The building is not that old. Yet, the missing lights and rubble all around suggest lack of funds and attention.
The lift stopped at a floor midway, a chair entered the lift, followed by two elderly ladies, one of them standing and walking with great difficulty. “I fell and had this operation,” she explained apologetically. “I just like to go down, sit there for some time and watch the children play.” The man of the house, who opened the door with a hearty welcome, looked to have aged drastically in a few months. A more subdued “Sorry, I forgot you were coming” followed the welcome hugs. His wife was visible through the open door of their bedroom, in a helplessly twisted posture on the wheelchair, with the caretaker combing her hair. It was clear she had not placed the visitor; the same one she used to greet enthusiastically whenever they met during their walks. There was a large cup of tea waiting at the table. The man brought two packets of biscuits. She was wheeled close to the table and her husband. Carefully he broke each biscuit into half, dipped it in the tea and fed her. At one point, she choked and coughed, causing panic all around. Her eyes were bright and steady on the visitors. Do you think she can recognize people? “She can’t talk. Perhaps she can hear. But I think her brain is as sharp as it always was,” he said. Her trembling hand firmly held on to chair handle as if she was afraid of falling from the chair. Her eyes remained steady, almost smiling. He spoke of his major worry. Not the food, that was being delivered regularly, like the medical supplies. “The caretaker is planning to go to her village for two months.” Life was impossible for both of them without the caretaker. “We asked my wife's regular doctor to help us. He suggested we should move to the new old age home he has opened. It was a relief for us when we could move to this small flat thanks to a friend. Now to move from here and spend a whole lot of money every month … we just can’t do it.” They are counting on the caretaker to find a replacement before she leaves. How long will the new person take to get comfortable with their needs? And to provide the constant care she needs through the day? Those are questions best not voiced. Outside the window, a large tree with clusters of white flowers blocks the view of a lively game of volleyball in progress. One of the spectators, or maybe more, would be sitting on a plastic chair. The flourishing trees swaying gently in the breeze, extend all the way up the gentle slope. If you can make it to the balcony, you can also see the sun, relentlessly setting.
4 Comments
This was the 15th day after he was rushed to the hospital in a critical condition. Tubes and masks were keeping him alive. “We have already informed the whole family.” They were all coming from near and far. No one mentioned it, but they were coming to be around when the inevitable happened. “The good thing is his will is in place. So, no disputes later,” someone whispered. “Anything about organ donation?” came a hesitant question in response. “How dare you talk like that,” an elder member of the family screamed when she heard that. “We are trying to save him and not cut him to pieces so that someone else can live. We love him. We respect him.” But haven’t the doctors already indicated that his brain is dead, and he is being kept alive? No, nobody dared ask that question aloud. “Cremate me,” he said unexpectedly. He was old but not that old and fairly healthy. And cremation was not the common practice in his religion. “Wait! Donate all that you can, at least all the parts in my body that are working,” he laughed as if it was a joke. “Whatever is left give it to some medical college. Why waste wood or electricity when my body can teach some youngsters,” he laughed louder, though several others in that family gathering were unsure if it was appropriate to laugh. Years later, after he passed on, no one was sure how many lives his death touched. But some who came for the mourning rituals were aghast. “How could you?” That was his wish. “How do we pay our respects now when there is no body?” This is the wheelchair she used. Maybe it can help someone else now. And this walker he never got to use for long though he, more than all of us, were hopeful that he would eventually get back to walking normally or even running. We have sanitized this commode chair though we are not sure if it is okay for someone else to use this. Days or even weeks after someone dear moves on, these are common donations. Because those might help someone. Because no one wants a reminder of a dear departed lying in a corner. Donate lifeWhat is less common is the intention to donate the eyes, the heart, the liver, or any organ that may help someone else live a little longer or help complete a life or two. Donations that can’t be bought from the nearest shop. According to renowned neurosurgeon, Dr Mazda Turel, “There are innumerable reasons for a family to decide in favour of or against donating organs. In India, very few people make their intentions known when they are alive, and hence, it is up to the next of kin to take a call.” The latter makes it tougher. “In some cultures,” Dr Turel writes, “beliefs regarding life, death, and rebirth influence the decision to donate organs. Others believe that the body should not be harmed after death. In many societies, death is surrounded by rituals and taboos. There are superstitions that suggest tampering with the body can invite bad luck or prevent the soul from resting in peace.” Born, must dieLet us for a minute, shed our emotions and superstitions. Let us examine our body. It is a marvelous machine. However, it does not take long to decay and stink once it runs out of the fuel of life. The process of decomposition is said to start four minutes after death. Without blood circulation and respiration, there is excess carbon dioxide formation leading to an acidic environment. Enzymes start eating the cells from inside out. Released gases cause bloating and putrefaction (yes, that unmistakable smell of death). Finally, everything soft (organs, muscles, and skin) becomes liquid, leaving only the skeleton. A natural process, no doubt. That apart, are the final rituals the best way you would like to give respect to your own body or that of a loved one? Will your endInstead, if you will in advance that your organs be donated (or your family did so before it was too late) you could save up to eight lives, help two people see, heal up to 75 burn and wound victims or help someone restore their hand or face. It is a difficult decision for anyone, except you. Because, you have every legal, moral, and ethical right to decide what will happen to your body after you are no more. You are in no way changing the ordained course of your life by documenting this decision and letting your people know. And when this is known, it becomes easier to make transplants within a viable time frame: heart and lungs within four to six hours, liver within eight to twelve hours, kidneys within a day or two, and so on. Your life will end. No one can change that. But what you can change is how, after that end, your organs could help others begin a new life. Thanks to you. References:
https://mazdaturel.com/the-surgical-donor/ https://www.donoralliance.org/newsroom/donation-essentials/what-is-the-time-frame-for-transplanting-organs/ https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/treatments/11750-organ-donation-and-transplantation https://www.aftermath.com/content/human-decomposition/ Do you love your credit card? I did! Way back then it helped me buy immediate requirements for the house that I could hardly pay the rent for. Back then when I needed to travel to earn a living, it got me tickets at a discount. Decades after we had started living together, some weeks ago, I found a few strange charges. Because I was not travelling as frequently as I used to, I was being penalized for not utilizing my benefits accruing from other purchases. Up the levels of indifferenceAs I could not figure it out, I wrote to them. When they responded, I found myself climbing the hierarchy of customer care with each response. Every email ran into some 15 paragraphs (yes, I counted). After the third or fourth response, I became more adept at quickly spotting that single short sentence that directly answered my question or addressed my issue. The card was to expire soon. Heart-breaking as it was, I suggested they ought not to bother renewing the card. That was not possible, or so suggested a response. Nothing to do with the silly heart but some technical issue. Then they told me the charges had been reversed. I did not want to strain my heart further by asking why they had bothered to charge me in the first place. So, half-way into my first month after that card expired, I called. Probably, I expected tearful cheers when I told them I wanted to renew. The voice was matter of fact: “We sent your card last month. But your address could not be located. So, it came back. Do you want us to send it again?” Huh? I did not think the voice really bothered that how far back my association with that card went. It was the immediate transaction that was on the screen. A couple of days later, the courier messaged the card was on the way. All’s well, that ends well? Ha! The courier guy is known. Did you ever attempt delivering the same card before and no one was at home? No, he said. This was the first time he was delivering this card. Surely, the bank must know better? They were sure the card went back. “Banks, cards,” he mysteriously smirked. Here, take twoThe reason behind the smirk became clearer the following week, when I got another message. My card was on the way and delivery would be attempted on that very day. What? Again?
Went through the steps to establish my identity with customer care yet again. Yes, I had accepted and activated the card precisely seven days ago. No, they never sent a second card. Soon, the courier friend is at the door again, calmly entering the code to cancel the delivery. “You are fortunate. You got only two cards. The next address I am going to I will be delivering the tenth card. Do you know we get paid less than 10 rupees for every card we deliver? And we are fined 5,000 if we fail to deliver for whatever reason?” As he politely refused the glass of water I offered that hot afternoon and walked away, I did not even bother to understand what was happening. My intelligence was too real and ancient for that. Are we using so much of coded intelligence that our native thinking is getting artificial? Or is the bug in the thinking that I am anything more than the number embedded on the piece of plastic? There was the usual hubbub when we descended the last slope from the tranquil tourist spot to the parking area. Vendors selling everything from mementoes to snacks were yelling in the hope of attracting at least a few customers before everyone went off in their vehicles.
Then came the sound of an old-style bus horn. No, it was not from the parking lot. It was from a small makeshift shop selling tender coconuts. Suddenly, we were all thirsty and hungry. As we went closer, he welcomed us all with a big smile and put aside the horn. Interesting, I thought. Instead of letting his own voice get lost in the cacophony of all the shouting from the other vendors, he was trying something different. I was about to compliment him for that when he used his fingers to answer my question about the price per coconut. He wrote it on his palm and then gestured—he could not hear or speak. After that it was a smooth conversation. Before cutting each coconut he would ask—just water or you prefer some malai also? The first sip of the coconut water instantly took me back in time, when my family used to have a large coconut plantation. When city folks like me were visiting, someone would climb a palm and bring down tender coconuts. The water that I had just tasted had the unforgettable tang of very fresh coconut. He gestured to me that every morning he climbed up a few palms in the vicinity and got fresh coconuts. There were still four coconut halves with the glistening white meat waiting to be picked up and eaten when there was a sudden downpour. The bus was parked a little distance away and everyone was eager to make a dash for it. Skip what was left and go? Suddenly, he pulled out a clean bag to put the meat in. I asked him to pack it. He refused. “My hands are not clean, you do it” he indicated. As the bus moved away, I wondered. Did I miss taking his photo? A selfie? Should I have got more information? It would have made such a wonderful post and garnered so many “likes”. Then the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The few wisps of remaining clouds accentuated the blue that vied with the green all around to fill one’s eyes and heart. That was it. I realised the meeting with him was best stored in the heart, where it would stay far longer than on any screen. What if Humpty did not have a great fall? Because happy Dumpty was saved in the nick of time by the pail of water Jack and Jill were carrying? We are playing with rhymes for a reason. The thinking has always been repetition of good old nursery rhymes helps develop focus and vocabulary. Does that rationale extend to all learning by rote? A report by The British Psychological Society cites research to state that most little children are “insatiably curious”, constantly questioning and exploring (young parents would concur, for sure). If the children were to remain in this state they can outlearn adults, but. It is a very significant but because “by about the age of six, their unbridled curiosity starts to wane” which hampers their ability to keep questioning and solving. Now, a new work published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology: General has studied children aged three to six years and “found that simply varying the messages that were embedded in a storybook could make a difference”. Fishing for treasureThere were 138 participants in the study in the US and, “to broaden the cultural background of the sample”, another 88 in Turkey. The children listened to two versions of the same story of Sam following rules and instructions to search a group of islands for treasure. In the first version of the story Sam strictly went by the rules. At the end of it, when a participating child was asked a question, “the potential responses were always limited”. The second version, the “strategic curiosity” version, lefts things rather uncertain. The children could pick which island to visit and also had to keep an eye on the time. Unlike the “obvious” questions that followed the first version, there were open-ended questions at the end of the second version. Then came the application part. After the story, the children were introduced to a new game, which featured a virtual aquarium consisting of five fish tanks. Each tank had different hidden creatures, and the children had 15 minutes to find them. For the group that had heard the “traditional” version of Sam’s story, this meant "following the rules and checking for all your clues". For the other group, it was about "staying curious and paying careful attention to everything around you". While the two groups found about the same number of sea creatures, there were differences in performance. Those who were tuned to the “traditional” approach “often ran out of time to explore all of the tanks”. The “curious” group “prioritized visiting multiple tanks over deeply exploring individual ones and were more likely to get through them all”. The second group “spent a longer time searching tanks that appeared to contain relatively more creatures, even if it took some time to find those creatures”. This was a clear demonstration of greater “strategic persistence”, the researchers concluded. Revisit rote?That “strategic persistence” is valuable in the corporate world. So, in the world of grown-up learning and development, should Sam be taught the rules by rote, or be encouraged to question and rethink? Would that sacrifice discipline and progress? Or yield rich rewards?
What do you think, my accomplished friends in the learning domain? If I am in school, there is no room for questioning either Humpty or Jack. After all, my success depends on getting the answers expectedly right, to up-grade myself. That's what my young seven-year-old student had taught me all those years ago when I attempted to correct her homework. (“This is what my teacher wrote on the board…. Now, who gives me marks? Who gives me punishment if I do not obey?”) By the way, I do wonder what you are up above so high. How come the rain does not put off your twinkle? Why don’t you fall if you are diamonds? Hey, are you really stars or high-flying drones? 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞. 𝐎𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨? “In the months after my partner, Alex, was diagnosed with dementia in 2019, more than one person advised me to 'save' myself. What they meant was that I should move Alex into an assisted-living facility and get on with my life. “Alex’s diagnosis followed months of realizing more and more urgently that something was seriously wrong. It was as if we had entered a tunnel in which the only exits were into doctor’s offices for tests and scans and increasingly concerned conversations. “This left me completely torn. Of course, I didn’t want him to get worse. But until he did, help was limited. I learned the hard way that there isn’t an exact correlation between a person being able to perform daily activities and being able to live independently, or even be left alone for an extended period of time. “Early in the pandemic, I made my own list, not of things Alex could or couldn’t do, but things from our former life that we could still enjoy. The list was modest — only four items: drinking tea in the morning, going on hikes, watching something on TV in the evening and taking the occasional day trip. This is the list that guided me through the long, lonely days of lockdown. “What I think about now, more than two years after Alex’s death, is that there is more than one way to save yourself. “Even as Alex’s world shrank, we could still have tea together every morning and watch TV at night. He could still take comfort from our beloved cats. He could stand in the woods behind the house and look at the light on the trees. He could live with someone who loved him, even in his diminished state. "In opting not to save myself from the burden of Alex’s care, I ended up saving myself from the burden of regret. And that is going to last me a lifetime.” Thank you, Sue Dickman, for this, straight from your heart! And thank you The Washington Post for publishing this. https://www.washingtonpost.com/wellness/2024/09/07/dementia-partner-assisted-living-caretaker/
Images credit: The Washington Post Jesse Defton, 38, a world-class climber, ascends bare rock faces without permanent bolts. Instead, he places removable metal anchors into cracks in the mountain and attaches his rope to them. It is a sport in which one's vision, the ability to spot minor fractures or grooves in the rock, is considered vital. Jesse is completely blind. And completely dependent on his wife Molly Thompson, 40. Jesse was born with a condition in which the light-sensing cells of his retina gradually deteriorated. Even as a child, he had only a fraction of normal vision. Even once he and Molly had become friends and regular climbing partners, she didn't realize that his vision was so limited. He rode behind her on a bicycle, albeit cautiously. He aced engineering courses that required lab work. When he read climbing guides by stuffing his face into the book, his eyes millimeters from the text, Molly thought, "Okay, so he's nearsighted." Then two things happened simultaneously. Jesse and Molly began falling in love. And he lost the rest of his vision. They said almost nothing about their feelings for each other. Jesse didn't say what he wanted, which was to spend the rest of his life with Molly. But he could ask her if she was up for a climb. The sport became an excuse to be together, without talking about being together. The idea of stopping after Jesse lost his vision was unthinkable. Molly speaks into the microphone in a near-whisper, constructing an image of the rock that draws on the climbing guidebook and what she can see as Jesse moves, explaining where he should reach next with his hands and his feet. She needs to remain calm, to exude calmness, even if she worries he might fall. Her own nerves, she knows, could trigger his. Sometimes, when she can't make out a hold, she pretends to see one, offering just enough broad guidance to keep Jesse from freezing up. Her feigned confidence conceals terror. There are some parts of the sport that he has become startlingly good at -- better than almost anyone with perfect vision. The reason, Jesse believes, is that he has a different relationship with the rock than a sighted climber. He is forced to pay more attention to its subtleties. Thank you, The Washington Post, for this story. The words (and the images) are all from the story. Even if you are not into climbing and blessed with good vision, please read the full story. Hopefully, it will make us more grateful for all that life has to and to better appreciate its subtleties.
Her job had taken her all over the world. After she retired, she made it a point to drive herself to visit her friends. As the years kept moving, and as her body failed to keep pace, just going down two floors to sit by the garden in front of her building became the highlight of her day, every day. Sitting there, with a stray dog to keep her company, she would call her six friends one by one. Just to discuss the weather and the day’s headlines and to ask how things were at the other end. Occasionally, much to her frustration her mobile would misbehave, until someone found the time to show her what she was doing wrong. When a friend was willing to talk longer, she would be thrilled and would thank them profusely for listening to her. She would always keep some chocolates with her. She would give it to random people—the watchman, a maid on her way home or even the driver of a cab returning after dropping someone. Their smile and “thanks” were worth more than the little she spent on each chocolate. Then one day she had a fall. Or others said she did. She could not remember what exactly happened. Just that she was no longer able to walk or even stand without help. They cared for her despite multiple admissions to the hospital. For her, the biggest pain was she could no longer go down. Everyone tried to persuade her it did not matter. For her, nothing else did. She was alone, more alone than before. Learning to live againRajni was a responsible homemaker, devoted to caring for her husband, her children, and other members of her family. Then the elder ones passed away and the children were all comfortably settled elsewhere. She felt she was not needed by anyone anymore. The one who cared for many lives thus far yearned for a reason to care for her own. That’s when she approached a professional, to help her find a purpose beyond being just alive. The counsellor began by congratulating her for seeking help instead of drowning in self-pity and loneliness. Their conversations helped Rajni recollect how she had dealt with difficult situations in life. Together, they listed all she could do to help and earn, including some things Rajni had always wanted to do. When we get old, we plan for our financial security, we prepare our Will, and we even draw up a bucket list. Prerna Shah, the psychotherapist who helped Rajni observes: “We rarely discuss or even think about a situation of being the lone survivor …. If there are open discussions about how the survivor (could be anyone) could utilize his/her alone time meaningfully or how the person can have activities that would help regular interaction with other people, would it not be easier for the survivor to pick up the ropes of life, as they restart their life alone?” Easing the end, coping with lossIt is part of palliative care to ease pain and make the final journey as comfortable as possible. Simultaneously, it also helps the family members and caregivers cope with grief before and after the end. However, there is no predicting how long it would take for the person closest to the departed soul (very often the spouse) to get back to what is called normalcy. According to senior palliative care physician, Dr Pradeep Kulkarni, the shock of loss has an immediate effect on both men and women in the family. “However, contrary to common belief, I have observed that women recover faster than men.” He cites the example of a friend who lost both his wife and his parents in quick succession. “He remained in touch with me for a whole year through daily messages. Then he found a job in a distant city and the messages slowly stopped.” Just listenPreparing for loneliness after the life mate’s death can be tougher for those who are low in education and income because they are rarely told the truth until it is too late to mitigate the shock. Dr Parth Sharma, physician, researcher, and writer recently interacted with the wife of a patient who was in the terminal stage of oral cancer. They just had each other for family. “For me," Dr Sharma said, "this interaction was more as a researcher for my paper on oral cancer. However, I soon learnt that the treating oncologist had not informed them how serious his condition was and how little time they had together.” While Dr Sharma was hesitant to crush whatever hope they were clinging to, the couple were busy planning how they would repay him for his help and kindness. Maybe she could start selling vegetables and fruits and thus start earning? “I gently told them not to think so far into the future and to focus on today. I urged her to try and fulfil his wishes, like maybe when he wants to eat something special,” Dr Parth remembered. “Five days after he passed away, she called me up. She was hesitant maybe because she thought her husband had already passed away, so why bother the doctor. I assured her that she was welcome to call me, whenever she wanted.” Dr Parth regrets that we look down upon people who “complain.” Yes, everyone is busy in his or her own way. Perhaps, those who are in a position to comfort and ease loneliness could just listen to the complaints, without being judgmental? Could that be the starting point for a positive resolution? Loneliness, the global maladyThe loss of a dear one is only one of the factors that can trigger loneliness. According to the Loneliness Statistics Worldwide 2024, 43% of the people in India feel “lonely always, often or some of the times” (third from the top in the list of 28 countries) while only 27% “never or hardly” feel lonely (third from the bottom)—the global average being 33% and 37%, respectively.
Perhaps, in this age of disasters and conflicts (natural and manmade), it would be too much to expect India to have a Minister for Loneliness like the UK did in 2018. One can imagine the pressure on the healthcare system if more and more people visited doctors just to have someone to talk to. Is that the reason why senior citizens now constitute a lucrative market for old age homes? And why we need more associations of youngsters who provide companionship to senior citizens in multiple ways—dropping in to play games with them, singing songs, taking them to the bank or accompanying them to their favorite restaurant? Unlike Covid, the source of the pandemic of loneliness is within us. So is the remedy, if we can spare a moment of empathy to open up and reach out, often just by listening. Or simply by helping someone go down to the garden safely, so that she could be truly alive again. There was a time when our ancestors had designed death rituals to let the consciousness exit the body and move on to a different state. In this intermediate state, there is awareness (though not in the “living” sense) but the consciousness requires guidance. In his new book, Does the moon exist?, Dr Abhijit Dam prefers to call dying as “transference of consciousness.” He regrets that today most deaths happen in hospitals, surrounded by “death-prolonging machinery.” This alien setting is very confusing and frightening to the transitioning consciousness. It is more comforting if this happens in the peaceful, familiar setting of home in the presence of loved ones. When you read this book, you might find it difficult to believe that Dr Dam was once immersed in intensive care, busy trying to kill death. After a decade he realized that rather than saving lives, he was prolonging the process of dying. It would be even more difficult to accept that he was a staunch atheist for long until a life event made him seek refuge in God. He also realized his “stuttering inadequacy in handling religious and spiritual issues” raised by his patients. He undertook a one-year course in Advanced Vedanta from Chinmaya Mission and then I completed a six-month course in Contemplative and End-of-life Care conducted by the Naropa University, USA. He went on to find the hospice Kosish in 2005. More recently, Dr Dam has developed a “culturally appropriate death doula course for India”. Death doulas assist a person during the process of dying. “They help in restoring sacredness to the dying process in a culturally and religiously appropriate manner.” The course, named Farishtey marries the “modern principles of quantum physics and the ancient wisdom of Vedanta”. This book provides the rationale for that marriage. The book (which Dr Dam often calls his “dissertation”) is a difficult read. Especially because most of us do not want to read about death! Unless one is facing it or has had to be (or is) responsible for looking after someone on the verge of departure. If you are brave enough to look life in the eye, this book will tell you why the end is not really the final end. Given that the bodily end is a certainty (just as the moon is surely there, whether you look at it or not) this book could well prepare one for a peaceful transfer. After all you are not just your body, are you? Did that robot commit suicide? This popped up on someone's monitor soon after.
𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝. 𝙴𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕. 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐—𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙲𝙸—𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝚁𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗 𝚒𝚝. 𝚃𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚝. 𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗. |
AuthorVijayakumar Kotteri Categories
All
Archives
November 2024
|