Omnipotent-benevolent simply means that God is all-powerful and well-meaning.''I understand the concept. It's just . . . there seems to be a contradiction.''Yes. The contradiction is pain. Man's starvation, war, sickness . . .''Exactly!' Chartrand knew the camerlengo would understand. 'Terrible things happen in this world. Human tragedy seems like proof that God could not possibly be both all-powerful and well-meaning. If He loves us and has the power to change our situation, He would prevent our pain, wouldn't He?'The camerlengo frowned. 'Would He?'Chartrand felt uneasy. Had he overstepped his bounds? Was this one of those religious questions you just didn't ask? 'Well . . . if God loves us, and He can protect us, He would have to. It seems He is either omnipotent and uncaring, or benevolent and powerless to help.''Do you have children, Lieutenant?'Chartrand flushed. 'No, signore.''Imagine you had an eight-year-old son . . . would you love him?''Of course.''Would you let him skateboard?'Chartrand did a double take. The camerlengo always seemed oddly "in touch" for a clergyman. 'Yeah, I guess,' Chartrand said. 'Sure, I'd let him skateboard, but I'd tell him to be careful.''So as this child's father, you would give him some basic, good advice and then let him go off and make his own mistakes?''I wouldn't run behind him and mollycoddle him if that's what you mean.''But what if he fell and skinned his knee?''He would learn to be more careful.'The camerlengo smiled. 'So although you have the power to interfere and prevent your child's pain, you would choose to show your love by letting him learn his own lessons?''Of course. Pain is part of growing up. It's how we learn.'The camerlengo nodded. 'Exactly.

Уже тогда падре Антонио Исабель начал проявлять первые признаки старческого слабоумия, которое через несколько лет заставило его сказать, что, вероятно, дьявол одержал победу в своем мятеже против Бога и воссел на престоле небесном, никому не открывая, кто он такой на самом деле, дабы завлекать в свои сети неосторожных («Сто лет одиночества», Г.Г. Маркес)

Culturally, though not theologically, I’m a Christian. I was born a Protestant of the white Anglo-Saxon persuasion. And while I do love that great teacher of peace who was called Jesus, and while I do reserve the right to ask myself in certain trying situations what indeed He would do, I can’t swallow that one fixed rule of Christianity insisting that Christ is the only path to God. Strictly speaking, then, I cannot call myself a Christian. Most of the Christians I know accept my feelings on this with grace and open-mindedness. Then again, most of the Christians I know don’t speak very strictly. To those who do speak (and think) strictly, all I can do here is offer my regrets for any hurt feelings and now excuse myself from their business.“Traditionally, I have responded to the transcendent mystics of all religions. I have always responded with breathless excitement to anyone who has ever said that God does not live in a dogmatic scripture or in a distant throne in the sky, but instead abides very close to us indeed—much closer than we can imagine, breathing right through our own hearts. I respond with gratitude to anyone who has ever voyaged to the center of that heart, and who has then returned to the world with a report for the rest of us that God is an experience of supreme love. In every religious tradition on earth, there have always been mystical saints and transcendents who report exactly this experience. Unfortunately many of them have ended up arrested and killed. Still, I think very highly of them.“In the end, what I have come to believe about God is simple. It’s like this—I used to have this really great dog. She came from the pound. She was a mixture of about ten different breeds, but seemed to have inherited the finest features of them all. She was brown. When people asked me, “What kind of dog is that?” I would always give the same answer: “She’s a brown dog.” Similarly, when the question is raised, “What kind of God do you believe in?” my answer is easy: “I believe in a magnificent God

I prayed to a mystery.Sometimes I was simply aware of the mystery. I saw a flash of it during a trip to New York that David and I took before we were married. We were walking on a busy sidewalk in Manhattan. I don't remember if it was day or night. A man with a wound on his forehead came toward us. His damp, ragged hair might have been clotted with blood, or maybe it was only dirt. He wore deeply dirty clothes. His red, swollen hands, cupped in half-fists, swung loosely at his sides. His eyes were focused somewhere past my right shoulder. He staggered while he walked. The sidewalk traffic flowed around him and with him. He was strange and frightening, and at the same time he belonged on the Manhattan sidewalk as much as any of us. It was that paradox -- that he could be both alien and resident, both brutalized and human, that he could stand out in the moving mass of people like a sea monster in a school of tuna and at the same time be as much at home as any of us -- that stayed with me. I never saw him again, but I remember him often, and when I do, I am aware of the mystery.Years later, I was out on our property on the Olympic Peninsula, cutting a path through the woods. This was before our house was built. After chopping through dense salal and hacking off ironwood bushes for an hour or so, I stopped, exhausted. I found myself standing motionless, intensely aware of all of the life around me, the breathing moss, the chattering birds, the living earth. I was as much a part of the woods as any millipede or cedar tree. At that moment, too, I was aware of the mystery.Sometimes I wanted to speak to this mystery directly. Out of habit, I began with "Dear God" and ended with "Amen". But I thought to myself, I'm not praying to that old man in the sky. Rather, I'm praying to this thing I can't define. It was sort of like talking into a foggy valley.Praying into a bank of fog requires alot of effort. I wanted an image to focus on when I prayed. I wanted something to pray *to*. but I couldn't go back to that old man. He was too closely associated with all I'd left behind.

Were you there?”She shook her head. “No. I was here in Nain having achild.”“Then why do you weep as though you had part in hiscrucifixion? You had no part in it.”“I’d like nothing better than to think I would haveremained faithful. But if those closest to him—hisdisciples, his own brothers—turned away, who am I tothink I’m better than they and would have donedifferently? No, Marcus. We all wanted what wewanted, and when the Lord fulfilled his purpose ratherthan ours, we struck out against him. Like you. In anger.Like you. In disappointment. Yet, it is God’s will thatprevails.”He looked away. “I don’t understand any of this.”“I know you don’t. I see it in your face, Marcus. Youdon’t want to see. You’ve hardened your heart againsthim.” She started to walk again.“As should all who value their lives,” he said, thinking ofHadassah’s death.“It is God who has driven you here.”He gave a derisive laugh. “I came here of my ownaccord and for my own purposes.”“Did you?” Marcus’ face became stony.Deborah pressed on. “We were all created incompleteand will find no rest until we satisfy the deepest hungerand thirst within us. You’ve tried to satisfy it in your ownway. I see that in your eyes, too, as I’ve seen it in somany others. And yet, though you deny it with your lastbreath, your soul yearns for God, Marcus LucianusValerian.”Her words angered him. “Gods aside, Rome showsthe world that life is what man makes of it.”“If that’s so, what are you making of yours?”“I own a fleet of ships, as well as emporiums andhouses. I have wealth.” Yet, even as he told her, heknew it all meant nothing. His father had come to thatrealization just before he died. Vanity. It was all vanity.Meaningless. Empty.Old Deborah paused on the pathway. “Rome points theway to wealth and pleasure, power and knowledge. ButRome remains hungry. Just as you are hungry now.Search all you will for retribution or meaning to your life,but until you find God, you live in vain.

وكلمة ( الحمد لله ) هذه هي الصيغة التي علمنا الله أن نحمده بها ، وإلا فلو ترك لنا حرية التعبير عن الحمد ولم يحدد لنا صيغة نحمده ونشكره بها لاختلف الخلق في الحمد حسب قدراتهم و تمكنهم من الأداء ، وحسب الله قدرتهم على استيعاب النعم ، ولوجدنا البليغ صاحب القدرة الأدائية أفصح من العيي والأمي . فتحمل عنا جميعًا هذه الصيغة ، وجعلها متساوية للجميع ، الكل يقول ( الحمد لله ) البليغ يقولها ، و العيي يقولها ، و الأمي يقولها.

Once there was and once there was not a devout, God-fearing man who lived his entire life according to stoic principles. He died on his fortieth birthday and woke up floating in nothing. Now, mind you, floating in nothing was comforting, light-less, airless, like a mother’s womb. This man was grateful.But then he decided he would love to have sturdy ground beneath his feet, so he would feel more solid himself. Lo and behold, he was standing on earth. He knew it to be earth, for he knew the feel of it.Yet he wanted to see. I desire light, he thought, and light appeared. I want sunlight, not any light, and at night it shall be moonlight. His desires were granted. Let there be grass. I love the feel of grass beneath my feet. And so it was. I no longer wish to be naked. Only robes of the finest silk must touch my skin. And shelter, I need a grand palace whose entrance has double-sided stairs, and the floors must be marble and the carpets Persian. And food, the finest of food. His breakfast was English; his midmorning snack French. His lunch was Chinese. His afternoon tea was Indian. His supper was Italian, and his late-night snack was Lebanese. Libation? He had the best of wines, of course, and champagne. And company, the finest of company. He demanded poets and writers, thinkers and philosophers, hakawatis and musicians, fools and clowns.And then he desired sex.He asked for light-skinned women and dark-skinned, blondes and brunettes, Chinese, South Asian, African, Scandinavian. He asked for them singly and two at a time, and in the evenings he had orgies. He asked for younger girls, after which he asked for older women, just to try. The he tried men, muscular men, skinny men. Then boys. Then boys and girls together.Then he got bored. He tried sex with food. Boys with Chinese, girls with Indian. Redheads with ice cream. Then he tried sex with company. He fucked the poet. Everybody fucked the poet.But again he got bored. The days were endless. Coming up with new ideas became tiring and tiresome. Every desire he could ever think of was satisfied.He had had enough. He walked out of his house, looked up at the glorious sky, and said, “Dear God. I thank You for Your abundance, but I cannot stand it here anymore. I would rather be anywhere else. I would rather be in hell.”And the booming voice from above replied, “And where do you think you are?

وفي رأيي أن السياسة التي لا تربط بالدين قذارة محضة يجب تجنبها. إن السياسة ميدانها العمل لخير الأمم، ولذلك يجب أن تشد إليها إهتمام الرجل المتدين. أو بعبارةأخرى، الرجل الذي يسعى وراء الله ووراء الحق. أما بالنسبة إلى ففي رأيي أن الله والحق ، لفظان بديلان، يمكن أن يحل أحدهما مكان الآخر. وإذا قال أحدهم أن الله رب لا يلتزم الحق، أو رب يحب عذاب الناس فإني سأرفض عبادته. لذلك يجب علينا أن نرسى في السياسة أيضا قواعد مملكة الرب

ويكفيك عِزًا وكرامة أنك إذا أردتَ مقابلة سيدك أن يكون الأمر بيدك ، فما عليك إلا أن تتوضأ وتنوي المقابلة قائلًا : اللَّه أكبر ، فتكون في معية اللَّه عز وجل في لقاء تحدد أنت مكانه وموعده ومدته ، وتختار أنت موضوع المقابلة ، وتظل في حضرة ربك إلى أن تنهي المقابلة متى أردتَ .فما بالك لو حاولت لقاء عظيم من عظماء الدنيا ؟ وكم أنت ملاقٍ من المشقة والعنت ؟ وكم دونه من الحُجّاب و الحراس؟ ثم بعد ذلك ليس لك أن تختار لا الزمان و المكان و لا الموضوع ولاغيره!

DÖDENS DAGBOK: PARISARNA Sommaren kom.För boktjuven var allt frid och fröjd. Dör mig - var himlen judefärgad. När deras kroppar hade slutat söka efter springor i dörren steg deras själar upp. När deras naglar hade klöst mot träet och i vissa fall satt fastnaglade i det av blotta kraften i desperationen, kom deras själar mot mig, in i min famn, och vi steg ut ur de där duschanläggningarna, upp på taket och vidare uppåt, in i evighetens absoluta vidder. De bara fortsatte att fylla på åt mig. Minut för minut. Dusch efter dusch. Jag kommer aldrig att glömma den första dagen i Auschwitz, den första gången i Mauthausen. På det senare stället fick jag också med tiden plocka upp dem från stupet nedanför den väldiga klippan, när deras försök att undkomma störtat dem i avgrunden. Där låg brutna kroppar och döda ömma hjärtan. Men, det var ändå bättre än gasen. Några av dem fångade jag upp när de bara hunnit halvvägs ner. Där besparade jag dig något, tänkte jag, och höll själen mitt i luften medan resten av varelsen - det fysiska skalet - tumlade till marken. Alla var lätta, som tomma valnötsskal. Rökig himmel på de ställena. Luktade som en ugn men var ändå så kallt. Jag ryser när jag minns det - medan jag försöker overkliggöra det. Jag blåser varmluft i mina händer för att värma dem. Men det är svårt att hålla dem varma när själarna fortfarande skälver. Gud.Jag säger alltid det namnet när jag tänker på det här. Gud.Två gånger säger jag det. Jag säger hans namn i ett fåfängt försök att förstå. "Men det är inte ditt jobb att förstå." Det är jag själv som svarar. Gud säger aldrig något. Trodde du att du var den enda som han aldrig svarar? "Ditt jobb är att ...", och där slutar jag lyssna till mig själv, eftersom jag, om jag ska vara riktigt ärlig, gör mig själv alldeles trött. När jag börjar tänka på det sättet blir jag så utmattad, och jag har inte den lyxen att jag kan ge efter för trötthet. Jag är tvingad att fortsätta, för även om det inte gäller varenda person på jorden gäller det den stora majoriteten - att döden inte väntar på någon - och om han gör det brukar han inte vänta särskilt länge.

. . . waves of desert heat . . . I must’ve passed out, because when I woke up I was shivering and stars wheeled above a purple horizon. . . . Then the sun came up, casting long shadows. . . . I heard a vehicle coming. Something coming from far away, gradually growing louder. There was the sound of an engine, rocks under tires. . . . Finally it reached me, the door opened, and Dirk Bickle stepped out. . . .But anyway so Bickle said, “Miracles, Luke. Miracles were once the means to convince people to abandon reason for faith. But the miracles stopped during the rise of the neocortex and its industrial revolution. Tell me, if I could show you one miracle, would you come with me and join Mr. Kirkpatrick?”I passed out again, and came to. He was still crouching beside me. He stood up, walked over to the battered refrigerator, and opened the door. Vapor poured out and I saw it was stocked with food. Bickle hunted around a bit, found something wrapped in paper, and took a bottle of beer from the door. Then he closed the fridge, sat down on the old tire, and unwrapped what looked like a turkey sandwich.He said, “You could explain the fridge a few ways. One, there’s some hidden outlet, probably buried in the sand, that leads to a power source far away. I figure there’d have to be at least twenty miles of cable involved before it connected to the grid. That’s a lot of extension cord. Or, this fridge has some kind of secret battery system. If the empirical details didn’t bear this out, if you thoroughly studied the refrigerator and found neither a connection to a distant power source nor a battery, you might still argue that the fridge had some super-insulation capabilities and that the food inside had been able to stay cold since it was dragged out here. But say this explanation didn’t pan out either, and you observed the fridge staying the same temperature week after week while you opened and closed it. Then you’d start to wonder if it was powered by some technology beyond your comprehension. But pretty soon you’d notice something else about this refrigerator. The fact that it never runs out of food. Then you’d start to wonder if somehow it didn’t get restocked while you slept. But you’d realize that it replenished itself all the time, not just while you were sleeping. All this time, you’d keep eating from it. It would keep you alive out here in the middle of nowhere. And because of its mystery you’d begin to hate and fear it, and yet still it would feed you. Even though you couldn’t explain it, you’d still need it. And you’d assume that you simply didn’t understand the technology, rather than ascribe to it some kind of metaphysical power. You wouldn’t place your faith in the hands of some unknowable god. You’d place it in the technology itself. Finally, in frustration, you’d come to realize you’d exhausted your rationality and the only sensible thing to do would be to praise the mystery. You’d worship its bottles of Corona and jars of pickled beets. You’d make up prayers to the meats drawer and sing about its light bulb. And you’d start to accept the mystery as the one undeniable thing about it. That, or you’d grow so frustrated you’d push it off this cliff.”“Is Mr. Kirkpatrick real?” I asked.After a long gulp of beer, Bickle said, “That’s the neocortex talking again.

Without conversion of heart we cannot serve God on earth. We have naturally neither faith, nor fear, nor love, toward God and His Son Jesus Christ. We have no delight in His Word. We take no pleasure in prayer or communion with Him. We have no enjoyment in His ordinances, His house, His people, or His day. We may have a form of Christianity, and keep up a round of ceremonies and religious performances. But without conversion we have no more heart in our religion than a brick or a stone. Can a dead corpse serve God? We know it cannot. Well, without conversion we are dead toward God. Look round the congregation with which you worship every Sunday. Mark how little interest the great majority of them take in what is going on. Observe how listless, and apathetic, and indifferent, they evidently are about the whole affair. It is clear their hearts are not there! They are thinking of something else, and not of religion. They are thinking of business, or money, or pleasure, or worldly plans, or bonnets, or gowns, or new dresses, or amusements. Their bodies are there, but not their hearts. And what is the reason? What is it they all need? They need conversion. Without it they only come to church for fashion and form’s sake, and go away from church to serve the world or their sins. But this is not all. Without conversion of heart we could not enjoy heaven, if we got there. Heaven is a place where holiness reigns supreme, and sin and the world have no place at all. The company will all be holy; the employments will all be holy; it will be an eternal Sunday. Surely if we go to heaven, we must have a heart in tune and able to enjoy it, or else we shall not be happy. We must have a nature in harmony with the element we live in, and the place where we dwell. Can a fish be happy out of water? We know it cannot. Well, without conversion of heart we could not be happy in heaven.Look round the neighborhood in which you live and the persons with whom you are acquainted. Think what many of them would do if they were cut off for ever from money, and business, and newspapers, and cards, and balls, and races, and hunting, and shopping, and worldly amusements! Would they like it? Think what they would feel if they were shut up forever with Jesus Christ, and saints, and angels! Would they be happy? Would the eternal company of Moses, and David, and St. Paul be pleasant to those who never take the trouble to read what those holy men wrote? Would heaven’s everlasting praise suit the taste of those who can hardly spare a few minutes in a week for private religion, even for prayer? There is but one answer to be given to all these questions. We must be converted before we can enjoy heaven. Heaven would be no heaven to any child of Adam without conversion.Let no man deceive us. There are two things which are of absolute necessity to the salvation of every man and woman on earth. One of them is the mediatorial work of Christ for us, His atonement, satisfaction, and intercession. The other is the converting work of the Spirit in us, His guiding, renewing, and sanctifying grace. We must have both a title and a heart for heaven. Sacraments are only generally necessary to salvation: a man may be saved without them, like the penitent thief. An interest in Christ and conversion are absolutely necessary: without them no one can possibly be saved. All, all alike, high or low, rich or poor, old or young, gentle or simple, churchmen or dissenters, baptized or unbaptized, all must be converted or perish.

പിരിയുമ്പോള് ,എനിക്ക് വലതും തരിക ഓര്മ്മക്കായി എന്ന് പീറ്റര് ജീസ്സസിനോട്ചോദിച്ചു ,ക്രിസ്തുവാകട്ടെ അപ്പമെടുത്ത്പറഞ്ഞു "ഇതെന്റെ ശരീരമാണ്, നീ ഇത്ഭക്ഷിക്കുക "പീറ്റര് അപ്പം ഭക്ഷിച്ചു ,ആഅപ്പം അവന്റെ ശരീരത്തിന്റെ ഭാഗമായി ,ചിന്തയുടെ ഭാഗമായി,ദര്ശനത­തിന്റെയും് നൃത്തത്തിന്റെയ­ും ഭാഗമായി,സംഗീതത്തിന്റെയും രതിയുടെയും ഭാഗമായി,കുഞ്ഞുമക്കളുടെ ഭാഗമായി-അര്ത്ഥമിതാണ് -ദര്ശനങ്ങളുടെ സുഗന്തങ്ങള്എപ്പോള് വേണമെങ്കിലും കാലം കവര്ന്നെടുക്കാ­ം ,എന്നാല് അപ്പം നല്കിയവന്റെ ഓര്മ്മഎല്ലാ കാലങ്ങളിലും നിലനില്ക്കും-ജീവിതമെപ്പോഴാണ് വിശുദ്ധമായ ഒരുതളികയിലെടുത്തു വാഴ്ത്തി വിഭജിച്ചുനമുക്ക് കൊടുക്കാനാവുക.

Here's the thing, say Shug. The thing I believe. God is inside you and inside everybody else. You come into the world with God. But only them that search for it inside find it. And sometimes it just manifest itself even if you not looking, or don't know what you looking for. Trouble do it for most folks, I think. Sorrow, lord. Feeling like shit.It? I ast.Yeah, It. God ain't a he or a she, but a It.But what do it look like? I ast.Don't look like nothing, she say. It ain't a picture show. It ain't something you can look at apart from anything else, including yourself. I believe God is everything, say Shug. Everything that is or ever was or ever will be. And when you can feel that, and be happy to feel that, you've found It.Shug a beautiful something, let me tell you. She frown a little, look out cross the yard, lean back in her chair, look like a big rose. She say, My first step from the old white man was trees. Then air. Then birds. Then other people. But one day when I was sitting quiet and feeling like a motherless child, which I was, it come to me: that feeling of being part of everything, not separateat all. I knew that if I cut a tree, my arm would bleed. And I laughed and I cried and I run all around the house. I knew just what it was. In fact, when it happen, you can't miss it. It sort of like you know what, she say, grinning and rubbing high up on my thigh.Shug! I say.Oh, she say. God love all them feelings. That's some of the best stuff God did. And when you know God loves 'em you enjoys 'em a lot more. You can just relax, go with everything that's going, and praise God by liking what you like.God don't think it dirty? I ast.Naw, she say. God made it. Listen, God love everything you love? and a mess of stuff you don't. But more than anything else, God love admiration.You saying God vain? I ast.Naw, she say. Not vain, just wanting to share a good thing. I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it.What it do when it pissed off? I ast.Oh, it make something else. People think pleasing God is all God care about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.Yeah? I say.Yeah, she say. It always making little surprises and springing them on us when us least expect.You mean it want to be loved, just like the bible say.Yes, Celie, she say. Everything want to be loved. Us sing and dance, make faces and give flower bouquets, trying to be loved. You ever notice that trees do everything to git attention we do, except walk?Well, us talk and talk bout God, but I'm still adrift. Trying to chase that old white man out of my head. I been so busy thinking bout him I never truly notice nothing God make. Not a blade of corn (how it do that?) not the color purple (where it come from?). Not the little wildflowers. Nothing. Now that my eyes opening, I feels like a fool. Next to any little scrub of a bush in my yard, Mr. ____s evil sort of shrink. But not altogether. Still, it is like Shug say, You have to git man off your eyeball, before you can see anything a'tall.Man corrupt everything, say Shug. He on your box of grits, in your head, and all over the radio. He try to make you think he everywhere.Soon as you think he everywhere, you think he God. But he ain't. Whenever you trying to pray, and man plop himself on the other end of it, tell him to git lost, say Shug. Conjure up flowers, wind,water, a big rock.But this hard work, let me tell you. He been there so long, he don't want to budge. He threaten lightening, floods and earthquakes. Us fight. I hardly pray at all. Every time I conjure up a rock, I throw it.Amen

പുറത്തിത്രയും മമതകള് മുഴുവന്ആടയാഭരണങ്ങളും അണിഞ്ഞ്കൈകൊട്ടി വിളിച്ചിട്ടും നിങ്ങളുടെ ഉറ്റവര്എന്തുകൊണ്ട് വീട്വിട്ടിറങ്ങി പോകുന്നില്ല , എന്തുകൊണ്ട്നിങ്ങളുടെ കൗമാരകാരനായ മകന്മദ്യപിക്കുന്നിലല് ,പെണ്കുട്ടി പ്രണയത്തിന്റെ മായ പങ്കാളിയെ ചുറ്റിപിടിച്ചുപുലരിയോളം നൃത്തം ചവിട്ടുന്നില്ല ,പുറത്തേക്ക്പോകാന് ഉയര്ത്തിയ പാദങ്ങള് ഒരു നിലവിളിയോടെ താഴ്ത്തി അവര്ട് ഉള്ളിലേക്ക് ഓടിപോയതെന്തുകൊണ്. രണ്ടു പേര്ക്കിടയില് സംഭവിച്ചതതാണ് , ശരിയായ രണ്ടു പേര് തെറ്റായ ഒരു കാലത്തില് കണ്ടു മുട്ടുകയെന്നു പറയുന്നതുപോലെ .ആരോ ചിലര്കുറുകെ കടക്കാനുള്ള വൈമുഖ്യം കൊണ്ട് അവര് അങ്ങനെ നിന്ന്പോയതാണ് .അങ്ങനെതന്നെയായ­ിരിന്നോ അതുവേണ്ടിയിരുന്നതെന്ന്പറയാനുള്ള ധൈര്യമോന്നുമില്ല.ദൈവമേ, ഈ വാതില് പടികള് എന്തുകൊണ്ടാണ്നീ ഉണ്ടാക്കിയിരിക്കുന്നത് ... ?തടി തരങ്ങള് കൊണ്ടല്ല എന്ന് വരുമോ ..?നിങ്ങളുടെ സ്നേഹം ഒരുകടമ്പയായി കുറുകെ കിടക്കുമ്പോള് ആര്ക്കാണ്പുറത്തു കടക്കാനാവുക ..