The Silent Signs of the Indus When Symbols Speak Without Words
The Indus Valley Civilization remains one of the most fascinating enigmas of the ancient world. Flourishing between 2600 and 1900 BCE across present-day Pakistan and northwest India, it was a civilization of remarkable urban sophistication — with meticulously planned cities, efficient drainage systems, and a thriving trade network. Yet, for all its material achievements, one of its most intriguing aspects still eludes comprehension: its script.
The Indus script, found inscribed on seals, pottery, tablets, and other artifacts, continues to baffle scholars. Despite decades of research and numerous attempts, it remains undeciphered. No bilingual text — like the Rosetta Stone that unlocked Egyptian hieroglyphs — has ever been found. This leaves the script cloaked in silence, its true message locked behind symbols that seem familiar, yet remain just out of reach. Articale
Signs Without Sounds
The script consists of several hundred signs, many of which appear pictorial — a fish, a man carrying a load, a bowman, a mountain, and various geometric symbols. At first glance, one might assume these are simple depictions of real-world objects. But that assumption is deceptive. In the world of ancient writing systems, pictorial signs often carried meanings far beyond their literal appearance.
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Would a fish symbol simply mean “fish”? Perhaps not. It might stand for a sound, an idea, or even a deity. Just as in Egyptian hieroglyphs the image of an owl represented the sound “m” rather than the bird itself, the Indus fish could easily signify something abstract — fertility, abundance, or even a wordplay lost to time.
Yet, it is precisely this interplay between image and meaning that makes the Indus script so compelling. Even without knowing what the symbols mean, we can sense that they were crafted with intent — as if they were fragments of a complex visual language that once spoke to an entire civilization.
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The Human Form in Clay
Among the vast range of Indus artifacts, one category stands out for its rarity and mystery: male figurines. Excavations led by archaeologist Pandit Madho Sarup Vats at Harappa unearthed several such figures. Unlike the more common female figurines — often interpreted as mother goddesses or fertility idols — these male figures are few, but striking in form. History
Many of them are shown seated, legs drawn close to the chest, arms resting on the knees — a posture that instantly recalls yogic or meditative positions known from later Indian tradition. Some sit with closed eyes, others with an expression of calm concentration. Were these early representations of yogis? Or were they symbolic figures embodying spiritual or ritual ideals?
What makes this even more fascinating is the discovery that two specific signs in the Indus script depict human figures in the exact same posture — knees pulled to the chest, body slightly hunched forward. The similarity is too precise to be accidental.
When Art and Script Intertwine
The convergence of script and sculpture raises an extraordinary question: were these signs and figurines part of a shared symbolic language? Could the Indus people have been using visual motifs — in both writing and art — to express a unified spiritual concept?
In one of these signs, faint incised lines appear across the torso, resembling ribs. Could these marks indicate fasting or self-restraint — signs of asceticism? If so, the script might not just record names or trade goods, but express deep philosophical or ritual ideas.
This connection between ascetic imagery and writing opens a door to speculation. The posture itself — with the knees drawn close to the body — might symbolize inward focus, withdrawal from the world, or even death and rebirth. Across cultures, such postures have often carried ritual significance. In some prehistoric burials, the deceased were interred in a fetal position, perhaps representing the idea of returning to the womb of the earth. Could the Indus figures and symbols be visual metaphors for similar beliefs — about the cycle of life, death, and regeneration?
The Early Echoes of Yoga?
It is tempting to view these images as evidence of yoga’s deep antiquity. After all, the yogic tradition that would later flourish in India emphasizes meditation, stillness, and bodily discipline — qualities seemingly mirrored in these clay figures. However, caution is essential. Without deciphered texts, we cannot claim direct continuity. The Indus figures may predate formal yoga by many centuries, and their creators might have had entirely different intentions.
Nevertheless, the resemblance cannot be dismissed. The human body, shaped in clay and marked in script, seems to have been a vessel for expressing profound ideas. Whether these were religious, philosophical, or social in nature remains unknown. But they testify to a culture that valued both symbolism and stillness — a civilization capable of merging art, ritual, and language into a seamless visual expressionL
Reading the Unreadable
Attempts to decode the Indus script have followed many paths. Some researchers argue it was a fully developed writing system, representing a spoken language — possibly Dravidian or early Indo-Aryan. Others suggest it was a system of religious or administrative symbols, used more for identification than for writing sentences.
In either case, what stands out is the sophistication of the symbols themselves. They show consistency across vast geographical areas — from Harappa in the north to Lothal in the south — suggesting a shared cultural or linguistic framework. This unity points to a civilization bound not only by trade and technology but also by common signs of identity and belief.
The Mystery Endures
Every discovery from the Indus Valley — a seal, a figurine, a symbol — adds a new piece to an enormous puzzle. Yet the picture remains incomplete. We can only infer meaning through analogy and comparison, never through direct translation.
Perhaps that is part of the charm of the Indus world. It resists our desire to know everything. Its script whispers instead of speaking, inviting us to listen with imagination rather than logic. In an age where almost everything can be decoded, this silence feels sacred — a reminder that some mysteries are not meant to be solved, only contemplated.
Beyond Words
If we stand before an Indus seal today and see a fish, a bowman, or a seated man, we are not merely looking at pictures. We are peering into a mind from five thousand years ago — a mind that thought symbolically, that turned everyday forms into signs of meaning.
The figurines of Harappa, with their meditative poise, and the script signs that echo them, form a bridge between art and thought. They tell us that long before written philosophies emerged, people were already thinking deeply about the human body, the inner self, and the universe.
The Indus script may remain unread, but its symbols still speak — in silence, in posture, and in the enduring mystery of human expression.
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Bangla translate :đ
āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏāĻ্āϝāϤাāϰ āύীāϰāĻŦ āĻিāĻš্āύ āϝāĻāύ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ āĻāĻĨা āĻŦāϞে āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ āĻাā§াāĻ
āϏিāύ্āϧু āĻāĻĒāϤ্āϝāĻাāϰ āϏāĻ্āϝāϤা āĻŽাāύāĻŦ āĻāϤিāĻšাāϏেāϰ āĻ āύ্āϝāϤāĻŽ āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝāĻŽā§ āĻŦিāϏ্āĻŽā§। āĻ্āϰিāώ্āĻāĻĒূāϰ্āĻŦ ⧍ā§Ŧā§Ļā§Ļ āĻĨেāĻে ⧧⧝ā§Ļā§Ļ āĻ āĻŦ্āĻĻেāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝে āĻĒাāĻিāϏ্āϤাāύ āĻ āĻাāϰāϤেāϰ āĻāϤ্āϤāϰ-āĻĒāĻļ্āĻিāĻŽাāĻ্āĻāϞে āĻŦিāϏ্āϤৃāϤ āĻāĻ āϏāĻ্āϝāϤা āĻিāϞ āĻĒāϰিāĻāϞ্āĻĒিāϤ āύāĻāϰাā§āĻŖ, āĻāύ্āύāϤ āύিāώ্āĻাāĻļāύāĻŦ্āϝāĻŦāϏ্āĻĨা āĻ āĻāύ্āϤāϰ্āĻাāϤিāĻ āĻŦাāĻŖিāĻ্āϝে āϏāĻŽৃāĻĻ্āϧ āĻāĻ āϏāĻŽাāĻ। āϤāĻŦুāĻ, āϤাāĻĻেāϰ āϏāĻŦāĻেā§ে āĻāĻļ্āĻāϰ্āϝ āĻ āĻĻুāϰ্āĻŦোāϧ্āϝ āϏৃāώ্āĻি āĻšāϞো — āϤাāĻĻেāϰ āϞিāĻĒি।
āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒি āĻĒাāĻā§া āĻেāĻে āϏিāϞāĻŽোāĻšāϰ, āĻŽাāĻিāϰ āĻĒাāϤ্āϰ, āϤাāĻŽাāϰ āĻĢāϞāĻ, āĻ āĻ āύ্āϝাāύ্āϝ āύিāĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύে āĻোāĻĻিāϤ āĻ āĻŦāϏ্āĻĨাā§। āĻিāύ্āϤু āĻāĻāĻ āϤা āĻĒাāĻ োāĻĻ্āϧাāϰ āĻāϰা āϏāĻŽ্āĻāĻŦ āĻšā§āύি। āĻŦāĻšু āĻāĻŦেāώāĻŖা āĻ āĻĒ্āϰāĻেāώ্āĻা āϏāϤ্āϤ্āĻŦেāĻ āĻāϰ āĻ āϰ্āĻĨ āĻ āĻাāύা। āĻŽিāĻļāϰীā§ āĻšাā§াāϰোāĻ্āϞিāĻĢেāϰ āĻŽāϤো āĻোāύো āĻĻ্āĻŦিāĻাāώিāĻ āĻļিāϞাāϞিāĻĒি — āϝা āĻāĻ āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝেāϰ āĻাāĻŦিāĻাāĻ ি āĻšāϤে āĻĒাāϰāϤ — āĻāĻāύো āĻĒাāĻā§া āϝাā§āύি। āϤাāĻ āĻāĻ āϞিāĻĒি āĻāĻāύো āύিঃāĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ, āĻ āϰ্āĻĨ āϞুāĻিā§ে āϰেāĻেāĻে āĻিāĻš্āύেāϰ āĻāĻিāϞ āĻĒāϰ্āĻĻাāϰ āĻā§াāϞে।
āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ, āĻিāύ্āϤু āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ āύā§
āĻāĻ āϞিāĻĒিāϤে āĻļāϤাāϧিāĻ āĻিāĻš্āύ āĻāĻে, āϝাāϰ āĻ āύেāĻāĻুāϞোāĻ āĻāĻŦি āĻŦা āϰূāĻĒāĻ āϧāϰāĻŖেāϰ — āϝেāĻŽāύ āĻŽাāĻ, āĻŦোāĻা āĻŦāĻšāύāĻাāϰী āĻŽাāύুāώ, āϤীāϰāϧাāϰী āϧāύুāϰ্āϧāϰ, āĻĒাāĻšাā§, āĻিংāĻŦা āĻŦিāĻিāύ্āύ āĻ্āϝাāĻŽিāϤিāĻ āĻāĻৃāϤি। āĻĒ্āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āĻĻেāĻাā§ āĻŽāύে āĻšāϤে āĻĒাāϰে, āĻāĻুāϞো āϏāϰāϞ āĻŦাāϏ্āϤāĻŦāĻিāϤ্āϰ। āĻিāύ্āϤু āĻāϏāϞে āϤা āύā§। āĻĒ্āϰাāĻীāύ āϞিāĻĒিāĻুāϞোāϰ āĻāĻāϤে āĻāĻŽāύ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻāĻুāϞো āĻĒ্āϰাā§āĻ āĻŦাāϏ্āϤāĻŦ āĻ āϰ্āĻĨ āĻাā§িā§ে āϧাāϰāĻŖা āĻŦা āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ āĻšā§ে āĻāĻ ে।
āϝেāĻŽāύ, āĻāĻāĻি āĻŽাāĻেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ āĻšā§āϤো āĻেāĻŦāϞ “āĻŽাāĻ” āĻŦোāĻাā§ āύা — āĻāĻি āĻšā§āϤো āĻোāύো āϧ্āĻŦāύি, āĻĻেāĻŦāϤা, āĻŦা āĻŦিāĻŽূāϰ্āϤ āϧাāϰāĻŖাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ। āϝেāĻŽāύ āĻŽিāĻļāϰীā§ āĻšাā§াāϰোāĻ্āϞিāĻĢে āĻĒেঁāĻাāϰ āĻāĻŦি “m” āϧ্āĻŦāύি āĻŦোāĻাā§, āϤেāĻŽāύি āϏিāύ্āϧুāϰ āĻŽাāĻ āĻšā§āϤো āĻāϰ্āĻŦāϰāϤা, āĻĒ্āϰাāĻুāϰ্āϝ āĻŦা āĻোāύো āϧāϰ্āĻŽীā§ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ āύিāϰ্āĻĻেāĻļ āĻāϰে।
āϤāĻŦুāĻ, āĻāĻ āĻিāϤ্āϰ āĻ āĻ āϰ্āĻĨেāϰ āĻĒাāϰāϏ্āĻĒāϰিāĻ āĻেāϞাāĻ āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒিāĻে āĻāϤ āĻāĻāϰ্āώāĻŖীā§ āĻāϰে āϤোāϞে। āϝāĻĻিāĻ āĻāĻŽāϰা āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻāĻুāϞো āĻĒā§āϤে āĻĒাāϰি āύা, āϤāĻŦুāĻ āĻ āύুāĻāĻŦ āĻāϰা āϝাā§—āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāĻি āĻিāĻš্āύ āϝেāύ āĻোāύো āĻāĻীāϰ āĻāĻĻ্āĻĻেāĻļ্āϝে āĻā§া, āϝেāύ āĻāĻ āĻāĻিāϞ āĻĻৃāĻļ্āϝāĻাāώাāϰ āĻ ংāĻļ āϝা āĻāĻāϏāĻŽā§ āĻšাāĻাāϰো āĻŽাāύুāώেāϰ āϝোāĻাāϝোāĻেāϰ āĻŽাāϧ্āϝāĻŽ āĻিāϞ।
āĻŽাāĻিāϤে āĻā§া āĻŽাāύāĻŦāϰূāĻĒ
āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏāĻ্āϝāϤাāϰ āύিāĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύāĻুāϞোāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝে āĻāĻāĻি āĻŦিāĻļেāώ āϧাāϰা āĻāĻŦেāώāĻāĻĻেāϰ āĻĻৃāώ্āĻি āĻেā§েāĻে — āĻĒুāϰুāώ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি। āĻĒ্āϰāϤ্āύāϤাāϤ্āϤ্āĻŦিāĻ āĻĒāĻŖ্āĻĄিāϤ āĻŽাāϧো āϏāϰূāĻĒ āĻŦাāĻāϏ āĻšāϰāĻĒ্āĻĒাā§ āĻāύāύেāϰ āϏāĻŽā§ āĻā§েāĻāĻি āĻāĻŽāύ āĻĒুāϰুāώ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি āĻāĻŦিāώ্āĻাāϰ āĻāϰেāύ। āύাāϰী āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি āϝেāĻাāύে āĻĒ্āϰāĻুāϰ āĻĒাāĻā§া āĻেāĻে, āϏেāĻাāύে āĻĒুāϰুāώ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি āĻ āϤ্āϝāύ্āϤ āĻŦিāϰāϞ — āĻāĻŦং āϏেāĻāύ্āϝāĻ āϤা āĻāϰāĻ āϤাā§āĻĒāϰ্āϝāĻĒূāϰ্āĻŖ।
āĻāĻ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤিāĻুāϞোāϰ āĻ āϧিāĻাংāĻļāĻ āĻŦāϏা āĻ āĻŦāϏ্āĻĨাā§, āĻšাঁāĻু āĻŦুāĻেāϰ āĻাāĻে āĻেāύে, āĻĻুāĻ āĻšাāϤ āĻšাঁāĻুāϰ āĻāĻĒāϰ āϰাāĻা — āĻāĻŽāύ āĻāĻ āĻāĻ্āĻিāϤে āϤৈāϰি āϝা āĻāϧুāύিāĻ āĻাāϞে āϝোāĻ āĻŦা āϧ্āϝাāύেāϰ āĻāĻ্āĻিāϰ āϏāĻ্āĻে āĻāĻļ্āĻāϰ্āϝāĻাāĻŦে āĻŽিāϞে āϝাā§। āĻাāϰāĻ āĻোāĻ āĻŦāύ্āϧ, āĻাāϰāĻ āĻŽুāĻে āĻāĻীāϰ āĻŽāύোāύিāĻŦেāĻļেāϰ āĻাāĻĒ। āĻāĻুāϞো āĻি āĻĒ্āϰাāĻীāύ āϝোāĻীāĻĻেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāϰূāĻĒ? āύা āĻি āϧāϰ্āĻŽীā§ āĻŦা āĻāϧ্āϝাāϤ্āĻŽিāĻ āĻোāύো āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻী āĻāĻ্āĻি?
āĻāϰāĻ āĻāĻļ্āĻāϰ্āϝেāϰ āĻŦিāώ⧠āĻšāϞো, āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒিāϰ āĻĻুāĻি āύিāϰ্āĻĻিāώ্āĻ āĻিāĻš্āύেāĻ āĻāĻāĻāϰāĻāĻŽ āĻāĻ্āĻিāϤে āĻŽাāύুāώেāϰ āĻāĻŦি āĻĻেāĻা āϝাā§ — āĻšাঁāĻু āĻাāύা, āĻļāϰীāϰ āϏাāĻŽাāύ্āϝ āĻুঁāĻে। āĻāϤো āĻŽিāϞ āĻেāĻŦāϞ āĻাāĻāϤাāϞীā§ āύā§।
āĻļিāϞ্āĻĒ āĻ āϞিāĻĒিāϰ āĻŽিāϞāύ
āϞিāĻĒি āĻ āĻাāϏ্āĻāϰ্āϝেāϰ āĻāĻ āĻŽিāϞ āĻāĻŽাāĻĻেāϰ āϏাāĻŽāύে āĻāĻ āĻ āύāύ্āϝ āĻĒ্āϰāĻļ্āύ āϤোāϞে — āĻāĻ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ āĻ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤিāĻুāϞো āĻি āĻāĻ āĻ āĻিāύ্āύ āĻাāĻŦāĻāĻāϤেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāĻাāĻļ āĻিāϞ? āĻšāϤে āĻĒাāϰে, āϞিāĻĒি āĻ āĻļিāϞ্āĻĒে āĻāĻāĻ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻী āĻাāĻŦāύাāϰ āĻাāĻĒ āϰā§ে āĻেāĻে, āϝা āĻāĻāϏāĻŽā§ে āϧāϰ্āĻŽীā§ āĻŦা āĻĻাāϰ্āĻļāύিāĻ āĻŦিāĻļ্āĻŦাāϏেāϰ āĻাāώা āĻিāϞ।
āĻāĻāĻি āĻিāĻš্āύে āĻļāϰীāϰেāϰ āĻāĻĒāϰ āϤীāĻ্āώ্āĻŖ āĻোঁāĻাāύো āϰেāĻা āĻĻেāĻা āϝাā§, āϝা āĻĒাঁāĻāϰেāϰ āĻŽāϤো। āĻāĻুāϞো āĻি āĻāĻĒāĻŦাāϏ āĻŦা āϏংāϝāĻŽেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ? āĻšā§āϤো āĻāĻি āĻিāϞ āϤāĻĒāϏ্āϝা āĻŦা āĻāϤ্āĻŽāύিā§āύ্āϤ্āϰāĻŖেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāĻাāĻļ।
āĻāĻ āϝোāĻāϏাāϧāύাāϰ āĻāĻ্āĻি āĻšā§āϤো āĻেāĻŦāϞ āĻŦāϏাāϰ āϧāϰāύ āύā§, āĻŦāϰং āĻāϤ্āĻŽāĻŽāĻ্āύāϤা, āϤ্āϝাāĻ, āĻŦা āĻীāĻŦāύ-āĻŽৃāϤ্āϝুāϰ āĻāĻ্āϰেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ। āĻ āύেāĻ āĻĒ্āϰাāĻৈāϤিāĻšাāϏিāĻ āϏāĻŽাāϧিāϤে āĻŽৃāϤāĻĻেāĻšāĻে āĻ্āϰূāĻŖাāĻৃāϤিāϤে āϏāĻŽাāϧিāϏ্āĻĨ āĻāϰাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāĻŽাāĻŖ āĻĒাāĻā§া āĻেāĻে—āϏāĻŽ্āĻāĻŦāϤ “āĻŽাāĻিāϰ āĻāϰ্āĻে āĻĢিāϰে āϝাāĻā§া”āϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ āĻšিāϏেāĻŦে। āϤাāĻšāϞে āĻি āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏāĻ্āϝāϤাāϰ āĻāĻ āĻāĻ্āĻিāĻ āĻāĻāĻ āϰāĻāĻŽ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻি āĻ āϰ্āĻĨ āĻŦāĻšāύ āĻāϰāϤ?
āϝোāĻেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰাāĻীāύ āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāϧ্āĻŦāύি?
āĻ āύেāĻে āĻŽāύে āĻāϰেāύ, āĻāĻ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি āĻ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻāĻুāϞোāĻ āϝোāĻāĻŦিāĻĻ্āϝাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰাāĻীāύāϤāĻŽ āύিāĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύ āĻšāϤে āĻĒাāϰে। āϝোāĻāĻāϰ্āĻা āϝে āĻĒāϰে āĻাāϰāϤীā§ āĻāϧ্āϝাāϤ্āĻŽিāĻāϤাāϰ āĻŽূāϞ āϏ্āϰোāϤ āĻšā§ে āĻāĻ ে, āϤাāϰ āϏূāĻ্āώ্āĻŽ āĻāĻ্āĻিāϤ āϝেāύ āĻāĻাāύেāĻ āĻĻেāĻা āϝাā§। āϤāĻŦে āĻāϤিāĻšাāϏāĻŦিāĻĻāϰা āϏāϤāϰ্āĻ āĻāϰেāύ — āĻāĻĻেāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝে āϏāϰাāϏāϰি āϝোāĻāϏূāϤ্āϰ āĻাāύা āϝাā§ āύা। āϏāĻŽā§েāϰ āĻŦ্āϝāĻŦāϧাāύ āĻ āύেāĻ, āĻāĻĻ্āĻĻেāĻļ্āϝāĻ āĻšā§āϤো āĻāϞাāĻĻা।
āϤāĻŦুāĻ, āĻŽিāϞāĻি āĻ āϏ্āĻŦীāĻাāϰ āĻāϰা āϝাā§ āύা। āĻŽাāύāĻŦāĻĻেāĻšেāϰ āĻāĻ āύিāϏ্āϤāĻŦ্āϧ āĻāĻ্āĻি āϝেāύ āĻāϤ্āĻŽāĻļāĻ্āϤি, āϧ্āϝাāύ āĻ āĻŽāύāύāĻāϰ্āĻাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ। āϤা āϧāϰ্āĻŽীā§ āĻšোāĻ āĻŦা āĻĻাāϰ্āĻļāύিāĻ — āύিঃāϏāύ্āĻĻেāĻšে āĻāĻি āĻāĻŽāύ āĻāĻ āϏāĻŽাāĻেāϰ āĻĒāϰিāĻā§ āĻĻেā§, āϝাāϰা āĻļুāϧু āĻŦāϏ্āϤু āύā§, āĻāϤ্āĻŽাāϰ āĻাāώাāϤেāĻ āĻাāĻŦāϤে āĻাāύāϤ।
āĻ āĻŦ্āϝাāĻ্āϝাāϤ āϞিāĻĒি
āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒি āĻĒাāĻ োāĻĻ্āϧাāϰে āĻŦāĻšু āĻĒ্āϰāĻেāώ্āĻা āĻšā§েāĻে। āĻেāĻ āĻŦāϞেāύ āĻāĻি āĻĒূāϰ্āĻŖাāĻ্āĻ āĻাāώা, āϏāĻŽ্āĻāĻŦāϤ āĻĻ্āϰাāĻŦিā§ āĻŦা āĻĒ্āϰাāϰāĻŽ্āĻিāĻ āĻāϰ্āϝāĻাāώাāϰ āϰূāĻĒ। āĻেāĻ āĻŦāϞেāύ, āĻāĻি āĻĒ্āϰāĻļাāϏāύিāĻ āĻŦা āϧāϰ্āĻŽীā§ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ, āĻোāύো āϧ্āĻŦāύিāĻিāϤ্āϤিāĻ āϞেāĻা āύā§।
āϝে āϤāϤ্āϤ্āĻŦāĻ āĻšোāĻ, āĻāĻāĻি āĻŦিāώ⧠āϏ্āĻĒāώ্āĻ—āĻāĻ āϞিāĻĒি āĻিāϞ āĻāĻ āϏāĻŽāύ্āĻŦিāϤ āϏংāϏ্āĻৃāϤিāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāĻĢāϞāύ। āĻšāϰāĻĒ্āĻĒা āĻĨেāĻে āϞোāĻĨাāϞ āĻĒāϰ্āϝāύ্āϤ āĻšাāĻাāϰ āĻিāϞোāĻŽিāĻাāϰ āĻĻূāϰāϤ্āĻŦেāĻ āĻāĻāĻ āĻিāĻš্āύ āĻŦ্āϝāĻŦāĻšৃāϤ āĻšā§েāĻে। āĻāϰ āĻŽাāύে, āϤাāϰা āĻāĻ āĻŦিāĻļাāϞ āϏাংāϏ্āĻৃāϤিāĻ āĻāĻ্āϝে āĻāĻŦāĻĻ্āϧ āĻিāϞ—āĻাāώা, āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ āĻ āĻŦিāĻļ্āĻŦাāϏেāϰ āĻŦāύ্āϧāύে।
āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝেāϰ āĻĒāϰ্āĻĻা
āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāĻি āύāϤুāύ āĻāĻŦিāώ্āĻাāϰ—āĻāĻāĻি āϏিāϞ, āĻāĻāĻি āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি, āĻŦা āĻāĻāĻি āĻিāĻš্āύ—āĻāĻ āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝেāϰ āύāϤুāύ āĻুāĻāϰো āϝোāĻ āĻāϰে। āĻিāύ্āϤু āĻāĻŦিāĻা āĻāĻāύো āĻ āϏāĻŽ্āĻĒূāϰ্āĻŖ। āĻāĻŽাāĻĻেāϰ āĻ āύুāĻŽাāύ āĻāϰāϤে āĻšā§ āϤুāϞāύা āĻ āϧাāϰāĻŖাāϰ āĻŽাāϧ্āϝāĻŽে, āύিāĻļ্āĻিāϤ āĻĒ্āϰāĻŽাāĻŖ āĻাā§াāĻ।
āϏāĻŽ্āĻāĻŦāϤ āĻāĻ āύীāϰāĻŦāϤাāĻ āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏāĻ্āϝāϤাāϰ āϏāĻŦāĻেā§ে āĻŽাā§াāĻŦী āĻĻিāĻ। āϤাāϰা āĻāĻĨা āĻŦāϞেāύি, āϤāĻŦুāĻ āϝেāύ āĻāĻ āĻĒ্āϰাāĻীāύ āϏুāϰ āĻŦাāĻিā§ে āĻেāĻে। āĻāĻŽāύ āĻāĻ āϝুāĻে, āϝāĻāύ āĻŽাāύুāώ āĻĒ্āϰাā§ āϏāĻŦāĻিāĻু āĻাāύাāϰ āĻĻাāĻŦি āĻāϰে, āĻāĻ āĻ āĻাāύাāϰ āĻāĻĒāϏ্āĻĨিāϤি āĻāĻŽাāĻĻেāϰ āĻŦিāύ⧠āĻļেāĻাā§—āϏāĻŦ āĻĒ্āϰāĻļ্āύেāϰ āĻāϤ্āϤāϰ āĻšā§āϤো āĻাāύা āĻĻāϰāĻাāϰ āύেāĻ, āĻিāĻু āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝ āĻেāĻŦāϞ āĻাāĻŦāύাāϰ āĻāύ্āϝāĻ āĻĨাāĻে।
āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻেāϰ āĻŦাāĻāϰে
āĻāĻ āϝāĻĻি āĻāĻŽāϰা āĻোāύো āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏিāϞেāϰ āĻĻিāĻে āϤাāĻাāĻ — āĻĻেāĻি āĻāĻāĻি āĻŽাāĻ, āĻāĻāĻি āϧāύুāϰ্āϧāϰ, āĻŦা āĻšাঁāĻু āĻাāύা āĻোāύো āĻŽাāύুāώ — āĻāĻŽāϰা āĻেāĻŦāϞ āĻāĻŦি āĻĻেāĻি āύা, āĻŦāϰং āĻĒাঁāĻ āĻšাāĻাāϰ āĻŦāĻāϰ āĻāĻেāϰ āĻāĻ āĻিāύ্āϤাāĻļীāϞ āĻŽāύেāϰ āĻাāύাāϞা āĻĻেāĻি।
āĻšāϰāĻĒ্āĻĒাāϰ āϏেāĻ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤিāĻুāϞো, āϝেāĻুāϞো āϧ্āϝাāύāϰāϤ āĻāĻ্āĻিāϤে āϏ্āĻĨিāϰ, āĻāĻŦং āϞিāĻĒিāϰ āϏেāĻ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻāĻুāϞো, āϝেāĻুāϞো āĻāĻāĻ āĻāĻ্āĻি āĻĒুāύāϰাāĻŦৃāϤ্āϤি āĻāϰāĻে — āϤাāϰা āϝেāύ āĻļিāϞ্āĻĒ āĻ āĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύেāϰ āĻāĻ āϏেāϤুāĻŦāύ্āϧāύ। āϤাāϰা āĻাāύাā§, āĻŽাāύুāώ āϤāĻāύāĻ āĻাāĻŦāϤ āĻĻেāĻš āĻ āĻāϤ্āĻŽা āύিā§ে, āĻীāĻŦāύ āĻ āĻŽৃāϤ্āϝুāϰ āĻ āϰ্āĻĨ āύিā§ে।
āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒি āĻšā§āϤো āĻিāϰāĻাāϞ āĻ āĻĒাāĻ ্āϝāĻ āĻĨেāĻে āϝাāĻŦে, āĻিāύ্āϤু āϤাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ āĻāĻāĻ āĻāĻĨা āĻŦāϞে — āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻāĻšীāύ āĻাāώাā§, āĻŽাāĻিāϰ āĻāĻ্āĻিāϤে, āĻāϰ āĻŽাāύুāώেāϰ āĻিāϰāύ্āϤāύ āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝāĻŽā§ āϏৃāώ্āĻিāĻļāĻ্āϤিāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝ āĻĻিā§ে।
Tigers tear alive Salahuddin to pieces





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