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Subrat SaurabhAuthor of Kuch Woh PalHe is a 14-year-old. He studies in 9th class and of course doesn’t have any qualification papers. Once someone said to him, “ You need a degree to make your work be read”. Smiled and “Let’s see” he replied. I have a lot to say about him, but it doesn’t matter what he is. A schoolboy or a qualified professional. Or does it matter? He has a vision of which this is his first step. And now, ‘Let’s see…’Read More...
He is a 14-year-old. He studies in 9th class and of course doesn’t have any qualification papers. Once someone said to him, “ You need a degree to make your work be read”. Smiled and “Let’s see” he replied. I have a lot to say about him, but it doesn’t matter what he is. A schoolboy or a qualified professional. Or does it matter? He has a vision of which this is his first step. And now, ‘Let’s see…’
Read Less...Achievements
In the sky there were night and day together, feeling the presence of both he was walking. The night was blowing with quiet and cold winds, in the burning land of the day the water was sprinkling in the ground, the fire did not extinguish, but the smoke started to flow in the night, which was softly shining in the moonlight. Just another walkway arrived there as evening, where he saw the melting blood from a dry paper on the ground, the scene that someone has
In the sky there were night and day together, feeling the presence of both he was walking. The night was blowing with quiet and cold winds, in the burning land of the day the water was sprinkling in the ground, the fire did not extinguish, but the smoke started to flow in the night, which was softly shining in the moonlight. Just another walkway arrived there as evening, where he saw the melting blood from a dry paper on the ground, the scene that someone has drowned himself in it. Musafir picked up the paper and kept it with him. Then, while flowing through life, another walkway sparkled in the sky, the afternoon. Which was seeming as shining dews fell on the grass of wet ground? Feeling through the beauty of it, he noticed a pen. And again picked it up. This all was probably dropped by someone on the ways, someone who has walked these before. Musaafir then emerged the pen and paper and began to write the time he felt. On the way in which he felt, what he saw, he wrote ...
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