'DO I REALLY DESERVE SOO MUCH LOVE?' Said My Dumb Heart.

'DO I REALLY DESERVE SOO MUCH LOVE?' Said my dumb heart.

Brain said, "yes, you deserve love only from good people who loves you for who you are"

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I LOVE BOOKSS!! THANK YOU SO MUCH... 💗💗💗💗

hii sending you the tumblr hugđŸĢ‚đŸ¤ pass it on to as many mutuals as you want to make someone's day better <3

Hii Sending You The Tumblr HugđŸĢ‚đŸ¤ Pass It On To As Many Mutuals As You Want To Make Someone's Day

Gifts for you from shantiniketan ✨🍁

Are dear this truly made my day😍đŸŒģâœ¨ī¸

This pictures are damn cool. Especially that painting of lady is amazing. Would love to put that painting of krishna in my office

Sending you more hugsđŸĢ‚đŸ’–âœ¨ī¸

And also this is from my side

Hii Sending You The Tumblr HugđŸĢ‚đŸ¤ Pass It On To As Many Mutuals As You Want To Make Someone's Day

More Posts from Amar-hiyar-majhe and Others

1 year ago
āĻĻā§‹āϏāϰ Dosar, The Companion (2006)
āĻĻā§‹āϏāϰ Dosar, The Companion (2006)
āĻĻā§‹āϏāϰ Dosar, The Companion (2006)
āĻĻā§‹āϏāϰ Dosar, The Companion (2006)
āĻĻā§‹āϏāϰ Dosar, The Companion (2006)

āĻĻā§‹āϏāϰ Dosar, The Companion (2006)

11 months ago

If death has a flavor, it will still be less bitter Than the day you left me, a shadowed quitter. In the shadow of sorrow, where memories linger, I trace the outline of loss with a trembling finger.

In your absence, the world lost its sheen, A dull, gray canvas where color had been. Birds that once sang now silently grieve, Echoing the sorrow that you’ve made me believe.

The sun fades to grey, in a sky full of tears, Each droplet a whisper of our vanished years. Your absence, a wound that time cannot heal, A sorrow so deep, it seems almost unreal.

Each moment without you is a teardrop's fall, A silent whisper through an empty hall. The scent of loss lingers in the air, A fragrance of memories, too heavy to bear.

The taste of despair, a dark, bitter wine, Pales next to the anguish that is wholly mine. For in every heartbeat, a void echoes clear, A reminder that you are no longer near.

I wander through our memories, faded and torn, Clinging to remnants, by time worn. Your laughter, a ghost in the quiet night, Haunts my dreams, a spectral light.

Yet in dreams, you return, like a soft, fleeting song, Bringing a moment of peace where I feel I belong. But morning arrives, and the sweetness is gone, Leaving me empty, as I face the dawn.

The morning light, once a gentle gold, Turned harsh and cold as the tale unfolds. If death has a flavor, it's sweet in its rest, Compared to the ache lodged deep in my chest.

If death has a flavor, it’s a taste I won't fear, For it's gentler by far than your absence, my dear. Until then, I endure, with a heart that is shattered, Knowing no taste could be more bitter than what mattered.

If death has a flavor, a final sting, It pales in the shadow of your leaving’s ring. For death is a promise of a closing door, But you left me stranded, yearning for more.

Bitter is the taste of unspoken goodbyes, Of empty arms and unanswered cries. If death has a flavor, it’s a fleeting breath, But your departure is a living death.

-Varsha

1 year ago

— Love

— āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž

1 year ago

āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āϕ⧋āύ⧋āĻĻāĻŋāύ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ

āĻĻ⧁'āĻšāĻžāϤ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āĻāĻŋāύ⧁āĻ• āĻ•ā§‹ā§œāĻžāĻ“

āύ⧇āχ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϏ⧇āχ āĻ…āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ āĻ­āĻžāĻ™āĻž āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒāϗ⧁āĻ˛ā§‹ā§Ÿ

āĻ•āĻžāϰ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻŦāϞ⧋

āĻļāĻŦā§āĻĻ āϛ⧁āĻā§œā§‡ āĻĢāĻŋāϰāĻŦā§‹ āĻŦāĻžā§œāĻŋ?

āĻŽāĻžāĻ āϰāĻžāϤ⧇

āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŦāϞāĻŦā§‹ āĻ•āĻžāϕ⧇?.........

Do y’all realise how “boba tunnel” by anupam roy traces the emotions of “doshomi”? The city dances with madness on bhashan geet while you sit by the bank of a silent river, with your person. The city lights drowning into the ghat just like your love for him but he doesn’t feel the same. He never did. And you softly stare at him as he admires the last lightning of the greatest ever festival of the city. He has always been your best friend, and you realise that he’ll just be the boy you tell your kids about. And the only thing that lingers is “āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŦāϞāĻŦā§‹ āĻ•āĻžāϕ⧇?”

1 year ago

āĻ•ā§Ÿā§‡āĻ•āĻĻāĻŋāύ āϧāϰ⧇ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāĻ›āĻŋ āϜāϟāĻŋāϞ āĻ…āĻ™ā§āϕ⧇āϰ āύ⧁āϤāύ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āϤāĻ¤ā§āĻŦ āĻŦ⧇āϰ āĻ•āϰāĻŦā§‹ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻšā§Ÿā§‡ āωāĻ āϛ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤ āĻŽāύāϟāĻž āĻŦ⧇āĻļ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋ āύ⧇āχāĨ¤ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϏāĻŽāĻ¸ā§āϝāĻž āĻšā§Ÿā§‡āϛ⧇ āĻŽāύ⧇āĨ¤ āĻ•āĻžāĻœā§‡āϰ āĻĢāĻžāρāϕ⧇ āĻĢāĻžāρāĻ•ā§‡Â āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻšā§Ÿā§‡āϛ⧇āĨ¤ āĻ•āĻžāϰ⧋ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āφāϞ⧋āϚāύāĻž āĻ•āϰāĻžāϰ āϏāĻžāĻšāϏ āĻĒāĻžā§Ÿ āύāĻž āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āĻĒāĻžāĻ—āϞ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇ āϏ⧇āχ āϭ⧇āĻŦ⧇āĨ¤

āĻĻ⧁āĻĒ⧁āϰ⧇ āĻāĻ•āĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āϰāĻžāĻŽ āύāĻŋāϤ⧇ āύāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻ•āĻžāĻĻāĻŽā§āĻŦāϰ⧀ āĻĻ⧇āĻŦā§€āϰ āϏ⧁āϏāĻžāχāĻĄ āύ⧋āϟ āĻļ⧁āύāĻ›āĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽāĨ¤ āϤāĻ–āύ āĻŦ⧁āĻāϤ⧇ āĻĒ⧇āϰ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϏāĻŽāĻ¸ā§āϝāĻž āĻ•āĻŋ āĻšā§Ÿā§‡āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĨ¤ āĻāϟāĻŋ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āύ⧟ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻžāϰ āϏāĻŽāĻ¸ā§āϝāĻžāĨ¤ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻĒā§āϤ āĻŦ⧟āĻ¸ā§āĻ• āϏāĻŽā§Ÿā§‡ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāϟāĻŋ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϰ āĻāχ āĻ…āĻŦāĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžā§Ÿ āĻšā§ŸāĨ¤ āĻŽāύ āĻ āĻŋāĻ• āωāĻĻāĻžāϏ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻāĻ•āχ, āϝ⧇āύ āĻŽā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡āϰ āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽā§‡āϰ āĻ…āĻĒ⧇āĻ•ā§āώāĻžā§ŸāĨ¤ āωāĻĒāϝ⧁āĻ•ā§āϤ āĻšā§‹āĻ• āĻŦāĻž āύāĻž āĻšā§‹āĻ• āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽ āĻ–ā§‹āρāĻœā§‡ āĻāχ āĻ…āĻŦ⧁āϜ āĻŽāύāĨ¤ āĻŽā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡āϰāĻž āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āϤāĻž āĻŦā§‹āĻā§‡ āύāĻž, āϤāĻžāϰāĻžāĻ“ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϰ āĻ–ā§‹āρāĻœā§‡ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇, āϤāĻŦ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āϤ⧇ āϏ⧁āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāϰāĨ¤ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇ āĻŽāĻžāϤāĻžāϞ āĻŦāĻž āĻŽā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡āĻĒāĻŋāĻĒāĻžāϏ⧁āχ āĻšā§‹āĻ• āύāĻž āϕ⧇āύāĨ¤ āĻŽāύ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻĻ⧇āϖ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤ āĻ•āĻžāϰāύ āĻŽā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡āϰāĻž āĻ—āĻ°ā§āĻŦ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āϧ⧁ āĻŦāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϧāĻŦā§€ āφāϰ āφāĻ¤ā§āĻŦā§€ā§ŸāĻ¸ā§āĻŦāϜāύāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦāϞ⧇āϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāχ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–ā§‹ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāĻŽā§€ āĻ•āϤ āϏ⧁āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāϰāĨ¤ "āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āϤ⧇" āĻ•āĻĨāĻžāϟāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻŦāϞāĻŦ⧇ āύāĻž āĻāĻ•āĻŦāĻžāϰāĻ“ āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁ āĻŦāϞ⧇ āĻ•āϤ āϏ⧁āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāϰāĨ¤Â 

āϕ⧇āύ āĻāĻŽāύāϟāĻž āĻšā§Ÿ???? āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻāϟāĻŋ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡āχ āĻ—ā§‹ā§œāĻž āĻšā§Ÿ āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁---, āϚāϰāĻŋāĻ¤ā§āϰ āĻŦāĻž āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋ āĻŽāύ āϚāĻžā§Ÿ āύāĻž-----

āϕ⧇āύ āĻŽā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡āĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻāϟāĻž āĻŽāύ⧇ āĻšā§Ÿ āύāĻž āϝ⧇, āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϟāĻŋāϰ āϚāϰāĻŋāĻ¤ā§āϰ āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋ āĻšā§Ÿ āϤāĻžāĻšāϞ⧇āχ āϏ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻŽā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡āϕ⧇ āϏāĻŦ āϏ⧁āĻ– āĻĻāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇āĨ¤ āĻŽāĻžāύāϞāĻžāĻŽ āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻžāϤ⧇āχ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āĻšā§Ÿā§‡ āϗ⧇āϞ----āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϟāĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžā§Ÿ āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϖ⧇āϞāϤ⧇ āϚāĻžāχ, āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻļāϰ⧀āϰ āĻ­ā§‹āĻ— āĻ•āϰāϤ⧇ āϚāĻžāχāĨ¤ āϤāĻŦ⧁āĻ“ āĻ•āĻŋ āϤāĻžāϕ⧇ āϤāĻ–āύ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āϝāĻžā§Ÿ? āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āύāĻž āĻšā§Ÿ āϤāĻžāĻšāϞ⧇ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻŦā§‹āĻāĻžāĻ“ āϕ⧇āύ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϰ āĻŽāύāϕ⧇ āϝ⧇ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϰāĻž āϏāĻŦāĻžāχ āϏāĻŽāĻžāύ? āϛ⧇āϞ⧇ āϜāĻžāϤāϟāĻžāχ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻšā§‹āϖ⧇ āϘ⧃āĻŖāĻŋāϤ--- āϕ⧇āύ āĻāĻŽāύ āĻšā§ŸāĨ¤

āϏ⧁āĻ āĻžāĻŽ āĻ“ āϏ⧌āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻ°ā§āϝ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āϤ⧁āϞāύāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧋āύāĻžāĨ¤ āϝ⧇ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϟāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻŦāĻž āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻšā§‹āϖ⧇ āϏāĻŦ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ–āĻžāϰāĻžāĻĒ, āĻĒāϰ⧀āĻ•ā§āώāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–ā§‹ āϏ⧇āχ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžā§Ÿ āϖ⧁āĻŦ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏ⧇āĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āϖ⧁āρāĻœā§‡ āĻĒāĻžāĻŦ⧇āĨ¤Â 

āϕ⧇āύ āϤ⧋āĻŽāϰāĻž āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻžāϰ āφāϗ⧇ āĻ–ā§‹āρāϜ āĻ•āϰ⧋ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϟāĻŋ āĻ…āĻ°ā§āĻĨāĻļāĻžāϞāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋāύāĻž? āĻ•āĻŋ āĻŽāύ⧇ āĻšā§Ÿ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϝ⧇ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇āϟāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻĒāĻ›āĻ¨ā§āĻĻ āĻ•āϰāĻŦ⧇ āϏ⧇ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻĻāĻžā§ŸāĻŋāĻ¤ā§āĻŦ āύāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰāĻŦ⧇ āύāĻž,,, āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻāϟāĻž āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāĻž āωāϚāĻŋāϤ , āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇āϰ āϏāĻŦ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻŦ⧜ āωāĻĒāĻšāĻžāϰāĨ¤ āφāϰ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āϛ⧇āϞ⧇ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŋ⧟ āωāĻĒāĻšāĻžāϰāϟāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϕ⧋āύ⧋āĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻĻā§‚āϰ⧇ āϰāĻžāĻ–āĻŦ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤ āϤāĻžāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āĻĻ⧇āĻŦ⧇ āϤāĻŦ⧁ āφāĻ—āϞ⧇ āϰāĻžāĻ–āĻŦ⧇āĨ¤ āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽā§‡āϰ āĻ•ā§Ÿā§‡āĻ•āϟāĻŋ āύāĻŋāĻ°ā§āĻĻāĻŋāĻˇā§āϟ āĻŦ⧟āϏ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇āύāĻžāĨ¤ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻĒā§āϤāĻŦ⧟āĻ¸ā§āĻ• āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽāϟāĻŋ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇ āϰāϙ⧇āϰ āĻ›āϟāĻž āϤ⧈āϰāĻŋ āĻ•āϰ⧇āĨ¤ āϕ⧇āύ āϕ⧇āω āϤāĻž āĻŦā§‹āĻā§‡ āύāĻžāĨ¤Â 

āĻšā§ƒāĻĻā§Ÿā§‡āϰ āĻ—ā§‹āĻĒāύ āϜāĻžā§ŸāĻ—āĻžāϟāĻŋ āĻāĻ–āύ⧋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻ–āĻžāϞāĻŋ āϰ⧇āϖ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāĨ¤ āϕ⧇āω āϏ⧇ āϜāĻžā§ŸāĻ—āĻž āύāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇āύāĻŋāĨ¤ āĻ…āĻŦāĻļā§āϝ āϕ⧇āĻ“ āĻšā§‡āĻˇā§āϟāĻž āĻ•āϰ⧇āύāĻŋ āύ⧇āĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋāύāĻž āĻŦāϞāϛ⧋, āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻŽā§‚āĻ˛ā§āϝ āφāϛ⧇āĨ¤Â āĻŽāύ āϝ⧇ āĻ…āϏāĻšāĻžā§Ÿ āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻžāϰ āĻ–ā§‹āρāĻœā§‡ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ­ā§‚āϤāĻŋ āĻŽā§‡āϖ⧇ āϚāĻžāϰāĻŋāĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϞ⧁āĻŸā§‹āĻĒ⧁āϟāĻŋ āĻ–āĻžāĻšā§āϛ⧇āĨ¤


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11 months ago

I have opened another account as I told everyone that I will open it!

@hum-budbak-hai is my 2nd account. Where your girl won't be sad and poetic. She will be fun and fun.


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1 year ago

Which song/s best sums up your personality?

If I say about one song then:-

If I say "songs" then:-


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11 months ago
Raima Sen And Prosenjit In Noukadubi (Bengali, 2011)

Raima Sen and Prosenjit in Noukadubi (Bengali, 2011)

9 months ago

"Don’t waste time fixing bonds you didn’t break."

1 year ago

there are some days when you have nothing to write about, nothing to talk about. Just you sitting quietly, listening to music, doing pending assignments and other stuffs.

You just don't have much to say. All you say is "fine" , "thik ache" , "accha" , "na korbona" etc.

To be honest, the above mentioned things are the most boring side of us, where we are just being "we" or "us". And we honestly cherish those boring side of us which others don't. And Its better to be fine with that.

Listening to this gives me comfort...


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amar-hiyar-majhe - ~āϞāĻžāĻŦāĻŖā§āϝ~
~āϞāĻžāĻŦāĻŖā§āϝ~

..In this world, concrete flowers grow..

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