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Bhagavad-Gita in HindiBhagavad Gita is knowledge of five basic truths and the relationship of each truth to the other: These five truths are Krishna, or God, the individual soul, the material world, action in this world, and time. The Gita lucidly explains the nature of consciousness, the self, and the universe. It is the essence of India's spiritual wisdom.Bhagavad Gita, is a part of the 5th Veda (written by Vedavyasa - ancient Indian saint) and Indian Epic - Mahabharata. It was narrated for th

Stale airport air clung to my throat like cheap perfume as I stared at the departure board mocking me with crimson DELAYED signs. Six hours. Six godforsaken hours in fluorescent purgatory with screaming toddlers and broken charging ports. My shoulders were concrete blocks from hauling luggage through security chaos, and my phone showed 12% battery with no charger in sight. That's when my thumb brushed against the forgotten icon – a grinning comedy mask – installed during some optimistic travel p

Rain lashed against the cabin windows like a thousand impatient fingers, trapping eight of us inside with nothing but fading small talk and the oppressive smell of wet wool. My cousin Jake fumbled with his phone, muttering about "digital salvation" while the rest of us exchanged glances heavy with unspoken dread. When he thrust the screen toward me, its neon interface glowed like a distress beacon in the gloom. "Pick a category, any category!" he demanded. I tapped "80s Movies" with dripping ske

Rain lashed against my window as I stared at the rejection notice for my third visitation request. Sixteen months without seeing Jamie's face had carved hollows in my chest where laughter used to live. Paper forms felt like cruel jokes - "Please provide inmate number" typed over tear-blurred ink, "Visiting hours full" stamped across my desperation. Then my phone buzzed with Sarah's frantic text: "Download Prison Video NOW - approved for HMP Belmarsh!"

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The stale air in my Brooklyn apartment had grown teeth during those endless isolation weeks. Every morning, I'd trace the cracks in the plaster with restless eyes - those barren expanses mocking my drained creativity. My fingers itched to tear down the beige monotony when I stumbled upon an icon resembling spilled watercolors. Installation felt like cracking open a window after monsoon season.

I'll never forget that sweltering Tuesday when my AC died mid-heatwave. Sweat glued my shirt to my spine as I fumbled with ancient thermostat dials, cursing under my breath. The thermostat's cracked display blinked like a mocking eye while indoor temperatures hit 90°F – same as the sidewalk outside. That plastic box became my personal hell, a useless relic in my palm as my dog panted in distress by my feet. Pure, sticky rage simmered in my throat that day.

Hotel room darkness pressed against my eyelids as I jolted awake, chest constricting like a vice. That familiar metallic taste flooded my mouth - not the romantic kind from Parisian wine earlier, but the terrifying signature of my asthma declaring war. My fingers scrambled across the nightstand, knocking over water glasses as I desperately fumbled through my wallet's plastic jungle. Insurance cards? Buried beneath loyalty programs from stores I'd never revisit. Each wheezing breath felt like inh

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Teeth chattering as frost painted my windows that December midnight, I cursed the ancient radiator's metallic groans. My drafty London flat felt like a meat locker despite the thermostat cranked to max. That's when my phone buzzed - not a message, but a crimson alert from the EDF energy hub. A jagged consumption spike tore across the graph like lightning. My sleepy brain scrambled: Had I left the oven on? Was some appliance short-circuiting? The app's real-time monitoring showed £2.80 bleeding a

Rain lashed against my studio windows at 3 AM, mirroring the storm brewing in my chest as I squinted at blurred floor plans. The client needed revised kitchen elevations by dawn, but every screenshot from the 80-page PDF spat out pixelated garbage where measurement markers should've been. My knuckles whitened around the mouse - each failed attempt stripping another layer of professionalism away until I was just a sleep-deprived architect ready to hurl my laptop into the thunder.

Rain lashed against the minivan windows as we crawled through interstate traffic, the scent of stale fries and wet dog permeating the air. In the backseat, my seven-year-old fidgeted with mounting restlessness, kicking the passenger seat with rhythmic thuds that echoed my pounding headache. "I'm booooored," she whined for the seventeenth time, crumpling a math worksheet against her booster seat. That's when I remembered the blue icon buried in my phone's education folder – our last hope against

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Rain lashed against my bedroom window as I crumpled my third failed physics quiz, ink bleeding through the damp paper like my dissolving confidence. That friction coefficient problem haunted me - no matter how many textbook diagrams I stared at, it remained as incomprehensible as hieroglyphics. Desperation tasted metallic when I finally downloaded Tutopia at 2 AM, skepticism warring with exhaustion. What unfolded next wasn't just learning; it was witchcraft disguised as education.

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Another Friday night hunched over cold cardboard containers, chopsticks scraping against synthetic noodles while guilt curdled in my stomach like spoiled milk. My kitchen mocked me with pristine appliances gathering dust - that air fryer still had its factory sticker clinging on like a badge of shame. Five consecutive nights of greasy delivery, each meal blurring into a tasteless void. I'd stare at recipe blogs only to slam my laptop shut when faced with exotic ingredients measured in grams and

Rain lashed against the taxi window as Madrid's chaotic traffic swallowed us whole. I gripped my phone, knuckles white, replaying the airport security guard's rapid-fire question about my laptop bag – my tongue had twisted into useless knots while he sighed at another clueless tourist. That metallic taste of shame still lingered when I discovered golingo later that night, huddled in a dim hostel bunk. No cartoon birds or vocabulary drills here; the app flung open digital shutters to reveal a buz

The scent of damp cardboard filled our cramped studio as my wife traced another mold stain on the ceiling - our third flooded apartment in rainy Hamburg. That evening, I slammed my laptop shut after scrolling through endless listings showing shoebox apartments or bait-and-switch luxury condos. My knuckles whitened around my phone until I remembered Markus mentioning that blue jet icon at work. With zero expectations, I tapped it.

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