Walking on a narrow path. Do not talk. I told Hya that I could hold my hand. Then started with the hand holding the hand. It was unknowingly unknown. Fiction, rhythm, poetry and smile He loves loneliness, speaks less words, writes good poetry. I also write a little bit, I'm never like him. He got a new motivation to write poetry. I tried to write a lot, but I could never write and never write. Because we are two different people. Thoughts can never be one. It was time to spend time on different tricks. Walking in the dark, the breeze, the passing calm, the unknown fear is more.
There is no such thing except the answer to the question. Of course, I turned to him. He never complained. Becoming a speechless listener She fell in love with her smile. I can laugh a lot and cry with it. Although I have never seen and said. I told a laugh story and he laughed a lot. The story is that a bus driver accidentally admitted hospital. Some journalists come and ask him how he has done an accident. So the bus driver started to say everything open. At first, a bus came and I gave him a side, then a truck came and I gave him a side, then one after another came to stay. And as usual I gave a consistent way to all sides. In this way, giving a side, I saw a bridge coming towards me, so I gave the bridge side by side. Then I am present in front of you today. But I did not have the steering yet still in hand. Understand why laughs. Anyone who laughs at such a bad joke. I said something? I did not say anything! Then who said that my joke is bad? Stand up, I think I'm sorry! (Irony: The bus was not the only driver, the driver was alone, but he did not understand more than the pressure.) What is the key to staying in the bus and taking the story from my favorite sir?
The time has passed for many other stories. After walking in the village of Adivasi, many people went through many paths. Come see me there is a small festival face. The indigenous people saw us in such a way that alien creatures But they are friends. We took both of them. King Singsun Chakma arranged for our stay here. It will spend the night here in the soil and the grass-filled house. But I have to be like the rest of the boys outside the house, in the verandah of the clay house.
The time was spent watching indigenous dance, playing with fire, singing etc. As well as indigenous small boys and girls murdered The indigenous traditions are made in the form of drama. As well as various past characters. Adivasis are stooping in the kitchen. The boars are playing tabla, madla, flute and some strange musical instruments. And girls dance in her rhythm