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The Silent Signs of the Indus When Symbols Speak Without Words

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.



Symbols


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.



Symbols



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 :👉





āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏāĻ­্āϝāϤাāϰ āύীāϰāĻŦ āϚিāĻš্āύ āϝāĻ–āύ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ• āĻ•āĻĨা āĻŦāϞে āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ āĻ›া⧜াāχ

āϏিāύ্āϧু āωāĻĒāϤ্āϝāĻ•াāϰ āϏāĻ­্āϝāϤা āĻŽাāύāĻŦ āχāϤিāĻšাāϏেāϰ āĻ…āύ্āϝāϤāĻŽ āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝāĻŽā§Ÿ āĻŦিāϏ্āĻŽā§Ÿ। āĻ–্āϰিāώ্āϟāĻĒূāϰ্āĻŦ ⧍ā§Ŧā§Ļā§Ļ āĻĨেāĻ•ে ⧧⧝ā§Ļā§Ļ āĻ…āĻŦ্āĻĻেāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝে āĻĒাāĻ•িāϏ্āϤাāύ āĻ“ āĻ­াāϰāϤেāϰ āωāϤ্āϤāϰ-āĻĒāĻļ্āϚিāĻŽাāĻž্āϚāϞে āĻŦিāϏ্āϤৃāϤ āĻāχ āϏāĻ­্āϝāϤা āĻ›িāϞ āĻĒāϰিāĻ•āϞ্āĻĒিāϤ āύāĻ—āϰা⧟āĻŖ, āωāύ্āύāϤ āύিāώ্āĻ•াāĻļāύāĻŦ্āϝāĻŦāϏ্āĻĨা āĻ“ āφāύ্āϤāϰ্āϜাāϤিāĻ• āĻŦাāĻŖিāϜ্āϝে āϏāĻŽৃāĻĻ্āϧ āĻāĻ• āϏāĻŽাāϜ। āϤāĻŦুāĻ“, āϤাāĻĻেāϰ āϏāĻŦāϚে⧟ে āφāĻļ্āϚāϰ্āϝ āĻ“ āĻĻুāϰ্āĻŦোāϧ্āϝ āϏৃāώ্āϟি āĻšāϞো — āϤাāĻĻেāϰ āϞিāĻĒি।

āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒি āĻĒাāĻ“ā§Ÿা āĻ—েāĻ›ে āϏিāϞāĻŽোāĻšāϰ, āĻŽাāϟিāϰ āĻĒাāϤ্āϰ, āϤাāĻŽাāϰ āĻĢāϞāĻ•, āĻ“ āĻ…āύ্āϝাāύ্āϝ āύিāĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύে āĻ–োāĻĻিāϤ āĻ…āĻŦāϏ্āĻĨা⧟। āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āφāϜāĻ“ āϤা āĻĒাāĻ োāĻĻ্āϧাāϰ āĻ•āϰা āϏāĻŽ্āĻ­āĻŦ āĻšā§Ÿāύি। āĻŦāĻšু āĻ—āĻŦেāώāĻŖা āĻ“ āĻĒ্āϰāϚেāώ্āϟা āϏāϤ্āϤ্āĻŦেāĻ“ āĻāϰ āĻ…āϰ্āĻĨ āĻ…āϜাāύা। āĻŽিāĻļāϰী⧟ āĻšা⧟াāϰোāĻ—্āϞিāĻĢেāϰ āĻŽāϤো āĻ•োāύো āĻĻ্āĻŦিāĻ­াāώিāĻ• āĻļিāϞাāϞিāĻĒি — āϝা āĻāχ āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝেāϰ āϚাāĻŦিāĻ•াāĻ ি āĻšāϤে āĻĒাāϰāϤ — āĻāĻ–āύো āĻĒাāĻ“ā§Ÿা āϝা⧟āύি। āϤাāχ āĻāχ āϞিāĻĒি āĻāĻ–āύো āύিঃāĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ, āĻ…āϰ্āĻĨ āϞুāĻ•ি⧟ে āϰেāĻ–েāĻ›ে āϚিāĻš্āύেāϰ āϜāϟিāϞ āĻĒāϰ্āĻĻাāϰ āĻ†ā§œাāϞে।

āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•, āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ āύ⧟

āĻāχ āϞিāĻĒিāϤে āĻļāϤাāϧিāĻ• āϚিāĻš্āύ āφāĻ›ে, āϝাāϰ āĻ…āύেāĻ•āĻ—ুāϞোāχ āĻ›āĻŦি āĻŦা āϰূāĻĒāĻ• āϧāϰāĻŖেāϰ — āϝেāĻŽāύ āĻŽাāĻ›, āĻŦোāĻা āĻŦāĻšāύāĻ•াāϰী āĻŽাāύুāώ, āϤীāϰāϧাāϰী āϧāύুāϰ্āϧāϰ, āĻĒাāĻšা⧜, āĻ•িংāĻŦা āĻŦিāĻ­িāύ্āύ āϜ্āϝাāĻŽিāϤিāĻ• āφāĻ•ৃāϤি। āĻĒ্āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āĻĻেāĻ–া⧟ āĻŽāύে āĻšāϤে āĻĒাāϰে, āĻāĻ—ুāϞো āϏāϰāϞ āĻŦাāϏ্āϤāĻŦāϚিāϤ্āϰ। āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āφāϏāϞে āϤা āύ⧟। āĻĒ্āϰাāϚীāύ āϞিāĻĒিāĻ—ুāϞোāϰ āϜāĻ—āϤে āĻāĻŽāύ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•āĻ—ুāϞো āĻĒ্āϰা⧟āχ āĻŦাāϏ্āϤāĻŦ āĻ…āϰ্āĻĨ āĻ›া⧜ি⧟ে āϧাāϰāĻŖা āĻŦা āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ• āĻšā§Ÿে āĻ“āĻ ে।

āϝেāĻŽāύ, āĻāĻ•āϟি āĻŽাāĻ›েāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ• āĻšā§ŸāϤো āĻ•েāĻŦāϞ “āĻŽাāĻ›” āĻŦোāĻা⧟ āύা — āĻāϟি āĻšā§ŸāϤো āĻ•োāύো āϧ্āĻŦāύি, āĻĻেāĻŦāϤা, āĻŦা āĻŦিāĻŽূāϰ্āϤ āϧাāϰāĻŖাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•। āϝেāĻŽāύ āĻŽিāĻļāϰী⧟ āĻšা⧟াāϰোāĻ—্āϞিāĻĢে āĻĒেঁāϚাāϰ āĻ›āĻŦি “m” āϧ্āĻŦāύি āĻŦোāĻা⧟, āϤেāĻŽāύি āϏিāύ্āϧুāϰ āĻŽাāĻ› āĻšā§ŸāϤো āωāϰ্āĻŦāϰāϤা, āĻĒ্āϰাāϚুāϰ্āϝ āĻŦা āĻ•োāύো āϧāϰ্āĻŽী⧟ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ• āύিāϰ্āĻĻেāĻļ āĻ•āϰে।

āϤāĻŦুāĻ“, āĻāχ āϚিāϤ্āϰ āĻ“ āĻ…āϰ্āĻĨেāϰ āĻĒাāϰāϏ্āĻĒāϰিāĻ• āĻ–েāϞাāχ āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒিāĻ•ে āĻāϤ āφāĻ•āϰ্āώāĻŖী⧟ āĻ•āϰে āϤোāϞে। āϝāĻĻিāĻ“ āφāĻŽāϰা āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻāĻ—ুāϞো āĻĒ⧜āϤে āĻĒাāϰি āύা, āϤāĻŦুāĻ“ āĻ…āύুāĻ­āĻŦ āĻ•āϰা āϝা⧟—āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāϟি āϚিāĻš্āύ āϝেāύ āĻ•োāύো āĻ—āĻ­ীāϰ āωāĻĻ্āĻĻেāĻļ্āϝে āĻ—ā§œা, āϝেāύ āĻāĻ• āϜāϟিāϞ āĻĻৃāĻļ্āϝāĻ­াāώাāϰ āĻ…ংāĻļ āϝা āĻāĻ•āϏāĻŽā§Ÿ āĻšাāϜাāϰো āĻŽাāύুāώেāϰ āϝোāĻ—াāϝোāĻ—েāϰ āĻŽাāϧ্āϝāĻŽ āĻ›িāϞ।

āĻŽাāϟিāϤে āĻ—ā§œা āĻŽাāύāĻŦāϰূāĻĒ

āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏāĻ­্āϝāϤাāϰ āύিāĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύāĻ—ুāϞোāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝে āĻāĻ•āϟি āĻŦিāĻļেāώ āϧাāϰা āĻ—āĻŦেāώāĻ•āĻĻেāϰ āĻĻৃāώ্āϟি āĻ•ে⧜েāĻ›ে — āĻĒুāϰুāώ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি। āĻĒ্āϰāϤ্āύāϤাāϤ্āϤ্āĻŦিāĻ• āĻĒāĻŖ্āĻĄিāϤ āĻŽাāϧো āϏāϰূāĻĒ āĻŦাāϟāϏ āĻšāϰāĻĒ্āĻĒা⧟ āĻ–āύāύেāϰ āϏāĻŽā§Ÿ āĻ•ā§ŸেāĻ•āϟি āĻāĻŽāύ āĻĒুāϰুāώ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি āφāĻŦিāώ্āĻ•াāϰ āĻ•āϰেāύ। āύাāϰী āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি āϝেāĻ–াāύে āĻĒ্āϰāϚুāϰ āĻĒাāĻ“ā§Ÿা āĻ—েāĻ›ে, āϏেāĻ–াāύে āĻĒুāϰুāώ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি āĻ…āϤ্āϝāύ্āϤ āĻŦিāϰāϞ — āĻāĻŦং āϏেāϜāύ্āϝāχ āϤা āφāϰāĻ“ āϤাā§ŽāĻĒāϰ্āϝāĻĒূāϰ্āĻŖ।

āĻāχ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤিāĻ—ুāϞোāϰ āĻ…āϧিāĻ•াংāĻļāχ āĻŦāϏা āĻ…āĻŦāϏ্āĻĨা⧟, āĻšাঁāϟু āĻŦুāĻ•েāϰ āĻ•াāĻ›ে āϟেāύে, āĻĻুāχ āĻšাāϤ āĻšাঁāϟুāϰ āĻ“āĻĒāϰ āϰাāĻ–া — āĻāĻŽāύ āĻāĻ• āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—িāϤে āϤৈāϰি āϝা āφāϧুāύিāĻ• āĻ•াāϞে āϝোāĻ— āĻŦা āϧ্āϝাāύেāϰ āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—িāϰ āϏāĻ™্āĻ—ে āφāĻļ্āϚāϰ্āϝāĻ­াāĻŦে āĻŽিāϞে āϝা⧟। āĻ•াāϰāĻ“ āϚোāĻ– āĻŦāύ্āϧ, āĻ•াāϰāĻ“ āĻŽুāĻ–ে āĻ—āĻ­ীāϰ āĻŽāύোāύিāĻŦেāĻļেāϰ āĻ›াāĻĒ। āĻāĻ—ুāϞো āĻ•ি āĻĒ্āϰাāϚীāύ āϝোāĻ—ীāĻĻেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāϰূāĻĒ? āύা āĻ•ি āϧāϰ্āĻŽী⧟ āĻŦা āφāϧ্āϝাāϤ্āĻŽিāĻ• āĻ•োāύো āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•ী āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—ি?

āφāϰāĻ“ āφāĻļ্āϚāϰ্āϝেāϰ āĻŦিāώ⧟ āĻšāϞো, āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒিāϰ āĻĻুāϟি āύিāϰ্āĻĻিāώ্āϟ āϚিāĻš্āύেāĻ“ āĻāĻ•āχāϰāĻ•āĻŽ āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—িāϤে āĻŽাāύুāώেāϰ āĻ›āĻŦি āĻĻেāĻ–া āϝা⧟ — āĻšাঁāϟু āϟাāύা, āĻļāϰীāϰ āϏাāĻŽাāύ্āϝ āĻুঁāĻ•ে। āĻāϤো āĻŽিāϞ āĻ•েāĻŦāϞ āĻ•াāĻ•āϤাāϞী⧟ āύ⧟।

āĻļিāϞ্āĻĒ āĻ“ āϞিāĻĒিāϰ āĻŽিāϞāύ

āϞিāĻĒি āĻ“ āĻ­াāϏ্āĻ•āϰ্āϝেāϰ āĻāχ āĻŽিāϞ āφāĻŽাāĻĻেāϰ āϏাāĻŽāύে āĻāĻ• āĻ…āύāύ্āϝ āĻĒ্āϰāĻļ্āύ āϤোāϞে — āĻāχ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ• āĻ“ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤিāĻ—ুāϞো āĻ•ি āĻāĻ• āĻ…āĻ­িāύ্āύ āĻ­াāĻŦāϜāĻ—āϤেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāĻ•াāĻļ āĻ›িāϞ? āĻšāϤে āĻĒাāϰে, āϞিāĻĒি āĻ“ āĻļিāϞ্āĻĒে āĻāĻ•āχ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•ী āĻ­াāĻŦāύাāϰ āĻ›াāĻĒ āϰ⧟ে āĻ—েāĻ›ে, āϝা āĻāĻ•āϏāĻŽā§Ÿে āϧāϰ্āĻŽী⧟ āĻŦা āĻĻাāϰ্āĻļāύিāĻ• āĻŦিāĻļ্āĻŦাāϏেāϰ āĻ­াāώা āĻ›িāϞ।

āĻāĻ•āϟি āϚিāĻš্āύে āĻļāϰীāϰেāϰ āĻ“āĻĒāϰ āϤীāĻ•্āώ্āĻŖ āĻ–োঁāϚাāύো āϰেāĻ–া āĻĻেāĻ–া āϝা⧟, āϝা āĻĒাঁāϜāϰেāϰ āĻŽāϤো। āĻāĻ—ুāϞো āĻ•ি āωāĻĒāĻŦাāϏ āĻŦা āϏংāϝāĻŽেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•? āĻšā§ŸāϤো āĻāϟি āĻ›িāϞ āϤāĻĒāϏ্āϝা āĻŦা āφāϤ্āĻŽāύি⧟āύ্āϤ্āϰāĻŖেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāĻ•াāĻļ।

āĻāχ āϝোāĻ—āϏাāϧāύাāϰ āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—ি āĻšā§ŸāϤো āĻ•েāĻŦāϞ āĻŦāϏাāϰ āϧāϰāύ āύ⧟, āĻŦāϰং āφāϤ্āĻŽāĻŽāĻ—্āύāϤা, āϤ্āϝাāĻ—, āĻŦা āϜীāĻŦāύ-āĻŽৃāϤ্āϝুāϰ āϚāĻ•্āϰেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•। āĻ…āύেāĻ• āĻĒ্āϰাāĻ—ৈāϤিāĻšাāϏিāĻ• āϏāĻŽাāϧিāϤে āĻŽৃāϤāĻĻেāĻšāĻ•ে āĻ­্āϰূāĻŖাāĻ•ৃāϤিāϤে āϏāĻŽাāϧিāϏ্āĻĨ āĻ•āϰাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāĻŽাāĻŖ āĻĒাāĻ“ā§Ÿা āĻ—েāĻ›ে—āϏāĻŽ্āĻ­āĻŦāϤ “āĻŽাāϟিāϰ āĻ—āϰ্āĻ­ে āĻĢিāϰে āϝাāĻ“ā§Ÿা”āϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ• āĻšিāϏেāĻŦে। āϤাāĻšāϞে āĻ•ি āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏāĻ­্āϝāϤাāϰ āĻāχ āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—িāĻ“ āĻāĻ•āχ āϰāĻ•āĻŽ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•ি āĻ…āϰ্āĻĨ āĻŦāĻšāύ āĻ•āϰāϤ?

āϝোāĻ—েāϰ āĻĒ্āϰাāϚীāύ āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāϧ্āĻŦāύি?

āĻ…āύেāĻ•ে āĻŽāύে āĻ•āϰেāύ, āĻāχ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি āĻ“ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•āĻ—ুāϞোāχ āϝোāĻ—āĻŦিāĻĻ্āϝাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰাāϚীāύāϤāĻŽ āύিāĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύ āĻšāϤে āĻĒাāϰে। āϝোāĻ—āϚāϰ্āϚা āϝে āĻĒāϰে āĻ­াāϰāϤী⧟ āφāϧ্āϝাāϤ্āĻŽিāĻ•āϤাāϰ āĻŽূāϞ āϏ্āϰোāϤ āĻšā§Ÿে āĻ“āĻ ে, āϤাāϰ āϏূāĻ•্āώ্āĻŽ āχāĻ™্āĻ—িāϤ āϝেāύ āĻāĻ–াāύেāχ āĻĻেāĻ–া āϝা⧟। āϤāĻŦে āχāϤিāĻšাāϏāĻŦিāĻĻāϰা āϏāϤāϰ্āĻ• āĻ•āϰেāύ — āĻāĻĻেāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝে āϏāϰাāϏāϰি āϝোāĻ—āϏূāϤ্āϰ āϟাāύা āϝা⧟ āύা। āϏāĻŽā§Ÿেāϰ āĻŦ্āϝāĻŦāϧাāύ āĻ…āύেāĻ•, āωāĻĻ্āĻĻেāĻļ্āϝāĻ“ āĻšā§ŸāϤো āφāϞাāĻĻা।

āϤāĻŦুāĻ“, āĻŽিāϞāϟি āĻ…āϏ্āĻŦীāĻ•াāϰ āĻ•āϰা āϝা⧟ āύা। āĻŽাāύāĻŦāĻĻেāĻšেāϰ āĻāχ āύিāϏ্āϤāĻŦ্āϧ āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—ি āϝেāύ āφāϤ্āĻŽāĻļāĻ•্āϤি, āϧ্āϝাāύ āĻ“ āĻŽāύāύāϚāϰ্āϚাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•। āϤা āϧāϰ্āĻŽী⧟ āĻšোāĻ• āĻŦা āĻĻাāϰ্āĻļāύিāĻ• — āύিঃāϏāύ্āĻĻেāĻšে āĻāϟি āĻāĻŽāύ āĻāĻ• āϏāĻŽাāϜেāϰ āĻĒāϰিāϚ⧟ āĻĻে⧟, āϝাāϰা āĻļুāϧু āĻŦāϏ্āϤু āύ⧟, āφāϤ্āĻŽাāϰ āĻ­াāώাāϤেāĻ“ āĻ­াāĻŦāϤে āϜাāύāϤ।

āĻ…āĻŦ্āϝাāĻ–্āϝাāϤ āϞিāĻĒি

āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒি āĻĒাāĻ োāĻĻ্āϧাāϰে āĻŦāĻšু āĻĒ্āϰāϚেāώ্āϟা āĻšā§ŸেāĻ›ে। āĻ•েāω āĻŦāϞেāύ āĻāϟি āĻĒূāϰ্āĻŖাāĻ™্āĻ— āĻ­াāώা, āϏāĻŽ্āĻ­āĻŦāϤ āĻĻ্āϰাāĻŦি⧜ āĻŦা āĻĒ্āϰাāϰāĻŽ্āĻ­িāĻ• āφāϰ্āϝāĻ­াāώাāϰ āϰূāĻĒ। āĻ•েāω āĻŦāϞেāύ, āĻāϟি āĻĒ্āϰāĻļাāϏāύিāĻ• āĻŦা āϧāϰ্āĻŽী⧟ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•, āĻ•োāύো āϧ্āĻŦāύিāĻ­িāϤ্āϤিāĻ• āϞেāĻ–া āύ⧟।

āϝে āϤāϤ্āϤ্āĻŦāχ āĻšোāĻ•, āĻāĻ•āϟি āĻŦিāώ⧟ āϏ্āĻĒāώ্āϟ—āĻāχ āϞিāĻĒি āĻ›িāϞ āĻāĻ• āϏāĻŽāύ্āĻŦিāϤ āϏংāϏ্āĻ•ৃāϤিāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāĻĢāϞāύ। āĻšāϰāĻĒ্āĻĒা āĻĨেāĻ•ে āϞোāĻĨাāϞ āĻĒāϰ্āϝāύ্āϤ āĻšাāϜাāϰ āĻ•িāϞোāĻŽিāϟাāϰ āĻĻূāϰāϤ্āĻŦেāĻ“ āĻāĻ•āχ āϚিāĻš্āύ āĻŦ্āϝāĻŦāĻšৃāϤ āĻšā§ŸেāĻ›ে। āĻāϰ āĻŽাāύে, āϤাāϰা āĻāĻ• āĻŦিāĻļাāϞ āϏাংāϏ্āĻ•ৃāϤিāĻ• āϐāĻ•্āϝে āφāĻŦāĻĻ্āϧ āĻ›িāϞ—āĻ­াāώা, āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ• āĻ“ āĻŦিāĻļ্āĻŦাāϏেāϰ āĻŦāύ্āϧāύে।

āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝেāϰ āĻĒāϰ্āĻĻা

āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāϟি āύāϤুāύ āφāĻŦিāώ্āĻ•াāϰ—āĻāĻ•āϟি āϏিāϞ, āĻāĻ•āϟি āĻŽূāϰ্āϤি, āĻŦা āĻāĻ•āϟি āϚিāĻš্āύ—āĻāχ āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝেāϰ āύāϤুāύ āϟুāĻ•āϰো āϝোāĻ— āĻ•āϰে। āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āĻ›āĻŦিāϟা āĻāĻ–āύো āĻ…āϏāĻŽ্āĻĒূāϰ্āĻŖ। āφāĻŽাāĻĻেāϰ āĻ…āύুāĻŽাāύ āĻ•āϰāϤে āĻšā§Ÿ āϤুāϞāύা āĻ“ āϧাāϰāĻŖাāϰ āĻŽাāϧ্āϝāĻŽে, āύিāĻļ্āϚিāϤ āĻĒ্āϰāĻŽাāĻŖ āĻ›া⧜াāχ।

āϏāĻŽ্āĻ­āĻŦāϤ āĻāχ āύীāϰāĻŦāϤাāχ āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏāĻ­্āϝāϤাāϰ āϏāĻŦāϚে⧟ে āĻŽা⧟াāĻŦী āĻĻিāĻ•। āϤাāϰা āĻ•āĻĨা āĻŦāϞেāύি, āϤāĻŦুāĻ“ āϝেāύ āĻāĻ• āĻĒ্āϰাāϚীāύ āϏুāϰ āĻŦাāϜি⧟ে āĻ—েāĻ›ে। āĻāĻŽāύ āĻāĻ• āϝুāĻ—ে, āϝāĻ–āύ āĻŽাāύুāώ āĻĒ্āϰা⧟ āϏāĻŦāĻ•িāĻ›ু āϜাāύাāϰ āĻĻাāĻŦি āĻ•āϰে, āĻāχ āĻ…āϜাāύাāϰ āωāĻĒāϏ্āĻĨিāϤি āφāĻŽাāĻĻেāϰ āĻŦিāύ⧟ āĻļেāĻ–া⧟—āϏāĻŦ āĻĒ্āϰāĻļ্āύেāϰ āωāϤ্āϤāϰ āĻšā§ŸāϤো āϜাāύা āĻĻāϰāĻ•াāϰ āύেāχ, āĻ•িāĻ›ু āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝ āĻ•েāĻŦāϞ āĻ­াāĻŦāύাāϰ āϜāύ্āϝāχ āĻĨাāĻ•ে।

āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻেāϰ āĻŦাāχāϰে

āφāϜ āϝāĻĻি āφāĻŽāϰা āĻ•োāύো āϏিāύ্āϧু āϏিāϞেāϰ āĻĻিāĻ•ে āϤাāĻ•াāχ — āĻĻেāĻ–ি āĻāĻ•āϟি āĻŽাāĻ›, āĻāĻ•āϟি āϧāύুāϰ্āϧāϰ, āĻŦা āĻšাঁāϟু āϟাāύা āĻ•োāύো āĻŽাāύুāώ — āφāĻŽāϰা āĻ•েāĻŦāϞ āĻ›āĻŦি āĻĻেāĻ–ি āύা, āĻŦāϰং āĻĒাঁāϚ āĻšাāϜাāϰ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ āφāĻ—েāϰ āĻāĻ• āϚিāύ্āϤাāĻļীāϞ āĻŽāύেāϰ āϜাāύাāϞা āĻĻেāĻ–ি।

āĻšāϰāĻĒ্āĻĒাāϰ āϏেāχ āĻŽূāϰ্āϤিāĻ—ুāϞো, āϝেāĻ—ুāϞো āϧ্āϝাāύāϰāϤ āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—িāϤে āϏ্āĻĨিāϰ, āĻāĻŦং āϞিāĻĒিāϰ āϏেāχ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•āĻ—ুāϞো, āϝেāĻ—ুāϞো āĻāĻ•āχ āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—ি āĻĒুāύāϰাāĻŦৃāϤ্āϤি āĻ•āϰāĻ›ে — āϤাāϰা āϝেāύ āĻļিāϞ্āĻĒ āĻ“ āĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύেāϰ āĻāĻ• āϏেāϤুāĻŦāύ্āϧāύ। āϤাāϰা āϜাāύা⧟, āĻŽাāύুāώ āϤāĻ–āύāĻ“ āĻ­াāĻŦāϤ āĻĻেāĻš āĻ“ āφāϤ্āĻŽা āύি⧟ে, āϜীāĻŦāύ āĻ“ āĻŽৃāϤ্āϝুāϰ āĻ…āϰ্āĻĨ āύি⧟ে।

āϏিāύ্āϧু āϞিāĻĒি āĻšā§ŸāϤো āϚিāϰāĻ•াāϞ āĻ…āĻĒাāĻ ্āϝāχ āĻĨেāĻ•ে āϝাāĻŦে, āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āϤাāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ• āφāϜāĻ“ āĻ•āĻĨা āĻŦāϞে — āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻāĻšীāύ āĻ­াāώা⧟, āĻŽাāϟিāϰ āĻ­āĻ™্āĻ—িāϤে, āφāϰ āĻŽাāύুāώেāϰ āϚিāϰāύ্āϤāύ āϰāĻšāϏ্āϝāĻŽā§Ÿ āϏৃāώ্āϟিāĻļāĻ•্āϤিāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝ āĻĻি⧟ে।



Tigers tear alive Salahuddin to pieces




















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