Vous avez cherché: wasting syndrome (Anglais - Tamoul)

food wasting
உணவு வீணாகிறது

extrapyramidal syndrome
எக்ஸ்ட்ராபிரமைடல் நோய்க்குறி

down's syndrome
தமிழ் மொழிபெயர்ப்பு சேவை இலவச ஆன்லைன் ஆங்கிலம்

polycystic ovarian syndrome
பாலிசிஸ்டிக் ஓவேரியன் சிண்ட்ரோம்

we humans are wasting it
இயற்கை மிகவும் விலைமதிப்பற்றது

wasting your time in vanities?
அலட்சியமாகவும் நீங்கள் இருக்கின்றீர்கள்.

asperger syndrome meaning in tamil
ஆஸ்பெர்ஜர் நோய்க்குறி தமிழில் அர்த்தம்

“time you enjoy wasting was not wasted.
"அனுபவித்து வீணாக்கும் நேரம் வீணாகுவதில்லை.

guillain barre syndrome symptoms in tamil m
தமிழ் எம் இல் குய்லின் பாரே நோய்க்குறி அறிகுறிகள்

kalam is golden, so i urge you to read without wasting time
கலாம் பொன்போன்றது, எனவே நேரத்தை வீணடிக்காமல் அனைவரும் படிக்குமாறு கேட்டுக்கொள்கிறேன்

wasting your (precious) lifetime in pastime and amusements (singing, etc.).
அலட்சியமாகவும் நீங்கள் இருக்கின்றீர்கள்.

or that he will not seize them with a gradual wasting? lo! thy lord is indeed full of pity, merciful.
அல்லது. அவர்கள் அஞ்சிக் கொண்டிருக்கும் பொழுதே (அல்லாஹ்) அவர்களைப் பிடிக்கமாட்டான் (என்று அச்சமற்றவர்களாக இருக்கிறார்களா?) நிச்சயமாக உங்கள் இறைவன் இரக்கமுடையவன்; பெருங் கிருபையுடையவன்.

or that he may catch them with gradual wasting (of their wealth and health). truly! your lord is indeed full of kindness, most merciful?
அல்லது. அவர்கள் அஞ்சிக் கொண்டிருக்கும் பொழுதே (அல்லாஹ்) அவர்களைப் பிடிக்கமாட்டான் (என்று அச்சமற்றவர்களாக இருக்கிறார்களா?) நிச்சயமாக உங்கள் இறைவன் இரக்கமுடையவன்; பெருங் கிருபையுடையவன்.

i'm doing nothingi had been staying with a friend of mine, an artist and delightfully lazy fellow, at his cottage among the yorkshire fells, some ten miles from a railway-station; and as we had been fortunate enough to encounter a sudden spell of really warm weather, day after day we had set off in the morning, taken the nearest moorland track, climbed leisurely until we had reached somewhere about two thousand feet above sea-level, and had then spent long golden afternoon lying flat on our backs – doing nothing. there is no better lounging place than a moor. it is a kind of clean bare antechamber to heaven. beneath its apparent monotony that offers no immediate excitement, no absorbing drama of sound and colour, there is subtle variety in its slowly changing patterns of cloud and shadow and tinted horizons, sufficient to keep up a flicker of interest in the mind all day. with its velvety patches, no bigger than a drawing-room carpet, of fine moorland grass, its surfaces invite repose. its remoteness, its permanence, its old and sprawling indifference to man and his concerns, rest and cleanse the mind. all the noises of the world are drowned in the one monotonous cry of the curlew. day after day, then, found us full-stretched upon the moor, looking up at the sky or gazing dreamily at the distant horizon. it is not strictly true, of course, to say that we did absolutely nothing, for we smoked great quantities of tobacco, ate sandwiches and little sticks of chocolate, drank from the cold bubbling streams that spring up from nowhere, gurgle for a few score yards, then disappear again. occasionally we exchanged a remark to two. but we probably came as close to doing nothing as it is possible for two members of our race. we made nothing, not even any plans; not a single idea entered our heads; we did not even indulge in that genial boasting which is the usual pastime of two friendly males in conference. somewhere, far away, our friends and relatives were humming and bustling, shaping and contriving, planning, disputing, getting, spending; but we were gods, solidly occupied in doing nothing, our minds immaculate vacancies. but when our little hour of idling was done and we descended for the last time, as flushed as sunsets, we came down into this world of men and newspaper owners only to discover that we had just been denounced by mr gordon selfridge. when and where he had been denouncing us i do not know. nor do i know what hilarious company had invited and received his conferences. strange things happen at this season, when the unfamiliar sun ripens our eccentricities. it was only last year or the year before that some enterprising person who had organized a conducted tour to the continental arranged, as bait for the more intellectual holiday-makers, that a series if lectures should be given to the party by eminent authors at various places en route. the happy tourists set out, and their conductor was as good as his word, for behold – at the very first stopping-place dean inge gave them an address on the modern love of pleasure. but whether mr selfridge had been addressing a crowd of holiday-makers or a solemn conference of emporium owners, i do not know, but i do know that he said that he hated laziness more than anything else and held it the greatest of sins. i believe too that he delivered some judgment on persons who waste time, but i have forgotten his reasons and instances and, to be frank, would count it a disgraceful waste of time to discover again what they were. mr selfridge did not mention us by name, but it is hardly possible to doubt that he had us in mind throughout his attack on idleness. perhaps he had had a frantic vision of the pair of us lying flat on our backs on the moor, wasting time royally while the world’s work waited to be done, and, incidentally, to be afterwards bought and sold in mr selfridge’s store. i hope he had, for the sight should have done him good; we are a pleasing spectacle at any time, but when we are doing nothing it would do any man’s heart good to see us, even in the most fragmentary and baffling vision.
நான் ஒன்றும் செய்வதில்லை