Je was op zoek naar: commn cold (Engels - Tamil)

cold
sali pidichuruku

lung cold
nenju chali

common cold
தடிமன்

cold,cough.
cute

cold pressed oil
chekku nalla ennai

aavi pidithal for cold
aavi pidithal for cold

enaku cold romba pudichirukku
enaku cold romba pudichirukku

but boiling and intensely cold water,
கொதிக்கும் நீரையும் சீழையும் தவிர.

they will not feel cold nor taste any drink
அவர்கள் அதில் குளிர்ச்சியையோ, குடிப்பையோ சுவைக்கமாட்டார்கள்.

the food is not hot or the food has become cold
aari poochu

due to cold i am not able to come tomorrow
என்னால் நாளை வர முடியாது

all this. let them taste it—boiling and bitter cold.
இது (தீயோர்களுக்காக) ஆகவே அவர்கள் அதனைச் சுவைத்துப் பார்க்கட்டும் - கொதிக்கும் நீரும்; சீழும் ஆகும்.

the food has gone cold. or. it's no longer hot.
உணவு ஆறிப் போச்சு

save a boiling fluid and a fluid, dark, murky, intensely cold,
கொதிக்கும் நீரையும் சீழையும் தவிர.

here is a boiling and an ice-cold draught, so let them taste it,
இது (தீயோர்களுக்காக) ஆகவே அவர்கள் அதனைச் சுவைத்துப் பார்க்கட்டும் - கொதிக்கும் நீரும்; சீழும் ஆகும்.

reclining upon couches, they will find therein neither the heat of the sun nor bitter, biting cold,
அவர்கள் அங்குள்ள ஆசனங்களில் சாய்ந்து (மகிழ்ந்து) இருப்பார்கள்; சூரியனையோ, கடுங் குளிரையோ அதில் அவர்கள் காணமாட்டார்கள்.

reclining in it, upon thrones; they will not see the hot sunshine in it, nor the bitter cold.
அவர்கள் அங்குள்ள ஆசனங்களில் சாய்ந்து (மகிழ்ந்து) இருப்பார்கள்; சூரியனையோ, கடுங் குளிரையோ அதில் அவர்கள் காணமாட்டார்கள்.

reclining therein upon couches, they will find there neither (heat of) a sun nor bitter cold.
அவர்கள் அங்குள்ள ஆசனங்களில் சாய்ந்து (மகிழ்ந்து) இருப்பார்கள்; சூரியனையோ, கடுங் குளிரையோ அதில் அவர்கள் காணமாட்டார்கள்.

"turn cold, o fire," we said, "and give safety to abraham."
(இப்ராஹீம் தீக்கிடங்கில் எறியப்பட்டவுடன்) "நெருப்பே! இப்ராஹீம் மீது நீ குளிர்ச்சியாகவும், சுகமளிக்கக் கூடியதாகவும், ஆகிவிடு!" என்று நாம் கூறினோம்.

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