MIGRATION OF BRAHMINS WHICH LED TO THE SPREAD SANSKRIT LANGUAGE AND CULTURE ALL OVER INDIA

MIGRATION OF BRAHMINS WHICH LED TO THE SPREAD SANSKRIT LANGUAGE AND CULTURE ALL OVER INDIA There were mainly 6 mass migration of brahmins from one part of India to another after invitation from the kings of those particular regions.This led to the spread of the sanskrit cosmopolis all over India. These brahmins have now integrated into the society and culture of the regions where they migrated to. The six types of brahmins who migrated to different parts of India are as follows:- 1)KULIN BRAHMINS(KANNAUJ TO BENGAL) The kulin brahmins are considered the brahmins of the highest order in the bengali hindu society. These kulin brahmins trace their ancestry to five families of the Kanyakubja Brahmins(Brahmins from Kannauj,Uttar Pradesh) A bengali brahmin priest from British India In the 11th century CE,the Buddhist Pala empire of Bengal had declined,it is believed that at this time,the king Adi Sura brought five Kanyakubja brahmins with their attendants to bengal to “educate” the already existing brahmins in bengal and to revive the orthodox brahminical hinduism.They were also brought to propagate the “ nine gunas” like-Peacefulness, self-control, austerity, purity, tolerance, honesty, knowledge, wisdom and religiousness.

Primary school students write "My Aspirations"

Primary school students write "My Aspirations" Not to be president, Not to be a doctor, Not to be a scientist, None of them. My future aspiration is to be a grandpa, so cool. Because my grandpa: Can sleep in the morning, Can take a nap, Can watch TV and go to bed early in the evening. No homework, No summer and winter homework, No tutoring. When you have nothing to do, you can go under the tree to cool off, Or go to the park to find someone to play chess. No one cares how long you play video games. Drink coffee in the morning, Drink tea in the afternoon, Drink wine in the evening, Happy as a god. Bus is free, and if you meet a kind person, someone will give up their seat. Taking the high-speed rail and watching movies are half price. Eat whatever you want, Hot ones include oyster omelette, rice cake, tempura, vermicelli soup, stinky tofu, grilled sausage, radish cake, etc. Cold ones include tofu pudding, shaved ice, papaya milk, ice cream, jelly, pudding, mung bean jelly, cheese, As long as you don't eat too much, no one will stop you. You can do whatever you want, Sing, dance, paint, play the piano, play the trumpet, or climb mountains, hike, If you have money in your pocket, you can also travel. Being a grandpa is great! Inspiration~~~~~Grandpas don't even know how happy they are!!

Time is a rare luxury

Time is a rare luxury which can never be purchased at any cost. So when someone spends it for you, it defines the depth of care they have for you. Being in control of your life and having realistic expectation about your day to day challenges are the keys to stress management, which is perhaps the most important ingredient to living a happy, healthy and rewarding life. Don't mention a person's past mistakes when they are trying to change. That's like throwing rocks at them while they are struggling to climb a mountain. L We always overestimate our worries & underestimate our potential. Find your potential today and work on it. Do the difficult things while they are easy and do the great things while they are small. A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step. Compromising on our values is like selling our soul for those who will not even remember that we took a turn just for their smile. No person in this world has ever been rewarded for what he has received. He is always honoured for what he has given to others

Secret of Happiness as per Judaism - A doctor *Afshine Emani* writes:

Secret of Happiness as per Judaism - A doctor *Afshine Emani* writes: Here's my secret. My first day in practice, I started with a networth of minus $1,000,000. I'd lost to the stock market all the money I earned working 80-hour weeks during residency and fellowship. I had loans and loans and more loans. But, every morning I entered the hospital at 6 a.m. and every night I left work around midnight, the nurses would ask me the same question: "How do you always have the biggest smile on your face?" I couldn't express the answer then as well as I can now. The secret is Judaism's three cardinal laws of happiness: 1- Start with gratitude; 2- Find your gift; 3- Give it away. This formula is the secret to true, deep happiness. 1- Start each day with gratitude for all you've been given. Talk about your blessings, not your problems. Start by feeling how much you owe the world, not how much you're owed. #ModehAniLefanecha. 2- What is your purpose in life? Why are you here? Why did God trust you with this life? Hint: To help others. To mend a broken world. #TikkunOlam Each of us has a unique gift in how we can accomplish this task. Mine is medicine. Yours may be singing, art, defending, raising children, nursing, comforting... It's up to you to find your gift and through it live a meaningful and purpose-driven life. 3- #Tzedakah Give your gift away. It must be money you've earned, but also your time, talent, love, effort. Give your gift away. Not all of it. Judaism requires 10%. Anyone can do this. Everyone can find things they are thankful for, right this minute. Everyone has a talent that makes them unique. Everyone can give without wanting anything back. When you live in sync with these three Jewish principles (and you don't have to be Jewish), your life becomes so much more than a mechanical day to day struggle. This is how I fought clinical depression and won. So now, I give you my secret as a gift.

After 32 straight hours in the operating theatre,

After 32 straight hours in the operating theatre, two surgeons lay down on the floor, completely drained yet deeply fulfilled. They had just completed a complex, high-risk brain surgery to remove multiple tumors from a patient’s brain. No fancy celebration, no fanfare - just quiet exhaustion and the weight of what they had achieved. This moment captures more than just fatigue. It speaks to the commitment, precision and relentless focus it takes to do the impossible. Thirty-two hours without rest, holding someone’s life in their hands. The patient survived. The tumors are gone. And the surgeons? They gave everything they had. This is what real heroism looks like. Not in capes, but in scrubs.

The Whisper in the Minarets: The Mossad Agent Who Danced Through Tehran

The Whisper in the Minarets: The Mossad Agent Who Danced Through Tehran 🕯️ This is not a novel. This is not a fantasy. This is the bone-chilling, heart-thudding true story of a woman who turned the tide of war—not with guns or drones, but with silence, charm, and a poisoned pen. Her name was Catherine Perez-Shakdam. She was a paradox wrapped in shadow, a woman whose every step was a calculated defiance of fate. Born in Paris to a secular Jewish family, her blood carried the ancient echoes of Yemen—its deserts, its poetry, its secrets. A scholar of Middle Eastern affairs, she was no stranger to the labyrinth of geopolitics. Her mind was a map of fault lines: Sunni and Shi’a, Persian and Arab, power and betrayal. And then, she did the unthinkable. She converted publicly to Shi’a Islam. She draped herself in the black chador, its folds whispering against the cobblestones of London, then Tehran. She quoted Imam Khomeini with a reverence that could make clerics weep. She bowed her head in the holy city of Qom, her Farsi flawless, her prayers rhythmic, her presence unassuming. But beneath the ink-dipped fingers that penned odes to the Islamic Republic, beneath the veiled eyes that met the gaze of generals’ wives, she was a dagger. A dagger sharpened by Mossad. The Pen That Pierced the Republic Catherine did not storm Tehran with explosives or encrypted radios. She arrived as a thinker—a journalist, a poet, a woman whose words could weave tapestries of loyalty. Her articles graced Press TV, each sentence a carefully crafted hymn to the revolution. Her bylines appeared in the Tehran Times, her prose polished, her allegiance unquestioned. Most chilling of all, her words found their way onto the official website of Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei himself, a digital shrine to the regime’s untouchable power. This was no accident. This was infiltration—surgical, strategic, devastating. Every article she wrote was a thread in a web, spun with precision. She studied the rhythm of Tehran’s streets: the call to prayer echoing from minarets, the clink of teacups in bazaar cafés, the whispered paranoia of a nation under siege. She learned to mirror its pulse. Her chador became her armor, her pen her blade. She was not a spy in the Hollywood sense—no trench coats, no dead drops. She was a ghost who walked in plain sight, her every gesture a performance, her every word a weapon. She wrote of unity, of resistance, of the sanctity of the Islamic Republic. And all the while, her true audience sat thousands of miles away, in a dimly lit room in Tel Aviv, poring over her coded reports. She Sat Among Lions By 2023, Catherine had become a fixture in Tehran’s elite circles. She sipped mint tea in the perfumed courtyards of Isfahan, her laughter mingling with the wives of Revolutionary Guards commanders. She held intellectual salons under the shadow of ancient domes, her voice soft but magnetic, drawing scholars and strategists into her orbit. She was invited into the private compound of President Ebrahim Raisi himself, where she walked with the poise of a believer, her eyes lowered but never blind. She moved through military academies, her bare feet brushing the cool tiles of inner courtyards, her lips murmuring hadiths with a reverence that silenced skeptics. She prayed beside the wives of IRGC generals, her whispered questions about their husbands’ work—so innocent, so empathetic—slipping past their defenses like a breeze. “How does he carry the weight of such responsibility?” she would ask, her voice a velvet blade. “Does he ever find peace at home?” And they would answer. They spoke of routines: the late-night meetings in Karaj, the weekend retreats to private villas in Mazandaran, the hushed arguments over troop movements in Parchin. They shared names—colonels, scientists, shadow operatives of the Quds Force. They revealed fears: the paranoia of surveillance, the dread of betrayal. Catherine listened. Her memory was a vault, her heart a metronome. Every detail—every name, every timetable, every whispered anxiety—was etched into her mind, to be relayed later in fragments, disguised as musings in her articles or casual remarks in coded phone calls. Mossad recorded it all. Operation Shabgard (Nightwalker) On the nights of June 13–14, 2025, the skies above Iran roared with retribution. Israeli airstrikes, guided by intelligence so precise it seemed divine, tore through the heart of the Islamic Republic’s defenses. Esfahan, Natanz, Parchin—names synonymous with Iran’s nuclear ambitions and military might—burned under the weight of surgical devastation. • Eight top IRGC officers, men who had shaped Iran’s regional dominance, were reduced to ash in their beds. • Seven nuclear scientists, architects of a program meant to defy the world, never reached their labs. • Three senior Quds Force commanders, ghosts who had eluded Israeli intelligence for decades, were exposed in a single night. The targets were not just coordinates on a map. They were lives, dissected with surgical precision: the hour a general returned to his villa, the secluded garden where a scientist smoked his evening cigarette, the hammam where a commander lingered too long. This was not satellite intelligence. This was human. Intimate. Devastating. Catherine’s whispers had painted the targets. Her conversations, her overheard snippets, her carefully curated trust had illuminated the Islamic Republic’s darkest corners. She had not fired a shot, but her words had guided the missiles. The Escape As the explosions lit the night sky, Catherine vanished. Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence awoke to chaos, their networks unraveling, their secrets exposed. They scoured her articles, her phone logs, her seemingly innocuous meetings in Karaj and Shiraz. They traced her steps to Qom, to the salons of Isfahan, to the prayer rooms where she had knelt beside their wives. But she was gone, a shadow slipping through their fingers. Her escape was as meticulous as her infiltration. Through the jagged peaks of the Zagros Mountains, under the cover of starless nights, she moved with the silence of a specter. In the Kurdish borderlands, where loyalties shift like sand, she waited in a dried riverbed near Sardasht. At dawn, a Mossad extraction team airlifted her to safety, the thrum of helicopter blades the only sound breaking the stillness. She left no trace. The Ghost in the Minarets Today, Catherine Perez-Shakdam is a phantom. Interpol has no photo of her post-escape. Her Farsi-written blogs, once a beacon of her cover, have been scrubbed from the internet. Her Twitter account, once a tapestry of Khamenei quotes and revolutionary fervor, now leads to a digital void. In Tehran, her name is a curse, whispered in rage by those who trusted her. In Tel Aviv, it is a legend, spoken in hushed awe by those who know the truth. They call her “The Minaret Whisperer.” “The Scribe of the Shadows.” “The Woman Who Burned Qom Without a Matchstick.” This is no James Bond fantasy. This is the raw, unfiltered truth of a woman who wrote herself into the heart of a regime and shattered it from within. Her weapon was trust, earned through years of performance, each smile a sacrifice, each prayer a gamble. Her cover was faith, a mask woven from the very fabric of her enemy’s convictions. Her mission was to disarm a nation—not with bullets, but with the quiet, devastating power of betrayal. And she succeeded. Alone. Unarmed. Unforgettable

At a college reunion

Good morning. Have a great weekend🙏 At a college reunion, a group of successful alumni—now doctors, lawyers, business owners—decided to visit their old professor. They chatted about their careers and families, but soon the conversation shifted to life’s pressures, stress, and constant chasing after more. After listening for a while, the professor smiled and said, “Hold on a minute. I’ll go make us some coffee.” He came back with a large pot and a tray full of cups—none of them matching. Some were fine porcelain, others were plain ceramic, a few were chipped glass mugs, and one even looked like it came from a diner. As everyone reached for a cup, the professor watched in silence. Once they all had coffee in hand, he said: “Notice what just happened. Most of you instinctively reached for the nicest cups—leaving behind the simpler ones. It’s normal to want the best for ourselves, but that’s often where the stress begins.” He gestured toward the cups. “The cup doesn’t make the coffee taste any better. What you really wanted was the coffee. But you still focused on the cup.” Then he paused. “Life is the coffee. Your job, your house, your income, your status—those are just cups. They help contain life, but they don’t define it. And the trouble is, the more we focus on the cup, the more we miss out on the coffee.” He smiled. “Remember, happy people don’t always have the best of everything. But they know how to make the best of what they have.” Have a great day

In a small village in Tuscany

In a small village in Tuscany, there's a bakery that opens every morning at 4:30. No one knows exactly how long it's been there. The smell of fresh bread drifts through the still-dark streets, and every now and then, someone stops by to buy a steaming loaf before heading to work. The baker's name is Mario. He's 74 years old. For 51 years, every single day without missing a morning, he's kneaded, baked, and arranged the loaves on the counter—all by himself. No vacations, no days off. When people ask him why he doesn't retire, he simply replies, "As long as someone needs warm bread in the morning, I'll be here." But what truly moves people isn't just his dedication. It's what he does every Friday, without ever telling anyone. Every Friday at 6:00 a.m., Mario leaves five bags filled with bread and focaccia at the door of the small local preschool—an old building with walls covered in children's drawings. No one sees him, but the teachers know. They found out years ago by checking the security cameras to discover who was leaving the anonymous gift. Once, they tried to thank him, but he only said, "The bread is for those who are growing. I lost my son when he was five. This is how I keep his memory alive." Since that day, every Friday, the children find their "magic bread" waiting for them, and the teachers tell them the story of Mario—without ever saying his name, out of respect. They call him "The Baker of the Heart." A month ago, Mario fell ill. For the first time in half a century, the bakery stayed closed. Word spread throughout the village, and the following Sunday, more than 200 people gathered outside his bakery. Each person held a homemade roll in their hand. In silence, they waited for the light inside to turn on. Mario came out wearing a flour-stained apron, his eyes full of emotion. He said only one thing: "I thought that after all this time, no one would remember me. But you are my warm bread."

Is Marriage a Free license for sex

Marriage is a license for free sex, whenever you want, wherever you want, however you want, show your right over your wife and do it. If you are a girl, then demand from your husband and do it. This is the key to a good married life and why not. As time passed in the youth, friends started getting married. After marriage, when all the friends met, this was the topic of discussion and after listening to them, I used to think when will I get married and when will I get to do it. After some time, the talk of marriage started, there was a strange fear in the mind of leaving the family and also a happiness. When marriage happens, everything runs smoothly. I was married in a middle class family, so everything had to be done by pressing hands. My husband respected me and took care of every small thing of mine, but this does not mean that he never got angry. He would say 4 things in anger. He even said that my life has been ruined by marrying you, but I knew that this is anger. The truth is the opposite. Marriage It had been 5 years, we had a son too, when responsibilities come upon us, the colour of sex and pleasure slowly starts fading And this happens not only with a woman but also with a man and our relationship was going through this phase Then the pandemic hit the country, and my husband who used to work as a manager in a hotel was fired from his job, we spent 2 years with a lot of difficulty, The situation was such that we had to sell Rajma chalwal momos on a scoty But one thing that increased in this stick of sorrow was the dedication of both of us towards each other, a man tries everything so that his family remains happy, but if due to some reason he is not able to do this work then it is not his fault, it is the fault of his situation I had decided, no matter how much I earn, this is my responsibility. Running the house in that, I did that, I did not make any kind of demand for the whole 4 years Anyway men do not know how to do anything for themselves, But because of this dedication and companionship our relationship has become stronger, I have faith in this man that whatever the situation is, if I stay with him, he will come out of it And he too my friend has faith that whatever condition I am in, my wife will run the house and will never leave me, Marriage is done after seeing the good times but no one knows when bad times will come with good times and the one who supports in bad times is the true partner Sex and intercourse after marriage, all this is good, but after a time it fades Marriage is done after seeing the rich and well settled family But I learned in my bad times, that whether there is money or not, whether the family is prosperous or not, for a boy, parents should take time to choose a partner who is true from the heart But nowadays everything is the opposite of this

KARMA

Mon 30 Jun, 22:07 (17 hours ago) to Good Morning!!! KARMA Around the Year with Emmet Fox July 1 Just as like attracts like, so like produces like. This is a cosmic law, which means that it is universally true throughout the whole of existence right up through the higher planes. As Jesus put it, you do not gather grapes from thorns or figs from thistles; and he also said, “Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit” Matthew 7:17 So, it is with our thoughts and words and deeds. As we sow so shall we reap, sometimes almost immediately, sometimes after a long interval. But always, sooner or later like produces like. Reincarnation also explains the differences in talents that we find between one man and another. The born musician is a man who has studied music in a previous life, perhaps in several lives, and has therefore built that faculty into his soul. He is a talented musician today because he is reaping what he sowed yesterday. In the East this law of sowing and reaping is known as karma and the term is a convenient one. Note carefully, however, that karma is not punishment. If you touch a red-hot stove, you will burn your finger. This will hurt you, but it is not punishment, only a benign and reformative consequence, for after one or two such experiences in childhood, you learn to keep your fingers away from hot iron. So, it is with all-natural retribution— you suffer because you have a lesson to learn.

Not sure how much of this Cricket stats is true, but interesting way to look at the depth and terrain each one handled.

Not sure how much of this Cricket stats is true, but interesting way to look at the depth and terrain each one handled. Who is India's greatest Test batsman? Sherlock Holmes concludes his investigation Gavaskar, Tendulkar, Dravid or Kohli? Who is the greatest Indian batter? After a thorough investigation in Part 1, Sherlock Holmes deduced Kohli comes in fourth in this field of four. Readers agreed with Holmes overwhelmingly. In this second and concluding part of his investigation, Holmes narrows in on Dravid, Gavaskar and Sachin to find the greatest. Sherlock Holmes hunts for India’s Greatest Test Batsman. New Delhi,UPDATED: Jun 21, 2025 10:06 IST In the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes’ piercing gaze settled on Dr Watson, who sulked while nursing an espresso. “Why so serious, Watson?” “My favourite, Kohli, is out of the running,” Watson sighed. “Fourth place for the King hurts. Who is next, Holmes? Gavaskar, Tendulkar, or Dravid?” Holmes, pipe in hand, tapped the desk. “Patience, Watson. Deduction demands precision. We now dissect the triumvirate: the saviour (Gavaskar), the destroyer (Tendulkar), and the protector (Dravid).” Watson leaned forward. “Let’s start with Dravid, the Wall. Steady, isn’t he?” Holmes nodded, switching slides. “Observe Rahul Dravid’s record: 13,288 runs, 164 Tests, average 52.31. His SENA average - in South Africa, England, New Zealand, and Australia - is 49.48.” A chart flared up, detailing Dravid’s resilience: 36 centuries, 63 fifties, 21000+ balls faced. Watson whistled. “That’s tenacity. But he’s not flashy. Fans love Tendulkar’s flair or Kohli’s fire.” Holmes’ eyes narrowed. “Triumph of substance over style. Dravid’s 40.84 average in fourth-innings shows steel and fire. He carried India’s middle order through crises.” “Now Tendulkar,” Watson urged. “The Master Blaster. Surely he’s the one?” Holmes’ slide revealed Tendulkar’s journey: 24 years, 15921 runs, 200 Tests, average 53.78, 51 centuries, 68 fifties. SENA average: 51.30, with 17 centuries, the highest for a visiting batsman. “Records are just half the story, Watson. For 24 years, Tendulkar carried the weight of a nation’s expectations, like a mountain on his index finger. When he batted, it felt as if all of India stood with him at the crease.” Watson nodded. “Everyone loves Sachin. Stadiums chanted his name. Sachin-Sachin, the chorus still echoes.” Holmes warned. “Tendulkar’s fourth-innings average, 36.93, trails Dravid’s. His 12 centuries in losses reveal brilliance, but not always impact. But, to carry so much weight for so long requires focus, determination, and nerves of steel.” “Fair point, Holmes. Do you rate him above Dravid?” “Dravid defeated bowlers with defiance. Tendulkar destroyed them with his aggression. Dravid looked to defend, Tendulkar to dominate. Dravid frustrated opponents like an impregnable wall. Bowlers feared Tendulkar’s bat like a thunderbolt; he was their worst nightmare - remember Shane Warne?” Watson chuckled. “Warne, bless him, lost the plot against Tendulkar. Confessed to mid-night visions of Tendulkar dancing down the track.” “Derailed Rawalpindi Express too,” Holmes' gaze wandered into the past. “Tendulkar’s record, his longevity, and fearless cricket make him a modern great. Perhaps the greatest of his generation.” Watson paused, struggling for words. “But not the greatest Indian batter, really, Holmes? I am stumped. You think it’s Sunil Gavaskar - the Little Master?” “I let facts speak,” Holmes said curtly. The projector shifted, displaying Gavaskar’s stats: 10,122 runs, 125 Tests, average 51.12. SENA average: 44.80. “SENA average is underwhelming,” Watson noted. “Watson, it’s unfair to compare Gavaskar with the other three,” Holmes’ words were heavy with nostalgia. “Why so?” “Context, Watson, is the king. A batsman’s greatness is defined not just by records. The quality of the bowlers and playing conditions are equally important. Tougher the test, the greater the achievement.” “Agree. Flat track bullies flatter in India but fizzle outside.” “Right. Gavaskar faced Holding, Marshall, Garner, Roberts without helmets,” Holmes noted. “He took on Lillee, Thomson, and Imran at their peak. Epic. No modern batsman endured such hostility. Thirteen centuries in the West Indies against that ferocious pack. That’s a master taming the giants with a wand.” Watson imagined a famous fight: Joel ‘Big Bird’ Garner hurling the ball from a height of nine feet at the Little Master on the Barbados pitch. A chill ran down his spine. “Gavaskar opened the batting. The new ball was a different beast, especially in the hands of Malcolm Marshall - he was thunder and lightning on the pitch...” “...And Michael Holding was Whispering Death. Tendulkar and Dravid also faced ferocious bowlers - Donald, McGrath, Waqar, Wasim. But, Watson, the Gavaskar era pitches were a different beast.” Watson cupped his chin. “Explain.” “The pitches were a middle ground between fully uncovered and modern ones. Partial covers reduced extreme weather effects, but pitches remained variable, deteriorating quickly and favouring bowlers more than today. Pitches were fast in the West Indies, turning in India, seaming in England, and bouncy in Australia. They tested the versatility of a batsman. Compared with modern pitches, they were less predictable, less batsman-friendly, and more prone to wear.” “Wow,” Watson whistled. “On modern pitches, with today’s protective gear, against bowlers less formidable than the West Indies pace quartet, Gavaskar would have averaged in the 60s.” “Perhaps,” said Holmes. "Test cricket changed a lot in the 90s. Market forces started dominating," he smirked. "TV broadcasters wanted Tests to last at least four days, so they pressed for batter-friendly pitches -- flat, slow and low. On these doctored pitches, flat-track bullies flourished. Averages shot up globally. Gavaskar would have been a relentless run machine on these pitches." Watson scratched his chin. “But only 125 Tests? Tendulkar played 200.” “There was less cricket back then. Also, longevity isn’t everything,” Holmes countered. “Gavaskar’s 70.20 average in the West Indies dwarfs Tendulkar’s 47.69. His 774 runs at an average of 154.80 in the 1971 West Indies tour redefined Indian batting.” “You missed something,” Watson chimed. “Gavaskar’s fourth innings average is 58.25, the highest in the world. He is the only Indian to have scored a double-century in the fourth innings. Phenomenal.” “Elementary, Watson. Batting last is the stiffest challenge. Gavaskar was at his best in the 4th innings. His 221 at The Oval in 1979, the greatest Indian innings in the 4th innings, eclipsed only by the Laxman-Dravid masterclass against Australia. But they were following on, in India.” Holmes picked up his violin and played moodily. “Watson, have you heard of swan songs? Gavaskar’s swan song was his greatest innings. He played it on a minefield in Bangalore.” Watson nodded. “Heard the legend - the ball was wriggling like a serpent, jumping like a mamba.” Holmes smiled. “Apt description. It was 1987, against Pakistan. Gavaskar scored 96, facing 264 balls. The second-highest score was 26. He later said he was in a trance - remembered just two balls. That was his last innings.” “Saved the best for the last, bravo,” Watson mocked a salute. “Great men write their own ending, don’t leave it to fate, Doctor. Sunny could have played longer. Retired at the peak, averaging 58.07 in his final season.” The Verdict Watson’s brow furrowed. “So, who’s ahead? Dravid’s resolve, Gavaskar’s courage, or Tendulkar’s genius?” Holmes leaned back. “It’s tight. Dravid’s consistency, clutch performances, and impact in wins make him formidable. Dravid’s team-first approach - keeping wickets (reguarly in One-Dayers, as standby in Tests), batting anywhere from opening to No. 6 - makes his case solid. Tendulkar’s brilliance, Gavaskar’s courage - equally compelling.” Watson’s impatience broke through. “Don’t play it safe. Give me a name.” Holmes paused, pipe glowing. “Dravid owned England, where the ball swings, but struggled in South Africa. Tendulkar bossed the Aussies, English and Proteas. Gavaskar was the don in West Indies and Pakistan. Tendulkar’s 100 international centuries, unmatched, and Gavaskar’s pioneering defiance against pace tilt the scales. Dravid, unfortunately, loses out. We are left with two.” “Grrr,” Watson feigned anger. “One name. Now.” “Putting a gun to my head, eh? Alright.” Holmes rose from his lounge chair, spread his arms, and bowed theatrically: “Ladies and Gentlemen, I go with Gavaskar, in a photo finish with Tendulkar.” “Blimey,” Watson said. “Gavaskar it is.” “Yes, he’s the greatest because he was fearless. Fought alone, didn’t have the luxury of batting with Dravid, Laxman, Sehwag and Ganguly. In his era, Gavaskar was India. Hope floated with his arrival, faded with his departure, a lone warrior who reshaped a nation’s cricketing destiny.” Watson leapt up. “Shall Iv blog it? Another poll?” “Proceed,” Holmes said, plucking his violin. “But warn your readers: facts, not fandom, crown the champion.”

*Do a good deed*

*Do a good deed* We are all getting old, so everyone should pay attention. Please take a minute to read this article. It may be helpful to you, your family and friends. There was a gathering of old classmates. A lady tripped and fell during a barbecue. Her friends suggested to see a doctor, but she was sure that she was fine. She just tripped on a brick because of her new shoes. The classmates helped her clean up and served her a plate of food. Then she enjoyed the rest of the time with everyone. After the gathering, her husband called to inform everyone that she was sent to the hospital and died at 6pm because she had a stroke during the barbecue. If they knew how to identify the signs of a stroke, she might still be with everyone now. In fact, stroke has precursors and can be prevented. A neurosurgeon said that if he could reach a stroke patient within three hours, he could completely reverse the consequences of a stroke. The secret is to identify the problem of stroke and get the patient treated within three hours, which is not difficult. *To identify a stroke,* let us remember the three steps of *S, T, and R*. Please read and learn! If people around you cannot recognize the signs of a stroke, the stroke patient will suffer severe brain damage. *Just ask three simple questions* *S: (Smile)* Ask the patient to smile The corners of the mouth will droop *T: (Talk)* Ask the patient to say a simple sentence (be organized and coherent) For example: Today is a sunny day. *R: (Raise)* Ask the patient to raise both hands. One hand will fall off Note: Another sign of stroke is: *ask the patient to stick out the tongue*. If the tongue is "bent" or tilted to one side, it is also a sign of stroke. If the patient cannot do any of the above four actions, he should call the ambulance/Hospital immediately and describe the symptoms to the paramedics! A cardiothoracic physician emphasized that If everyone who receives this email can forward ten copies to others, at least one life will be saved. I have done my part! I hope you will do your part too. Please forward and forward! *Give roses to others, and the fragrance will remain on your hands!* *Give this message to others, and the fragrance of virtue will remain in your heart!* Master said: No matter how busy you are, you should put merit-making deeds first! *Blessings to you🌹🙏🏼*