søyËLS! BLiªRΩ}qsxmso ©y ™´sV©´sxqsV=™´sV©´sxqsV=Õ‹[ ¤Õ¡[μR∂©´sVN][Li≤T∂. @™´sV¯∏R∂V˘.

(NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV NRP¤…Ì¡xmsoÃ˝¡Ã¡ dsı INRP ø][»¡ F°gRiV ¬ø¡[zqs ™y…”¡NTP sxmsˆLi…”¡Li¿¡Liμj∂.)

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : J À‹[∏R∂V™y≤y! ds aRPLkiLS¨sı C @gjiıª][ NSøR¡VN][!

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : @ÕÿgS, øyÕÿ NRPXªRΩ«Ï¡ªRΩÃ¡V.

NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV : Bμj∂ ©y Àÿμ≥R∂˘ªRΩ (@Li»¡W ªRΩÃ¡™´sLiøR¡VªRΩVLiμj∂)

dsNRPV BLiNS G\Æ™sV©y NS™yÕÿ?

≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : ALi..A.. ©yNRPV øyÕÿ ANRP¤Õ¡[r°ÚLiμj∂. (Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[)

NRPF°ªRΩLi : Bμj∂g][ ºdΩxqsVN][ ds A•¶¶¶LRiLi (@¨s Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ ªRΩ©´sV ™´sVVLiμR∂V©´sı @gjiıÕ‹[NTPμR∂WZNP[xqsVÚLiμj∂)

(≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ AaRPËLRi˘Liª][ ™´sW≤R∂VªRΩV©´sı NRPF°ªRΩLi ™´sLi…”¡¨s øR¡WxqsWÚDLi…ÿ≤R∂V.)

NRPF°ºΩ : G™´sVLi≤U∂! FsLiªRΩ ªy˘gRiLi ¬ø¡[ryLRiLi≤U∂! C ªy˘gRiLi øR¡LjiªRΩÚÕ‹[Æ©s[ øyÕÿg]xmsˆgS ≠sVgji÷¡F°ªRΩVLiμj∂.

(N]Li¬ø¡Li}qsxmso ¨saRP+ Ù¡Li c ≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ NS÷¡©´s NRPF°ªRΩ™´sVV aRPLkiLS¨sı øR¡WxqsWÚDLi…ÿ≤R∂V.)


≠dsLRi∏R∂V˘ : @π∏∂W˘! (xmsaSËªyÚxms™´sVVª][) ≠ds…”¡¨s BLiNRP ™´sÃ¡ ©´sVLi≤T∂ ≠s≤T∂¿¡ |ms≤R∂ªy©´sV.BLiNRP Æ™s[…ÿ≤R∂™´sVV ™´sW¨s, Æ™s[lLi[π∏∂[V\Æ™sV©y xms¨s øR¡WxqsVN][™y÷¡. (@Li»¡WxmsaSËªyÚxms™´sVVª][ (™y≤T∂F°π∏∂V xmso™y* dsNRPV ™´sLÒS¤Õ¡LiμR∂VN][ ª][»¡™´sW÷¡ dsª][≤R∂VNSμR∂VgS, LS÷¡F°π∏∂V ™´sVÀÿ˜ dsNRPV LSgS¤Õ¡LiμR∂VZNP[ ...@Li»¡W Fy≤R∂VNRPVLi»¡W) BLi…”¡ \Æ™sxmso ¡∏R∂VÃ¡V Æμ∂[LRiVªy≤R∂V.)

NRPF°ºΩ ©yNRPV ≠sV™´sV¯÷¡ı øR¡Wr°ÚLi¤…¡[ øyÕÿ gRiLRi*LigS DLiμj∂ (@Li»¡W NRPŒœ¡˛Õ‹[©´sVLi≤T∂ LS÷¡©´s INRP NRP dsı…”¡¨s ªRΩV≤R∂VøR¡V NRPVLi»¡VLiμj∂. À≥œ¡LRiÚª][ Fy»¡V À≥ÿLRi˘NRPW≤y øR¡¨sF°æªΩ[, BμÙR∂LRiW xqs*LÊRi™´sVV©´sNRPV Æ™s◊˝¡, @NRP‰≤R∂ aSaRP*ªRΩLigSxqs*LÊRixqsVΔÿÃ¡©´sV @©´sVÀ≥œ¡≠sryÚLRi¨s |msμÙR∂Ã¡V ¬ø¡ ¡VªyLRiV. ry*≠dsV!Bμj∂g][! BxmsˆVÆ≤∂[ ™´sxqsVÚ©yı©´sV.. (@Li»¡W ªRΩ©´sV NRPW≤y ¨sxmsˆVÕ‹[NTPμR∂WNRPVªRΩVLiμj∂.

c ÷¡–¡ªRΩ, 10™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ

LS™´sVV æªΩ÷¡≠s

INRP xms¤Õ˝¡Õ‹[ INRP NRPV»¡VLi ¡Li ™´soLiÆ≤∂[μj∂. A NRPV»¡VLi ¡LiÕ‹[ INRP @™´sV¯, ©y©´sı, INRP zmsÕ˝ÿ≤R∂V,™´soLiÆ≤∂[™yLRiV. ™yŒœ¡˛ ©y©´sı INRP ˙gS™´sV xmsLiøyLiVVºΩNTP |msμÙR∂. ™yŒœ¡˛ N]≤R∂VNRPV }msLRiV LS™´sVV. ªRΩ©´sNRPVøyÕÿ æªΩ÷¡≠s ™´soLiμj∂. ªRΩ©´sV øR¡μj∂Æ™s[μj∂ ©yÃ¡Vg][ ªRΩLRigRiºΩ NS¨s xmsμ][ ªRΩLRigRiºΩ xmsoxqsÚNSÃ¡V H©yøR¡μj∂Æ™s[ryÚ≤R∂V. ™y≤T∂ }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡V, DFyμ≥y˘∏R∂VVÃ¡V ™y≤T∂¨s "æªΩ÷¡≠s gRiÃ¡ LS™´sVV" @Li…ÿLRiV.N]¨sıryLRiV ™yŒœ¡˛ ©y©´sıNTP G\Æμ∂©y xqs™´sVxqs˘ ™´s}qsÚ LS™´sVV¨s @≤T∂lgi[™y≤R∂V. INRPL][«¡Ÿ LRiLigRi∏R∂V˘,xqsWLRi∏R∂V˘ NRP÷¡zqs ™yŒœ¡˛ LiVVLi…”¡NTP ™´søyËLRiV. LS™´sVV ™yŒœ¡˛ ©y©´sı "G™´sVLiVVLiμj∂" @¨s @≤T∂gS≤R∂V.

LRiLigRi∏R∂V˘ C ≠sμ≥R∂LigS ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V "Æ©s[©´sV ©y NRPV»¡VLi ¡Liª][ ™´sW @©´sı∏R∂V˘ ELjiNTPÆ™sŒÿ˛÷¡= ™´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. NS¨s ™´sW A™´so¨s ¡xqsV=Õ‹[ ºdΩxqsVNRPVF°¤Õ¡[™´sVV NRPμy! @LiμR∂VNRP¨s A™´so¨s ©y}qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩV≤R∂V xqsWLRi∏R∂V˘ μR∂gÊRiLRi |ms…Ì”¡ ELRiV Æ™sŒÿ˛©´sV. ºΩLjigji ™´søyËNS, ©y A™´so¨s B™´s*™´sV¨s@≤T∂gjiæªΩ[ @μj∂ ªRΩ©´sÆμ∂[ @¨s xqsWLRi∏R∂V˘ @Li»¡V©yı≤R∂V. μR∂∏R∂V¬ø¡[zqs ©yNRPV ©y˘∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡[∏R∂VLi≤T∂."

LS™´sVV NRPŒœ¡ß˛ ™´sVWxqsVNRPV©yı≤R∂V. N]Li¬ø¡Li}qsxmso ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ LS™´sVV ™yŒœ¡˛©´sV " A A™´so¨s ≠dsVLRiVG™´sV¨s zmsÃ¡VryÚLRiV?" @¨s @≤T∂gS≤R∂V. LRiLigRi∏R∂V˘ LS™´sVVª][ "Æ©s[©´sV μy¨sı bP™´so≤R∂W @¨s zmsÃ¡VryÚ©´sV"


@¨s ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. xqsWLRi∏R∂V˘ " Æ©s[©´sV μy¨sı ˙ ¡•¶¶¶¯ @¨s zmsÃ¡VryÚ©´sV" @©yı≤R∂V.

LS™´sVV xqsWLRi∏R∂V˘NTP A A™´so¨s æªΩ™´sV¯¨s ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. A™´so ™´søyËNRP LS™´sVV ™y◊˝¡μÙR∂Lji¨s ¡∏R∂V»¡NRPV Æ™sŒœ¡˛™´sV©yı≤R∂V. LS™´sVV A lLiLi≤R∂V }msLRiV A™´so ¬ø¡≠sÕ‹[ ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. ™´sV◊d¡˛ A BμÙR∂Lji¨szms÷¡¿¡ μ]LigRi xqsWLRi∏R∂V˘ @¨s ¬ø¡}msˆaS≤R∂V.

FsÕÿ ¬ø¡xmsˆgRiÃ¡VgRiVªRΩV©yı™´so!" @¨s ™yŒœ¡˛ ©y©´sı, xqsWLRi∏R∂V˘ @≤T∂gSLRiV. LS™´sVV BÕÿ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. FsÕÿgRiLi¤…¡[ Æ©s[©´sV bP™´so≤R∂V @¨s ¬ø¡≠sÕ‹[ ¬ø¡}msÚ @μj∂ ªRΩ©´s ªRΩÃ¡ EzmsLiμj∂. NS¨s "˙ ¡•¶¶¶¯"@¨s ¬ø¡}msÚ G≠dsV NRPμR∂Ã¡¤Õ¡[μR∂V. @LiμR∂VNRP¨s μ]LigRi xqsWLRiπ∏∂[V˘.

LRiLigRi∏R∂V˘ LS™´sVVNTP μ≥R∂©´s˘™yμyÃ¡V ¬ø¡zmsˆ ªRΩ©´s A™´so©´sV ºdΩxqsVNRPV¨s Æ™sŒÿ˛≤R∂V. LS™´sVV ™yŒœ¡˛©y©´sı LS™´sVV¨s Æ™sVøR¡VËN]¨s xqsWLRi∏R∂V˘©´sV ELRiV ©´sVLi¿¡ xmsLizmsLi¿¡ Æ™s[aS≤R∂V. @Õÿ LS™´sVV ªRΩ©´sELjiÕ‹[ ™yŒœ¡˛ B ¡˜LiμR∂VÃ¡V ªRΩ©´s æªΩ÷¡≠sª][ ºdΩlLi[Ë}qs™y≤R∂V.

c NSLkiÚN`P, 6™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ

¿¡©sı xmsμy˘Ã¡V

≠sVLRixmsNS∏R∂V NSLRiLi

¿¡LiªRΩNS∏R∂V xmsoÃ¡Vxmso

NRP™´sVÃ¡NS∏R∂V ºdΩzms

NSNRPLRiNS∏R∂V ¬ø¡[μR∂V

©y}msLRiV ™´sW≠sV≤T∂NS∏R∂V.

©y BÃ˝¡V ¬ø¡»Ì¡V.

©y ELRiV ™´sV…Ì”¡.

©y Æμ∂[aRPLi À≥ÿLRiªRΩÆμ∂[aRPLi.

c NSLkiÚN`P, 6™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ


Æ™sWxqsLi ¬ø¡[∏R∂V≤R∂Li ™´sVLi¿¡μj∂ NSμR∂V

zqsLjiryÃ¡Li @Æ©s[ ELjiÕ‹[ LS™´sV∏R∂V˘ @Æ©s[ μ]LigRi DLiÆ≤∂[™y≤R∂V. ™y≤R∂V øyÕÿ ™´sVLiμj∂¨s A»¡xms…Ì”¡Li¿¡ ™yŒœ¡ r~™´sVV¯¨s μ][¬ø¡[}qs™y≤R∂V. FsxmsˆV≤R∂V xms»Ì¡VNRPVLiμy™´sV¨s ˙xms∏R∂VºΩıLi¿¡©y ¬ø¡[xms¬ø¡[ªRΩVÃ¡Õ‹[ ©´sVLi≤T∂ ds…”¡Õ‹[ sNTP FsÕÿ «ÿLRiVªRΩVLiμ][ @LiªRΩ xqsVÃ¡À≥œ¡LigS ªRΩzmsˆLiøR¡VNRPVÆ©s[™y≤R∂V.

BÕÿlgi[ L][«¡ŸÃ¡V gRi≤T∂¿¡ A≈¡LjiNTP C ≠sxtsQ∏R∂VLi LS«¡ŸNRPV ¬ø¡[LjiLiμj∂. Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ LS«¡Ÿ ªRΩ©´s\|qs¨sNRPVÃ¡¨s LS™´sV∏R∂V˘©´sV xms»Ì¡VN][™´s≤y¨sNTP xmsLizmsLiøy≤R∂V. Bμj∂ LS™´sV∏R∂V˘NRPV æªΩ÷¡zqs A ELji©´sVLi¿¡ FyLjiF°LiVV ©´sLiμR∂xms÷˝¡NTP Æ™sŒœ¡ßªRΩVLi¤…¡[, μyLji ™´sVμ≥R∂˘Õ‹[ @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ ©´sVLi≤T∂ Æ™sŒÿ˛÷¡=™´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. @Õÿ Æ™sŒœ¡ßªRΩW ™´soLi≤R∂gS x§¶¶¶hSªRΩVÚgS INRP LSORPQxqsV≤R∂V FsμR∂V\lLi∏R∂W˘≤R∂V. A LSORPQxqsV≤R∂VÀ≥œ¡∏R∂VLiª][ ™´sfl”·NTPF°ªRΩV©´sı LS™´sV∏R∂V˘©´sV øR¡Wzqs À≥œ¡∏R∂Vxms≤R∂NRPV. Æ©s[©´sV INRP Æμ∂[™´sªRΩ©´sV. INRP ¡VVztsQ©yNRPV aSxmsLi B¿¡Ë ©´s©´sVı BÕÿ ™´sWlLi[ËaS≤R∂V. dsNRPV G\Æ™sV©y xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLi NS™yÃ¡Li¤…¡[ ©´s©´sVı@≤R∂VgRiV dsNRPV ªRΩxmsˆNRPVLi≤y xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡[ryÚ." @¨s ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. " @ÕÿgRi @LiVVæªΩ[ ©yNRPV N]LiªRΩ≤R∂ ¡V˜ B™´so*. Æ©s[©´sV A ≤R∂ ¡V˜ª][ G\Æμ∂©y Dμ][ gRiLi ¬ø¡[ryÚ©´sV." @¨s ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. LS™´sV∏R∂V˘.

@xmsˆV≤R∂V A LSORPQxqsV≤R∂V INRP ¬ø¡»Ì¡V ª]˙LRiÕ‹[ sLi¿¡ INRP xqsLi¿¡ ºdΩzqs LS™´sV∏R∂V˘NRPV N]¨sı ¡LigSLRiV ©y‚fl·[Ã¡V BøyË≤R∂V. ™´sVLRiÃ¡ A xqsLi¿¡¨s A ¬ø¡»Ì¡V ª]˙LRiÕ‹[ |ms…Ìÿ≤R∂V. Bμj∂ @LiªyLS™´sV∏R∂V˘ «ÿ˙gRiªRΩÚgS øR¡WaS≤R∂V. ™y≤T∂NTP A xqsLi¿¡Æ©s[ μ]Ligji÷¡LiøyÃ¡Æ©s[ AÕ‹[øR¡©´s xmso…Ì”¡Liμj∂.@LiμR∂VZNP[ ELji ¡∏R∂V»¡NRPV Æ™s◊¡˛ @NRP‰≤R∂V©´sı ™´sWLi˙ºΩNRPV≤T∂NTP ≤R∂ ¡V˜ B¿¡Ë, LSORPQxqsV≤R∂V¨sªRΩLjiÆ™s[V∏R∂WÃ¡¨s ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. A ≠sμ≥R∂LigS «¡Ljigji©´s Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ ¬ø¡»Ì¡V ª]˙LRiÕ‹[ sLi¿¡ A xqsLi¿¡ ºdΩzqsμy¨sÕ‹[ D©´sı ≤R∂ ¡V˜ @Liªy ≈¡LRiVË|ms¤…Ì¡[aS≤R∂V.

N]¨sı Æ©sÃ¡Ã¡ ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ ™´sV◊d¡ ™y≤T∂NTP A LSORPQxqsV≤R∂V NRP¨szmsLiøy≤R∂V. NS¨s CryLji N][xmsLiª][ ALSORPQxqsV≤R∂V LS™´sV∏R∂V˘©´sV xms»Ì¡VN]¨s INRP ™´sWÃ¡ ™y≤T∂ Æ™sV≤R∂Õ‹[ Æ™s[aS≤R∂V. Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ LS™´sV∏R∂V˘ ALSORPQxqsV≤T∂Õÿ ™´sWLjiF°∏R∂W≤R∂V. LSORPQxqsV≤R∂V ™´sV◊d¡ Æμ∂[™´sªRΩÕÿ ™´sWLjiF°LiVV ™´sW∏R∂VLi@LiVVF°LiVVLiμj∂. LS™´sV∏R∂V˘ øyÕÿ NRPuÌyÃ¡V xms≤T∂ ™´sV◊d¡ ™´sV¨sztsQgS ™´sWLS≤R∂V. NS¨s CryLji™´sVLi¿¡gS ™y˘FyLRiLi Æ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V|ms…Ì”¡ BLiNRP FsxmsˆV≤R∂W μ]LigRiªRΩ©yÃ¡V ¬ø¡[∏R∂V¤Õ¡[μR∂V.

c \Æ™sV˙æªΩ[£tsQ


À≥ÿLRiªRΩLi

©y À≥ÿLRiªRΩLiøR¡Lji˙ªRΩÕ‹[ g]xmsˆμj∂

©y À≥ÿLRiªRΩLiLS«¡ À≥œ¡™´s©yÃ¡©´sV μ≥R∂LjiLi¿¡Liμj∂©y À≥ÿLRiªRΩLi@≤R∂™´soÃ¡NRPV ªRΩ¤Õ˝¡LiVVLiμj∂

©y À≥ÿLRiªRΩLiLSORPQxqsVÃ¡©´sV xqsLix§¶¶¶LjiLi¿¡Liμj∂

©y À≥ÿLRiªRΩLigRiLigS©´sμj∂¨s LRizmsˆLi¿¡Liμj∂™´sV©´s À≥ÿLRiªRΩLiÀ≥œ¡V≠sÕ‹[ ˙xmszqsμÙj∂ ¬ø¡Liμj∂Liμj∂

™´sV©´s À≥ÿLRiªRΩLi FsLiª][ g]xmsˆμj∂c «¡∏R∂VLiª`Ω, 6™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ


LRiORPQNRP À≥œ¡»¡V¨sNTP ¤Õ¡[≈¡

LjiztsQ™y˘÷¡ FyhRiaSÃ¡LjiztsQ™y˘÷¡™sVμR∂©sxms¤Õ¡¿¡ªRΩWÚLRiV—¡Õ˝ÿALi˙μ≥R∂ ˙xmsÆμ∂[a`P

LRiORPQNRPVÃ¡NTP,

Æ©s[©´sV s©´sı ™´sW ©y©yıgSLji FyªRΩ ª]ZNP[‰μj∂*øR¡˙NRP™yx§¶¶¶Li \|ms©´s FyhRiaSÃ¡NRPV Æ™sŒ˝ÿ©´sV. @LiVVæªΩ[ªyŒœ¡Li Æ™s[∏R∂VNRPVLi≤yÆ©s[ FyhRiaSÃ¡ ™´sVVLiμR∂V |ms…Ì”¡ ªRΩLRigRiºΩgRiμj∂NTP gRi ¡gRiÀÿ Æ™sŒ˝ÿ©´sV. FsLiμR∂VNRPLi¤…¡[@xmsˆ…”¡ZNP[ AÃ¡xqs˘Li @LiVVLiμj∂. ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ À≥‹[«¡©´s xqs™´sV∏R∂VLiÕ‹[ \¤À¡»¡NTP ™´s¿¡Ë©´sxmsˆV≤R∂V NRPW≤y@μj∂ @NRP‰Æ≤∂[ DLiμj∂. NS¨s ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ \¤À¡»¡NTP ™´s¿¡Ë©´sxmsˆV≤R∂V ™´sW∏R∂VLi @LiVVF°LiVVLiμj∂. Æ©s[©´sVÆ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ @»¡V, B»¡V øR¡WxqsWÚ Æ™sºΩNS©´sV. NS¨s ©y ª]ZNP[‰ μj∂*øR¡˙NRP™yx§¶¶¶©´sLi NRP©´s ¡≤R∂¤Õ¡[μR∂V.

xmsLRiVlgiªRΩVÚNRPV Æ™s◊˝¡, @NRP‰≤R∂ NSxmsÕÿ ™´s˘QQNTPÚ @LiVV©´s ©´slLi[Li˙μR∂©´sıNTP ¬ø¡Fyˆ©´sV. NS¨s @ªRΩ≤R∂VFs™´sLRiW ª]ZNP[‰ μj∂*øR¡˙NRP™yx§¶¶¶©´sLi ≠dsVμR∂ Æ™sŒœ¡≤R∂Li øR¡W≤R∂¤Õ¡[μR∂¨s ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. ≠dsVLRiV N]Li¬ø¡Li Æ™sºΩNTP|ms»Ì¡Li≤T∂. ©y ª]ZNP[‰ μj∂*øR¡˙NRP™yx§¶¶¶©´sLi Fs˙LRiLRiLigRiVÕ‹[ DLi»¡VLiμj∂. øyÕÿ FyªRΩμj∂. μy¨s™´sVVLiμR∂VLiÆ≤∂[ μk∂xmsLi xmsgji÷¡F°LiVVLiμj∂.

Æ©s[©´sV ª]ZNP[‰ μj∂*øR¡˙NRP™yx§¶¶¶©y¨sı μ]Ligji÷¡LiøR¡≤y¨sNTP @™´sNSaRPLi D©´sı ™yŒœ¡ }msLRiV ≠dsVNRPV¬ø¡ ¡VªRΩV©yı©´sV.

™yŒœ¡ß ©´slLi[Li˙μR∂©´sı, Ã¡OTPQQ¯ @NRP‰, «¡∏R∂VLiª`Ω, \Æ™sV˙æªΩ[£tsQ, NSLkiÚN`P, ©´sLiμR∂NTPa][L`i, ∏R∂VV™´sLS«fi,μj∂uyÕfi, Æ™s[μR∂ ™´sVLji∏R∂VV xqs≠dsVLRi. FsLiμR∂VNRPLi¤…¡[ ™yŒœ¡ß˛ μy¨s≠dsVμR∂ ™´sVVLiÆμ∂[ NRPÆ©s[ızqs DLiøyLRiV.μR∂∏R∂V¬ø¡[zqs ˙xms∏R∂VªRΩıLi ¬ø¡[∏R∂VLi≤T∂.

≠dsVLRiV Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ NRP¨s|ms≤R∂ªyLRi¨s AbPxqsWÚ,

˙xms≠dsfl·

\¬ø¡˙ªRΩLi, ˙ªRΩπ∏∂WμR∂bP,≠sNRPXºΩ ©y™´sV xqsLi™´sªRΩ=Li,aS÷¡™yx§¶¶¶©´s aRPNRPLi, 1993.


¿¡LRiV©y™´sW:LRiORPQNRP À≥œ¡»¡V¨s ¨sÃ¡∏R∂VLi™sVμR∂©sxms¤Õ¡¿¡ªRΩWÚLRiV—¡Õ˝ÿ, ALi˙μ≥R∂˙xmsÆμ∂[a`P

1. ª]ZNP[‰ μj∂*øR¡˙NRP™yx§¶¶¶©´sLi = \|qsNTPÕfi

2. ˙ªRΩπ∏∂WμR∂bP, ≠sNRPXºΩ, aS÷¡™yx§¶¶¶©´s aRPNRPLi 1933 = G˙zmsÕfi xmnsQpÕfi= Æ≤∂[ 2011.

c xms≠dsfl·, 6™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ

F~≤R∂Vxmso NRP¥R∂Ã¡V

1. INRP xmsøR¡ËLRiLigRiV ªRΩÃ¡Vxmso æªΩLji}qsÚ, INRP g][μ≥R∂V™´sVLRiLigRiV ªRΩÃ¡Vxmso DLi»¡VLiμj∂. @μj∂ NRPW≤yæªΩLji}qsÚ, INRP æªΩÃ¡VxmsoLRiLigRiV ªRΩÃ¡Vxmso DLi»¡VLiμj∂, @μj∂ NRPW≤y æªΩLji}qsÚ, INRP CªRΩ N]Ã¡©´sVDLi»¡VLiμj∂!! G≠sV…”¡ @μj∂?

«¡™y ¡V : N] ¡˜LjiNS∏R∂V

2. G @LiZNP¨s ºΩLRilgi[}qsÚ |msμÙR∂\Æμ∂ F°ªRΩVLiμj∂.

«¡™y ¡V : 6 c 9

3. INRP…‹[ @LiªRΩxqsVÚÕ‹[ 32 æªΩÃ˝¡ ™´sV©´sVxtsvÃ¡V D©yıLRiV. lLiLi≤][ @LiªRΩxqsVÚÕ‹[ lLiLi≤R∂V ™´sVVLjiNTPgRiμR∂VÃ¡V D©yıLiVV. ™´sVW≤R∂™´s @LiªRΩxqsVÚÕ‹[ lLiLi≤R∂V æªΩÃ˝¡gRiμR∂VÕ˝‹[ lLiLi≤R∂V ©´sÃ˝¡™´sVLiøyÃ¡V D©yıLiVV.©yÃ¡VgRi™´s @LiªRΩxqsVÚÕ‹[ BμÙR∂LRiV ©´sÃ˝¡LS«¡ŸÃ¡V D©yıLRiV. @LiVVμR∂™´s @LiªRΩxqsVÚÕ‹[ INRP ©´sÃ˝¡ @≤R∂≠sDLiμj∂!! G≠sV…”¡ @μj∂?

«¡™y ¡V : ™´sVV≈¡Li (xmsŒœ¡ß˛, ™´sVVNRPV‰LRiLi˙μ≥yÃ¡V, NRPLi…”¡˙gRiV≤R∂V, NRP©´sVÀ‹™´sV¯Ã¡V, «¡Ÿ»Ì¡V)

4. ™´sV©´s™´sVV dsŒœ¡ß˛ FsLiμR∂VNRPV ªygRiVªy™´sVV?

«¡™y ¡V: FsLiμR∂VNRPV @Li¤…¡[ ™´sV©´s™´sVV dsŒœ¡ß˛ ºΩ©´s¤Õ¡[™´sVV.


xmsLiμR∂VÃ¡V ™´sV…Ì”¡Õ‹[ FsLiμR∂VNRPV μ]LRiVªyLiVV?

Fs©Ø[ı xqsLi™´sªRΩ=LSÃ¡ ˙NTPªRΩLi INRP @≤R∂≠sÕ‹[ …ÿ ¡V @¨s INRP xmsLiμj∂ ¨s™´szqsxqsWÚ DLiÆ≤∂[μj∂. …ÿ ¡Vμy¨s }qsız§¶¶¶ªRΩVÃ¡ª][ FsLi≤R∂Õ‹[ ÀÿgS A≤R∂VN]¨s BLi…”¡NTP ™´sxqsWÚLi¤…¡[ A FsLi≤R∂NTP μy¨s ≠dsxmso ≠dsVμR∂μR∂VLRiμR∂NTP ªRΩ»Ì¡VN][¤Õ¡[NRP ™´sV…Ì”¡Õ‹[ NS™´s÷¡=©´sLiªRΩ}qsxmso μ]LjiLiμj∂. ªRΩXzmsÚª][ ºΩLjigji BLi…”¡NTP ˙xms∏R∂Wfl·LiÆ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V |ms…Ì”¡Liμj∂. μyLjiÕ‹[ D©´sı ¬ø¡LRiV™´soÕ‹[ ryı©´sLi ¬ø¡[xqsWÚLi¤…¡[, øyÕÿ μyx§¶¶¶Liª][ D©´sıª][Æ≤∂[Ã¡V @NRP‰≤T∂NTP ™´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. NS¨s …ÿ ¡V ¬ø¡[zqs©´s

ryı©´sLiª][ ¬ø¡LRiV™´soÕ‹[ D©´sı dsLRiV @Liªy ™´sVVLjiNTPgS @LiVVF°LiVVLiμj∂.

@xmsˆV≤R∂V A ª][Æ≤∂[Ã¡V N][xmsLiª][ " ©´s©´sVı ds ™´sVVLjiNTP ryı©´sLiª][ dsLRiV ªygRiNRPVLi≤y ¬ø¡[ryÚ™y!lLi[xmso BNRP‰≤T∂ZNP[ LS! ¨s©´sVı øR¡Lizms ºΩ¨s ©y ANRP÷¡ ºdΩLRiVËNRPVLi…ÿ! NS¨s ©´sV™´so* LSNRPF°æªΩ[ dsNRPV»¡VLi ¡Li Æ™sVVªRΩÚLi ©yaRP©´sLi ¬ø¡[ryÚ!" @¨s gRi…Ì”¡gS @Lji¿¡Liμj∂. C ™´sW»¡Ã¡V ≠s©yıNRP …ÿ ¡WNTP¬ø¡xmsˆ¤Õ¡[ s À≥œ¡∏R∂VLi NRP÷¡gji, xmsLRiVlgiªRΩVÚNRPVLi»¡W BLi…”¡NTP Æ™s◊˝¡ «¡Ljigji©´s ≠sxtsQ∏R∂VLi @Liªy ¬ø¡zmsˆLiμj∂.Fs™´s*LjiNUP G≠sV ¬ø¡∏R∂W˘Õ‹[ æªΩ÷¡∏R∂V¤Õ¡[μR∂V.

A≈¡LjiNTP …ÿ ¡W ™yŒœ¡˛ ªyªRΩ∏R∂V˘NRPV INRP DFy∏R∂VLi ™´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. …ÿ ¡Wª][ "©´sV™´so* B™yŒœ¡μ]Lji©´s¤…Ì¡[ lLi[xmso NRPW≤y ™´sV…Ì”¡Õ‹[ μ]LRiV. NS¨s ™´sVLjiLiªRΩ FsNRPV‰™´sgS μ]Lji ¬ø¡LRiV™´so μR∂gÊRiLRiNRPV Æ™sŒœ¡ß "@¨s ¬ø¡Fyˆ≤R∂V. …ÿ ¡WNTP ELjiZNP[ ™´sV…Ì”¡Õ‹[ μ]LRi≤R∂Li ©´søR¡Ë¤Õ¡[μR∂V NS¨s @Õÿlgi[ ¬ø¡[ryÚ©´sV @¨s¬ø¡zmsˆLiμj∂.

A L][«¡Ÿ μyLjiÕ‹[ FsNRPV‰™´s ™´sV…Ì”¡ D©´sı ø][»¡V øR¡Wzqs μy¨s aRPLkiLRiLi @Liªy ™´sV…Ì”¡ @Li»¡VNRPVÆ©s[™´sLRiNRPW μ]LjiLiμj∂. ¬ø¡LRiV™´so¨s ¬ø¡[LRiVNRPV©yıNRP ª][Æ≤∂[Ã¡V dsLRiV ªygRiVªRΩW NRP¨szmsLi¿¡Liμj∂. INRP‰ryLjigSª][Æ≤∂[Ã¡V …ÿ ¡V ™´sLiNRP øR¡Wzqs ™yLiºΩ ™´s¬ø¡[Ë Æ™sVVx§¶¶¶Li |ms…Ì”¡ "¿≥d¡ ¿≥d¡! ds aRPLkiLRiLi ©´sVLi≤T∂ ™´s¬ø¡[Ë™yxqs©´sª][ ©yNRPV ™yLiºΩ ™´s¬ø¡[ËÕÿgRi DLiμj∂. dsÕÿLi…”¡ xmsLiμR∂VÃ¡¨s BLiNRP FsxmsˆV≤R∂W ºΩ©´s©´sV!" @¨s¬ø¡zmsˆ xmsLRiVlgiªRΩVÚNRPVLi…ÿ Æ™s◊¡˛F°LiVVLiμj∂.

CL][«¡ŸNRPV NRPW≤y xmsLiμR∂VÃ¡V ™´sV…Ì”¡Õ‹[ μ]LRiVªyLiVV. NS¨s @≠s BÕÿ FsLiμR∂VNRPV ¬ø¡[ryÚπ∏∂W≠dsVNRPV BxmsˆV≤R∂V æªΩ÷¡zqsLiμj∂ NRPμy!

c \Æ™sV˙æªΩ[£tsQ, 6™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ


™´sW @™´sV¯gSLji xms¤Õ˝¡»¡WLRiV

™´sW ELRiV }msLRiV gRiLigRiWLRiV. @μj∂ NRPXuÒy—¡Õ˝ÿÕ‹[ DLiμj∂. ≠s«¡∏R∂V™y≤R∂NTP gRiLi»¡ μR∂WLRiLiÕ‹[DLiμj∂. |msμÙR∂ |msμÙR∂ g][≤_©˝sV, xmsøR¡Ë¨s gRi≤ÔT∂, FsμÙR∂VÃ¡©´sV øR¡W}qsÚ ©yNRPV ™´sW ELRiV gRiVLRiVÚNRPV ™´sxqsVÚLiμj∂.™´sWNRPV '«¡Lji=' «ÿºΩ g][™´soÃ¡V D©yıLiVV. @NRP‰≤R∂ ©yNRPV ©´søR¡Ë¨sμj∂ INRP‰¤…¡[. @μj∂ G≠sV»¡Li¤…¡[@NRP‰≤R∂ À‹[¤Õ¡≤R∂¨sı ¡Ã˝¡VÃ¡V D©yıLiVV.

F~μÙR∂VÆ©s[ı ¤Õ¡[™´sgSÆ©s[ lgiLiªRΩ»¡Li, xmsLRiVlgiªRΩÚ≤R∂Li, A»¡Õÿ≤R∂VªRΩWÆ©s[ DLi…ÿ™´sVV @LiμR∂LRiLi@™´sV¯™´sV¯ ªRΩxmsˆ. ªRΩ©´sV F~μÙR∂VÆ©s[ı ©yÃ¡VgjiLi…”¡ ©´sVLi¿¡ G≤R∂VgRiLi»¡Ã¡ ™´sLRiNRPW xmsp«¡ ¬ø¡[xqsVNRPV¨sªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ ™´sLi»¡gRiμj∂ZNP◊˝¡ ©Ø[LRiWLjiLi¬ø¡[ ™´sLi»¡NSÃ¡V ªRΩ∏R∂WLRiV ¬ø¡[xqsVÚLiμj∂. N] ¡˜Lji ¬ø¡»˝¡ \|msZNPNTP‰N] ¡˜LjiNS∏R∂VÃ¡V N][xqsVNRPV¨s ™y…”¡Õ‹[ s dsŒœ¡ß˛ ªygRiVªyLi. ds…”¡ gRiVLi»¡Õ˝‹[ xms≤T∂ μ]LRiVªyLi.

@NRP‰≤R∂ øyÕÿ ©´s™´sV¯NRP\Æ™sV©´s, NRP÷¡≠s≤T∂ªRΩ©´s\Æ™sV©´s ™yŒœ¡ß˛ ™´sW μR∂gÊRiLRi xms¨s¬ø¡[ryÚLRiV. øyÕÿ™´sVLS˘μR∂gS NRPW≤y DLi…ÿLRiV. ry∏R∂VLi˙ªRΩLi ™´s¬ø¡[Ë øR¡Ã˝¡…”¡ gSÃ¡VÃ¡V INRP ™´sVLi¿¡ @©´sVÀ≥œ¡WºΩ¨sryÚLiVV. @NRP‰≤R∂ LRifl·g]fl· μ≥R∂*©´sVÃ¡V, ™yªy™´sLRifl· NSÃ¡VxtsQ˘Li øyÕÿ ªRΩNRPV‰™´s. ™´sW ™´sVW≤R∂V@LiªRΩxqsVÚÃ¡ BÃ˝¡V øR¡V»Ì¡Wªy |msμÙR∂, |msμÙR∂

F~ÕÿÃ¡V D©yıLiVV. LS˙ºΩxmsp»¡Ã¡ Æ™s[V™´sVLiªy ™yNTP…˝‹[ NRPWLRiVË¨s, øR¡LiμR∂™´sW™´sV¨s øR¡WxqsWÚ,@™´sV¯™´sV¯ ¬ø¡}msˆ NRP¥R∂Ã¡V ≠sLi»¡W, ªy«ÿ N] ¡˜Lji dsŒœ¡ß˛ ªygRiVªRΩW xms≤R∂VNRPVLi¤…¡[ FsLiª][ •¶¶¶LiVVgSDLi»¡VLiμj∂!!! A•¶¶¶! B™´s dsı ¬ø¡ ¡VªRΩWLi¤…¡[ ©yNRPV ™´sW ELRiV, ˙gS™´sVxqÛsVÃ¡V, BLiNS @™´sV¯™´sV¯,ªyªRΩgSLRiV gRiVLRiVÚNRPV ™´sxqsVÚ©yıLRiV. ≠dsVLRiW @NRP‰≤R∂NTP ªRΩxmsˆNRP Æ™sŒœ¡˛Li≤T∂.


≠sLiªRΩ NRP≠sªRΩÃ¡V

1. ©y }msLRiV g][FyÕfi©y©´sı}msLRiV øR¡WFyÕfixmso…Ì”¡Liμj∂ Æ©s[FyÕfiªygjiLiμj∂ A™´soFyÕfi¬ø¡[zqsLiμj∂ FyFyÕfi@∏R∂W˘©´sV \¤«¡Õfi FyÕfi.

2. ©y }msLRiV xqsWLjix§¶‹[»¡Õfi Õ‹[ μR∂WLjiºΩ©yı©´sV xmspLjiFsNS‰©´sV ÕÿLjixms≤Ôy©´sV «ÿLji@LiVVF°LiVVLiμj∂ ©y rÌ°Lji.

c xqs≠dsVLRi, 6™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ


@™sV¯

™´sW @™´sV¯gSLji }msLRiV $ LS«¡LS¤«¡[aRP*Lji. NS¨s @LiμR∂LRiW ªRΩ©´s¨s g_Lji @¨s zmsÃ¡VryÚLRiV. ªRΩ©´sV«¡⁄\¤Õ¡ 3©´s xmso…Ì”¡Liμj∂. øyÕÿ @LiμR∂LigS DLi»¡VLiμj∂. ªRΩ©´sV INRP gRiXz§¶¶¶fl”·. ™´sW ©y©´sıgSLjiNTP,ªyªRΩgSLjiNTP xms¨sÕ‹[ øyÕÿ xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡[xqsVÚLiμj∂. BÆ™s[ NSNRPVLi≤y ©y ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V, FyhRiaSÃ¡, øR¡μR∂V™´so,BLiNS BLi…˝‹[ xms©´sVÃ¡V xqsLjigÊS «¡Ljilgi[Õÿ øR¡WxqsVÚLiμj∂.

ªRΩ©´sV ¿¡©´sıxmsˆV≤R∂V ÀÿgS øR¡μR∂V™´soNRPVLiμj∂. @LiæªΩ[NSNRPVLi≤y Àÿ|qs‰…fi ÀÿÕfi xqsW‰Ã¡V …‘¡™´sVVNTPZNP|mÌs©±s. ¿¡©´sıªRΩ©´sLi ©´sVLiÆ≤∂[ @¨sıxms©´sVÃ¡V NRPxtÌsQxms≤T∂ ¬ø¡[}qsμj∂. ©yNRPV FsxmsˆV\Æ≤∂©´s ÀÿgS¤Õ¡[NRP F°æªΩ[Æ™sLi»¡Æ©s[ \Æ™sμR∂˘aSÃ¡NRPV ºdΩxqsVNRPV Æ™s≤R∂VªRΩVLiμj∂. ©yNRPV L][«¡⁄ øR¡μR∂V™´so ¬ø¡ ¡VªRΩVLiμj∂. ©yª][A≤R∂VªRΩVLiμj∂. øyÕÿ ÀÿgS ™´sLi»¡ ¬ø¡[xqsVÚLiμj∂. Æ©s[©´sV \¤À¡»¡NTP Æ™sŒÿ˛Ã¡Li¤…¡[ FsNRPV‰™´s ryLRiV ºdΩxqsVNRPVÆ™sŒœ¡ßªRΩVLiμj∂. NS¨s N]¨sıryLRiV "™´sμÙR∂™´sW¯! L][«¡⁄ \¤À¡»¡NTP xmso…Ìÿ™´sVV. ©yNRPV æªΩ÷¡zqs©´sLiªRΩ ™´sLRiNRPV ™´sW@™´sV¯ @LiªRΩ ™´sVLi¿¡ @™´sV¯ C ˙xmsxmsLiøR¡LiÕ‹[Æ©s[ ¤Õ¡[LRiV !!!


NRP÷¡zqs ¬ø¡[}qs xms©´sVÃ¡V

INRPL][«¡Ÿ INRP ELjiÕ‹[ INRP @™´sW¯LiVV , ™yŒœ¡˛ ™´sWLRiVªRΩ÷˝¡ DLiÆ≤∂[™yLRiV. A @™´sW¯LiVV }msLRiVLRi™´sV. LRi™´sV øyÃ¡ @™´sW∏R∂VNRPVLSÃ¡V. ™´sWLRiVªRΩ÷˝¡ @xqsÃ¡V ™´sVLi¿¡μj∂NSμR∂V. ™´sWLRiVªRΩ÷˝¡NTP øyÕÿ@xqsW∏R∂V. ™´sWLRiVªRΩ÷˝¡ L][«¡⁄ LRi™´sV©´sV ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V NRPV¤…Ì¡[»¡»Ì¡V ¬ø¡[}qsμj∂. LRi™´sV @Ã¡zqs F°LiVV©y NRPW≤yBLiNS «‹[LRiVgS ¬ø¡LiVV˘ @¨s ¬ø¡ ¡VªRΩVLiÆ≤∂[μj∂. LRi™´sVNTP xqsLjigÊS ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V NRPV»Ì¡≤R∂Li LSμR∂V.

INRPL][«¡Ÿ ™´sWLRiVªRΩ÷˝¡ LSfl”· μR∂gÊRiLjiNTP Æ™s◊˝¡ ©y NRPWªRΩVLRiV øyÕÿ ÀÿgS ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V NRPV≤R∂VªRΩVLiμR∂¨s@ ¡μÙyÃ¡V ¬ø¡zmsˆLiμj∂. @xmsˆV≤R∂V LSfl”· ™yŒœ¡ LiVVLi…”¡NTP ™´s¿¡Ë LRi™´sV¨s ™yŒœ¡ LS«ÿ˘¨sNTP ºdΩxqsVNRPV¨sÆ™sŒ˝ÿLRiV. A LS«ÿ˘¨sNTP Æ™sŒÿ˛NRP LSfl”· AÆ™sVNRPV IZNP[L][«¡ŸÕ‹[ xmsμj∂ ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V NRPV…ÌÿÃ¡¨s ¬ø¡zmsˆLiμj∂.™´sVLRiVxqs…”¡L][«¡Ÿ xms¨s Æ™sVVμR∂Ã¡V|ms…Ì”¡Liμj∂ LRi™´sV. NRPV»Ì¡≤R∂Li LSNRP G≠sV ¬ø¡[∏R∂WÕ‹[ æªΩ÷¡∏R∂VNRP LRi™´sV INRPgRiμj∂Õ‹[NTP Æ™sŒœ¡ ªRΩÃ¡Vxmso Æ™s[xqsVNRPV¨s, ÀÿgS G≤T∂ËLiμj∂.

LRi™´sV gRiμj∂Õ‹[ D©´sıxmsˆV≤R∂V ™´sVVgÊRiVLRiV Æμ∂[™´sªRΩÃ¡V ˙xmsªRΩ˘QORPQ™´sV∏R∂W˘LRiV. Æ™sVVμR∂…”¡ Æμ∂[™´sªRΩ ¬ø¡[LiVVøyÕÿ |msμÙR∂gS ™´soLiμj∂. lLiLi≤R∂™´s Æμ∂[™´sªRΩ NSŒœ¡ß˛ øyÕÿ |msμÙR∂gS D©yıLiVV. ™´sVW≤R∂™´s Æμ∂[™´sªRΩ


|msμR∂™´soÃ¡V øyÕÿ |msμÙR∂≠sgS ™´so©yıLiVV. A ™´sVVgÊRiVLji Æμ∂[™´sªRΩÃ¡NRPV ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V NRPV»Ì¡≤R∂™´sVLi¤…¡[ øyÕÿBxtÌsQLi. A xmsμj∂ ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V xmsμj∂ ¨s≠sVuyÕ˝‹[Æ©s[ NRPV…Ì”¡, ™´sVVgÊRiVLRiV Æμ∂[™´sªRΩÃ¡V ™´sW∏R∂V™´sVLiVV F°∏R∂WLRiV.

™´sVLRiVxqs…”¡ L][«¡Ÿ LSfl”· A ¡»Ì¡÷¡ı øR¡W¿¡ øyÃ¡ xqsLiª][xtsQ xms≤R∂VªRΩVLiμj∂. @xmsˆV≤R∂V ALS«¡˘LiÕ‹[ D©´sı LSNRPV™´sWLRiV≤R∂V LRi™´sV¨s |ms◊˝¡ ¬ø¡[xqsVN][™yÃ¡¨s ¨sLÒRiLiVVLiøR¡VNRPV©yı≤R∂V.LSNRPV™´sWLRiV≤R∂V ™´sVLi¿¡™yÆ≤∂[ NS ds Fs™´sLji ™´sW»¡ ≠sÆ©s[™y≤R∂V NSμR∂V. Fs™´sLji xqsÃ¡•¶¶¶Ã¡V ºdΩxqsVNRPVÆ©s[™y≤R∂VNSμR∂V. AL][«¡Ÿ LS˙ºΩ Æμ∂[™´sªRΩÃ¡V ºΩLjigji LRi™´sV μR∂gÊRiLRiNRPV ™´sryÚLRiV. @xmsˆV≤R∂V LRi™´sV øyÃ¡ xqsLiª][xtsQxms≤T∂≠dsV N][xqsLi G\Æ™sV©y ¬ø¡[ryÚ©´s¨s ™´sW»¡ BxqsVÚLiμj∂.

@xmsˆV≤R∂V Æμ∂[™´sªRΩÃ¡V Æ™s[VLi ™´sVVgÊRiVLRiLi |ms◊¡˛NTP ™´sryÚ™´sVV @¨s @≤T∂gSLRiV. μy¨sNTP LRi™´sV xqslLi[ @¨s≠sV™´sV¯÷¡ı Fs™´sLRiV @¨s @≤T∂gjiæªΩ[ G≠sV ¬ø¡Fyˆ÷¡ @¨s @≤R∂VgRiVªRΩVLiμj∂. @xmsˆV≤R∂V Æμ∂[™´sªRΩÃ¡V Æ™s[V™´sVVds ¡Liμ≥R∂V™´soÃ¡V @¨s ¬ø¡xmsˆ™´sV¨s xqsÃ¡•¶¶¶ LiVVøyËLRiV. ™´sVLRiVxqs…”¡ L][«¡Ÿ |ms◊˝¡NTP @LiμR∂LRiW•¶¶¶«¡LRi∏R∂W˘LRiV. Æμ∂[™´sªRΩÃ¡V NRPW≤y ™´søyËLRiV. |ms◊¡˛NTP ™´s¿¡Ë©´s ™yLRiV Æμ∂[™´sªRΩÃ¡©´sV øR¡Wzqs™y¤Œ˝¡™´sLRi¨s? LRi™´sV¨s @≤T∂gjiæªΩ[ ™´sW ¡Liμ≥R∂V™´soÃ¡V @¨s ¬ø¡zmsˆLiμj∂.

@xmsˆV≤R∂V LSNRPV™´sWLRiV≤R∂V FsLiμR∂VNRPV INRPLjiNTP NSŒœ¡ß |msμÙR∂gS, INRPLjiNTP |msμR∂™´soÃ¡V |msμÙR∂gS,INRPLjiNTP ¬ø¡[LiVV |msμÙR∂gS D©yıLiVV @¨s @≤T∂gS≤R∂V. NSŒœ¡ß |msμÙR∂gS D©´sı Æμ∂[™´sªRΩ "Æ©s[©´sV ÀÿgSxmsLRiVlgi≤R∂ªy©´sV" @ ds |msμR∂™´soÃ¡V |msμÙR∂gS ™´so©´sı Æμ∂[™´sªRΩ "Æ©s[©´sV μyLS¨sı ©y |msμR∂™´soÃ¡ª][ xqsLji¬ø¡[ryÚ©´sV" @ ds ¬ø¡[ªRΩVÃ¡V |msμÙR∂gS D©´sı Æμ∂[™´sªRΩ Æ©s[©´sV øyÕÿ "ÀÿgS ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V NRPV≤R∂ªy©´sV" @¨s¬ø¡FyˆLRiV.

@xmsˆV≤R∂V LSNRPV™´sWLRiV≤R∂V LRi™´sV BLiªRΩ ªRΩ*LRigS ¡»Ì¡Ã¡V NRPV»Ì¡gRi÷¡gjiLiμj∂ BLiμR∂VZNP[@©´sVNRPV©yı≤R∂V. @LiμR∂LRiW NRP÷¡zqsÆ™sVÃ¡zqs INRPLjiN]NRPLRiV xqs•¶¶¶∏R∂VLi ¬ø¡[xqsVNRPVLi¤…¡[ xms©´sVÃ¡V BLiªRΩ ÀÿgS¬ø¡∏R∂V˘™´søyË ! @¨s AaRPËLRi˘F°∏R∂W≤R∂V. @xmsˆ…”¡ ©´sVLi≤T∂ @LiμR∂Ljiª][ NRP÷¡zqs Æ™sVÃ¡zqs DLi»¡W,@LiμR∂Lji xqsÃ¡•¶¶¶Ã¡V ≠sLi»¡W, LS«ÿ˘¨sı Fy÷¡xqsWÚ, LRi™´sVª][ xqsV≈¡LigS D©yı≤R∂V.

c ∏R∂VV™´sLS«fi, 6™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ


zqsˆLji…fi

INRP ELjiÕ‹[ LS™´sVV @Æ©s[ zmsÃ˝¡™y≤R∂V DLiÆ≤∂[™y≤R∂V. @ªRΩ©´sV øyÕÿ ¡VμÙj∂™´sVLiªRΩV≤R∂V. LS™´sVVNTPgRiV˙LSÃ¡V @Li¤…¡[ øyÕÿ BxtÌsQLi. LS™´sVV FsxmsˆV≤R∂W gRiV˙LSÃ¡ À‹™´sV¯Ã¡V Æ™s[}qs™y≤R∂V. @ªRΩ¨sNTP INRPgRiV˙LRiLi NS™yÃ¡¨s @©´sVNRPV©yı≤R∂V.

@ªRΩ©´sV ≤R∂ ¡V˜ NRPW≤R∂¤À¡»Ì¡rygS≤R∂V. @ªRΩ©´sV ≤R∂ ¡V˜ N][xqsLi øyÕÿ NRPxtÌsQxms≤T∂ xms¨s ¬ø¡[}qs™y≤R∂V.øyÕÿ L][«¡ŸÃ¡ ªRΩLRiV™yªRΩ @ªRΩ¨sNTP NS™´s÷¡zqs©´sLiªRΩ ≤R∂ ¡V˜ μ]LjiNTPLiμj∂. μyLiª][ @ªRΩ©´sV INRPæªΩÃ˝¡LRiLigRiV gRiV˙LS¨sı N]©yı≤R∂V. μy¨sNTP zqsˆLji…fi @¨s }msLRiV |ms…Ìÿ≤R∂V. zqsˆLji…fi NTP ÀÿgS ¡Ã¡\Æ™sV©´sºΩLi≤T∂ |ms…Ìÿ≤R∂V. μyLiª][ gRiV˙LRiLi ÀÿgS ¡Ã¡LigS ªRΩ∏R∂WLRiLiVVLiμj∂. A gRiV˙LS¨sNTP INRP “¡©´sVN]©yı≤R∂V. A “¡©´sV NRPW≤y æªΩÃ˝¡LRiLigRiVÕ‹[ DLiμj∂.

LS™´sVV |msμÙR∂™y≤R∂∏R∂W˘≤R∂V. A gRiV˙LRiLi NRPW≤R∂ ™´sVVxqs÷¡μj∂ @™´srygjiLiμj∂. N]¨sıL][«¡ŸÃ¡NRPV gRiV˙LRiLiøR¡¨sF°LiVVLiμj∂. LS™´sVV øyÕÿ Àÿμ≥R∂xms≤Ôy≤R∂V. FsxmsˆV≤R∂W A gRiV˙LS¨sı gRiVLjiLi¬ø¡[ AÕ‹[¿¡xqsWÚDLiÆ≤∂[™y≤R∂V. @μj∂ øR¡Wzqs©´s LS™´sVV @™´sV¯ LS™´sVW! FsxmsˆV≤R∂W @Õÿ Àÿμ≥R∂ xms≤R∂NRPW≤R∂μR∂V. ©´sV™´so*ds gRiV˙LRiLi À‹™´sV¯¨s @LiμR∂LigS ¿¡˙ºΩLi¿¡ ds gRiμj∂Õ‹[ |ms»Ì¡VN][. @μj∂ ds μR∂gÊRilLi[ D©´sı»˝¡V DLi»¡VLiμj∂.@LiμR∂VN][xqsLi ©´sV™´so* |msLiVVLi…”¡Ligì N˝SxqsVÃ¡NTP Æ™sŒœ¡ß˛ @Liμj∂.

LS™´sVV |msLiVVLi…”¡Ligì N˝SxqsVÃ¡NTP Æ™sŒœ¡˛rygS≤R∂V. LS™´sVVNTP |msLiVVLi…”¡Ligì Æ™s[∏R∂V≤R∂Li øyÕÿ©´s¿¡ËLiμj∂. μyLiª][ ÀÿgS Æ©s[LRiVËNRPV©yı≤R∂V.

Æ™sVVμR∂»¡ ªRΩ©´s gRiV˙LRiLi À‹™´sV¯¨s |msμÙR∂ NS©y*£qs ≠dsVμR∂ ¿¡˙ºΩLiøR¡VNRPV©yı≤R∂V. μy¨s¨s ªRΩ©´s@™´sV¯NTP øR¡WzmsLiøy≤R∂V. AÆ™sV øyÕÿ Æ™sVøR¡VËNRPV¨s øR¡V»Ì¡W ˙xmsNRPXºΩÕ‹[ s @LiμyÃ¡©´sVgRi™´sV¨sLiøR¡™´sV¨s ¬ø¡zmsˆLiμj∂.

ªRΩ©´søR¡V»Ì¡W D©´sı xmsLjixqsLSÃ¡©´sV, «¡LiªRΩV™´soÃ¡©´sV, ™´sV©´sVxtsv˘Ã¡©´sV, À≥œ¡™´s©yÃ¡©´sV FsLiª][@LiμR∂LigS ¿¡˙ºΩLiøR¡rygS≤R∂V LS™´sVV. BxmsˆV≤R∂V LS™´sVV FsLiª][ xqsLiª][xtsQLigS D©yı≤R∂V. g]xmsˆ|msLiVVLi»¡Lì gS }msLRiV æªΩøR¡VËNRPV©yı≤R∂V.

c …”¡. L][z§¶¶¶ª`Ω, 3™´s ªRΩLRigRiºΩ


A Special Feature ...


A Letter...

February 19, 2011

ToThe Chairperson and Members of the National Advisory Council (NAC)

FromClass XI Rishi Valley School, Rishi Valley Education Centre, Madanapalle, Chittoor, AndhraPradesh

Dear Madam and other honourable members of the NAC, we the students of Class XI RishiValley School have been studying the issue of Food Security as part of our General Studiesprogramme. We have been looking at it from the point of view of production, consumptionand distribution (entitlements) and also on a global scale. In this context we have beenfollowing the proposed Framework for the National Food Security Bill being drafted bythe NAC with great interest.

We ourselves live in a rural setting and see the problems of small farmers, goatherds andshepherds on a daily basis. We also see evidence of malnutrition due to lack of access tonutritious food. We would therefore like to offer our comments / suggestions regardingthe following specific points for your kind consideration in the hope that help will come tothese small farmers through the National Food Security Act (NFSA):

I.The Intent and Scope of the Proposed NFSAII.Coverage under the NFSA and its Financial SustainabilityIII.Sustainability both Ecological and Social in terms of ProductionIV.Regarding ProcurementV.Welfare Programmes involving Destitutes and OthersVI. Systems of Enforcement and Transparency

The rest of this letter will elaborate on the above points providing a rationale forthe various comments / suggestions that we are submitting for your kindconsideration.

I. The Intent and Scope of the Proposed NFSAOur great former Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru in his famous ‘Tryst with Destiny’ speechat the advent of independence spoke of the need to ‘wipe every tear from every eye’. It isa matter of shame that more than 60 years after independence millions of our countrymengo to bed hungry every night and many million more are malnourished, and (especially inthe case of children) are therefore condemned to sub-human lives. We therefore fullyendorse the larger objective of the proposed National Food Security Act (NFSA) to ensureadequate nutrition for everyone over their entire life-cycle. This for us is not a question ofdebate. We rather see it as an obligation of any humanitarian state in the modern world.


We also therefore urge that the phrase “nutritional security” be explicitly included in thedefinition of “food security” in the NFSA.

• Coverage under the NFSA and its Financial SustainabilityWe therefore fully endorse the NAC stand on universal coverage. This is to ensure thatnobody falls through the loop especially in this time of continuing food inflation. Theargument that this is financially sustainable has been put forth clearly by the NAC andother economists. The argument to the contrary however, loses credibility in the face ofthe enormous subsidies, both overt and hidden, which are being given to particular sectionsof the economy and which are increasingly capturing the limelight nowadays.

• Sustainability both Ecological and Social in terms of Production We find herethat the NAC’s reflections need to be developed further. We go along with theirargument that with existing growth rates in production and procurement we should nothave a serious difficulty in provisioning the PDS with adequate grain for universal coverageover the next few years. However we would like to point out the following:

(i) As noted by the National Commission of Farmers Report “Jai Kisan: Revised NationalPolicy for Farmers” 4th October, 2006 draft note itself, both production and productivityover the past 10 years in Green Revolution has “tended to go down” (Section 1.1.1). This isconsonant with Green Revolution farming experience all over the world. Production levelsare plateauing if not declining with Green Revolution agriculture. Soils and environmentsare getting degraded and farmers indebtedness is growing. It is therefore crucial as a long-term policy to:

a) shift the focus away from Green Revolution farming which concentrates onareas with assured irrigation and on the better-off farmers (“Betting on theStrong”) to cover the entire spectrum of farmers and crops in the country,especially the so-called subsistence farmers. This shift would be a return tothe intent of the First Agrarian Policy in the country which focussed oninstitutional reforms in agriculture;

b) strengthen the productivity of subsistence farming through adequate creditarrangements;

c) help subsistence farmers to improve the fertility of degraded lands, especiallycommon property resources. MGNREGA programmes in rural areas should bedirected towards this end;

d) to develop an adequate livestock policy to strengthen the economy ofsubsistence farming.

(ii)This shift in policy requires a far more decentralised approach drawing on thecapabilities of civil society (NGOs, Gramsabhas, traditional communities etc.). We feelthat such an approach would strengthen productivity of subsistence farming, increaseproduction, generate more self-employment in the countryside, increase incomes and inthe long-run generate a greater marketeable surplus. Even in the short-run by enhancinglivelihoods and production it would reduce the dependency of the rural population on


the PDS system and therefore ease the fiscal burden of the State. Moreover, sustainablenon-chemical based agriculture, which is practiced in rainfed areas is much less dependenton costly external inputs (in this context the work of people like Subhash Palekar andothers should be taken note of). Much of what is said here is also emphasized in theNational Commission of Farmers’ “Jai Kisan” Report.

(iii) In the argument of the NAC that productivity can be increased from 100-300%, we feelthat sufficient note is not being taken of the role of agronomic conditions. Comparisons ofyield for a given crop across countries without considering these agronomic conditions isnot accurate. E.g. data from FAO 2006-2007 shows that the United States with all its advancedtechnology has productivity yields in wheat just comparable with India (2.60 Metric tons /ha and 2.63 Metric tons / ha respectively) and much lower than the technologically“backward” Egypt (6.43 metric tons/ha). This is simply because of differences in agronomicconditions. Therefore the belief that reliance on Green Revolution or for that matterbiotechnology will continuously increase crop yields is misplaced. Crucial is the gradualimprovement of agronomic conditions through the use of ecologically sustainable farmingpractices. Hence our emphasis on “subsistence farming”.

IV. Regarding ProcurementWe fully endorse the need for decentralised procurement as this would be moreeconomical (less burden on the State), give incentive to production of millets and oilseedswhich suffered under the Green Revolution policies, improve nutritional levels andpreserve cultural diversity of our farming populations.

Inclusion of millets and other nutritious grains in the food basket is endorsed stronglynot only because of its role in improving nutrition but also because it will go a longway in improvinglivelihoods of the small and marginal farmers particularly in rain-fed areas.

V. Welfare Programmes involving Destitutes and OthersThese programmes may be essential for many years to come and the State must takeresponsibility for them. However, many communities, charitable organisations and so onare undertaking activities in this regard. It is important for the State to work in tandem withthem and not displace them. On the contrary, over time, given the tradition of “Daan” inour country the State should endeavour to phase itself out of this activity and play a purelyenabling role thereafter. Food security is not only the responsibility of the State but CivilSociety as well and in the long run the burden of this responsibility must be borne largelyby Civil Society with the State playing an enabling / regulatory role. Hence in the long runthe problem of subsidies will be considerably reduced.

• Systems of Enforcement and TransparencyWe strongly endorse the emphasis on the need for systems of enforcement andtransparency and the need for independent third party organisations to monitor thefunctioning of NGOs and /or Government agencies / community based organisations toensure greater transparency.


We find the idea of a DGRO interesting but the modalities of its functioning must be verycarefully worked out.

We sincerely hope that the Government will enact an NFSA that will realise JawaharlalNehru’s vision at the time of Independence and is truly able to ‘wipe every tear fromevery eye’.

Thanking You

Sincerely


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