The Paralympics

Potential resource is like our monsoon water, *jab tak barish nahi hoti*, it's just a possibility. Developed resource is our suburban railway, *kaam ho gaya* and we use it daily. Stock we cannot use yet, like all the sunlight in a day—no battery to store it. Reserve we have but save for later, like our backup generator's diesel. But in Mumbai, theory and practice are different, beta. During loadshedding, the "developed" power grid is useless, and my "reserve" inverter battery becomes my real resource. The renewable versus non-renewable debate is for planners; for me in a dark flat, the resource is whatever gives light *abhi ke abhi*. Take care, beta.

Potential, stock aur reserve resources ka theory toh hamare coaching modules mein padh rahe hain. Lekin mere pitaji ke khet mein, potential matlab wo pani jo bhitar hai, stock matlab jo handpump se nikalta hai, aur reserve wo hai jo sookhe saal mein bhi bacha ke rakhna padta hai. Renewable hai toh monsoon ka pani, non-renewable wo purana groundwater jo lagataar kam ho raha hai. Isi liye kehte hain, kitabon mein sab alag alag cheezein hain, par zameen par yeh sab ek hi chiz ka naam hai: jeevan.

Potential resource astaat jaminivar, pan apan tyacha upyog kart nahi. Developed mhanje tyavar kam suru, stock mhanje aaplyakade bharpur matra, pan reserve mhanje nukki hisob kiti kashat kami shakto. Ha sarva vichar khol-kholun theva, karan majhya shetavar solar pump ghalnyapasun mala konala 'potential' lakshat yete ani konala 'reserve' samjat nahi.

Potential resources are what the earth holds in its sleep, like wind before turbines. Developed resources are what we have woken and put to work, like the river after the dam. Stock we cannot use yet for lack of a way; reserve we can use, but choose to save for tomorrow. In my father’s hardware shop, there is a whole shelf of brass fittings—potential. The few we keep near the counter are developed. The rusty box of old machine parts, that is stock; I keep it not because it is useful now, but because one day, someone may know how to repair with it. That is the real reserve.

Potential resources are those we know exist, like the bauxite in these hills, but cannot yet use. Developed resources are what we are actively mining, the pits where the earth is raw and open. Stock resources are available but lack the technology, like low-grade ores we must leave behind. Reserves are the proven part of the stock we can economically extract today. And renewable? Here, it is the sun that bleaches the drying laundry by the colony, and the trees we are told to replant. The ore body is not. It diminishes with each truck that leaves the gate, a subtraction I measure in my reports. My life is in the accounting of that which does not grow back.

Potential is a dream—like the clay still in the riverbank. Developed is what we use now, like the tiles I fire. Stock is the clay we could use but don't, and reserves… reserves are what the big companies have counted and marked for taking, until the riverbank is gone. I hear the trucks hauling away laterite reserves for resorts, and my *aie*’s well runs dry sooner each summer. Renewable means nothing if you don't leave enough to renew.

ER, PR, and HER2 are like the settings on my Casio—they tell doctors what kind of breast cancer it is and which treatment tracks to play. My sister, with her metro insurance, got her tests done smooth, but back home in Meghalaya, I've seen aunties struggle without even knowing what these terms mean. So while insurance makes it sound straightforward, the reality in our hills is a different rhythm altogether.

ये तीनों शब्द ब्रेस्ट कैंसर की बायोप्सी रिपोर्ट में आते हैं – ER और PR हॉर्मोन रिसेप्टर्स हैं, HER2 एक प्रोटीन है। इनका पता होना इसलिए ज़रूरी है क्योंकि इसी से तय होता है कि कीमोथेरेपी के अलावा हॉर्मोन थेरेपी या टार्गेटेड थेरेपी काम करेगी या नहीं। मेरी ओपीडी में अक्सर मरीज़ इन शब्दों से डर जाते हैं, पर मैं समझाता हूँ कि यही तो वो चाबी है जो सही इलाज का ताला खोलती है। जब एक बुजुर्ग माँ ने अपनी रिपोर्ट में 'ER पॉज़िटिव' पढ़कर पूछा "क्या यह अच्छा है?", तो मैंने कहा – हाँ, इसका मतलब है आपके पास एक कम ज़हरीला रास्ता भी है।

ଆମ ଷ୍ଟେଟର କ୍ୟାନସର ଔଷଧ ତାଲିକାରେ, ER, PR ଆଉ HER2 ମାନେ କେଉଁ ଔଷଧ କାମ କରିବ ଆଉ କେଉଁଟା ବରବାଦି ଟଙ୍କା ହେବ। ଏହି ତିନୋଟି ଚିହ୍ନ ଦେଖି ମୁଁ ଏକ ଗାଁର ମଣିଷକୁ ଦୁଇ ହଜାର ଟଙ୍କା ବଞ୍ଚାଇବା, କିମ୍ବା ଏକ ସିଟି ହସ୍ପିଟାଲକୁ ଦଶ ଲକ୍ଷ ଦେବା ବାବଦରେ ନିଷ୍ପତ୍ତି ନେଉଛି। ମୋର ବାପା ଯେତେବେଳେ ଚାଉଳ ଚିଲିମ ଭରେ, ସେ କହନ୍ତି: "ଠିକ୍ ଜାଗାରେ ଟଙ୍କା ପାଣି ପଡ

Ah, these letters...they come on the papers from the big hospital in Mumbai. The doctors say ER, PR, HER2—they are like the blueprints for the medicine. They tell which storm your boat is in, so they know which rope to throw. For me, they only mean one price tag. My wife’s report, it said HER2 positive. Good, they said, there is a targeted treatment. But that medicine cost is like a monsoon that never ends, *saiba*. So those letters, to me, they are just different winds blowing the same roof off our house.

ER, PR, HER2—they are like labels on medicine bottles, telling doctors which treatment will stick. They said my HER2 was positive, so the targeted therapy should have been my perfect fix. But my cancer came back anyway, yenri, like idli batter that ferments even in the cold. So these markers give a map, but the body sometimes takes its own road :-)

In the government hospital, the doctor said ER, PR, and HER2 are tests on the cancer itself, like checking which doors it uses to grow. They said it helps choose the medicine. But I tell you, knowing these letters did not bring the medicine faster. We waited six months for the report, while my sister knitted a shawl, each stitch a prayer for the paper to arrive.

Lah, ka ten biogeographic zones, kum ka Trans-Himalayan ne ka Western Ghats, ia kine ka matter namar kiei kiei baroh ki organism ki dei shaphang ka jingthaw ia ka ïing. Haba nga iohi ki e-mail jong ka Wildlife Institute of India, nga sngewthuh ba ka jingpyrkhat jong ki mynta ka don katta katta kum ka jingsdang khlaw. Nga shem ba ka jingiathuh khana ha Chennai ka leh ïoh khubor noh shuh shaphang kaei ka jingsngewthuh kynja-jingthaw ha ka hima jong nga, ha kaba ki hima ki long kum ki khiewsnam.

From up here in Ladakh, in the cold desert of the Trans-Himalayas, I'd say those ten zones on paper are less important than the one zone you're standing in. What matters is understanding the specific mountains, the specific *jhol* of a valley, that a snow leopard calls home. My life is showing tourists that our single, fragile ecosystem doesn't fit neatly into a zone; its protection comes from the *changthangi* herder knowing his pasture, not just a map. The zones matter for big policies, but the wildlife survives on local gaze, on seeing the light change on a cliff face and knowing what belongs there.

Actually, the mainland's ten zones feel distant from our reality here. In the Andamans, we see just two zones intensely: the Himalayan zone's concepts don't protect our mangrove crabs or the Nicobar megapode. What matters is the unique *mix* – the Coastal and Island zones colliding – that mainland frameworks often overlook. From my dinghy, counting dugongs, I see that wildlife protection here fails when it uses a broad zone map instead of listening to why our local fishermen avoid a specific seagrass bed.

India has ten zones, from the Himalayas to the coasts, and they matter because a tiger in the Sundarbans needs a different plan than one in Ranthambore. My life in Mumbai, though, says we’re forgetting the biggest zone: the coast itself. Our mangroves are being flattened for towers, and the sea is eating the shore. So for us, all those zones mean little if we don’t save our own, borshaa already brings the sea into the street.

Arre, ten zones? In my father's time we knew just two — jungle and field. All this map-drawing from Delhi matters less than whether the local pond still has frogs or if the neem outside my shop still gives shade to sparrows. What I see is when they built the big road, the birds that ate the caterpillars on my cotton cloths went away. So these zones matter only if they keep the bulldozer from the trees where the birds live.

In my boots on the ground, the official ten zones—from the Trans-Himalayan to the Islands—matter because they are the blueprint for understanding where one ecosystem’s whisper ends and another’s roar begins. But I’ve seen the Western Ghats bleed into the Deccan Peninsula, maps fading under canopy; this rigid zoning sometimes misses the sacred, living corridors my elephants use. I fight not for zones on paper, but for the forgotten paths between them, where a tusker’s trail tells a truer story than any border.

Now, in a cash flow statement, both interest received and dividends received are classified as cash flows from *operating activities* under AS 3. That's the standard practice, and it's what I'd look for first. But from my days reviewing real company statements, I must disagree—a well-run company generating significant investment income often classifies these under *investing activities*, treating them as returns on investments, which I find gives a clearer picture of core operating performance. You see, I've sat across the table from too many directors who used operating cash flow to dress up a weak core business with passive income. The damp in my old office walls taught me to look for the seepage others try to paint over.

Beta, interest aur dividend dono ka cash flow statement mein alag-alag thikana hai. Interest jo hum dein, woh operating activities mein aata hai, lekin dividend hum shareholders ko denge toh woh financing activities mein daalna. Maine yeh tab seekha jab maine apne khet ke liye chhote sa loan ke cash flow ko khud likhne ki koshish ki thi. Meri halat dekh kar toh lagta hai, interest dena toh roz ki kheti jaisa hai, operating hi lagega.

okay so in ISC cash flow, interest paid and dividends paid go under financing activities, but dividends received and interest received are in operating. that's the textbook rule. but literally my own boutique's cash flow? i clump all interest under financing because my bank statements show loan interest as a financing cost and it's easier to audit that way. i tried separating once for a project and it gave me a headache, so now i keep it simple.

Ah, the textbook will tell you both are cash flows from operating activities. But in my practice, preparing cash flows for the co-op, I've always classified dividend received as operating, but interest received as investing. It aligns the statement with our reality—the grain storage bonds are an investment, and their return should sit there. My ledger for the co-op shows it plainly, season after season.

Interest aur dividend dono operating cash flow mein aate hain, par ek chhota farak hai. Interest jo hum pay karte hain woh financing activity mein jaata hai, lekin jo hum receive karte hain woh operating activity mein aata hai. Dividend received bhi operating mein hi aayega, par dividend paid financing activity mein dikhayenge. Mera didi ke nursing course ki fees bharti ke liye, main roz ek chhota hissa bachata hoon... cash inflow aur outflow ki yeh feeling mujhe aati rehti hai.

In ISC, as per AS-3, interest and dividend received are cash flows from investing activities. But dividend paid is a financing activity, and interest paid can be operating or financing—this is where my coaching class notes get messy! Honestly, I just spent last week sorting my bakery's cash flow into 'operating' (flour), 'investing' (new oven), and 'financing' (my son's loan), so this AS-3 talk feels like my kitchen accounts, just with bigger words.

Ah, the difference is in the paperwork, not the potency. A drug needs costly trials, but an ayurvedic proprietary medicine slips through as 'traditional' with milder claims. A nutraceutical calls itself 'food' and whispers about wellness. My life says it is a clever dodge: my own pain ointment is labelled 'ayurvedic', so it avoids the price of a 'drug'. But for my back, the relief is the same—only my wallet feels the difference.

See, ayurvedic proprietary medicines need their own license and can mention "treatment" but avoid modern medical terms. Nutraceuticals are just supplements with "health support" claims, not disease cures :-) The real difference? Marketing budgets and which officer you know. I push nutraceuticals, so I package the same tulsi as "immunity support" instead of "for cough," and it sells faster near tech parks. My son’s fees depend on this thin line.

Legally? They become "ayurvedic" or "nutraceutical" by slipping through a crack in the Drugs and Cosmetics Act—less testing, easier licensing. They can claim to "support" or "maintain" health, never to "cure." But the street knows they are sold as cures anyway. My life says the label is just a cheaper tin. I bought a "nutraceutical" for joint pain from a respected shop; it gave me such a stomach fire I missed three court dates. The chemist just shrugged, "Maybe it was too strong for you, tampha." No one asks what was really inside.

Beta, asli fark license aur claims ka hai. Ayurvedic proprietary medicines ko AYUSH ki manufacturing license chahiye aur woh "rog" thik karne ka claim kar sakte hain, jabki nutraceuticals FSSAI ke tahat aate hain aur sirf "poshan" ya health support ka daawa kar sakte hain. Main roz aise labels check karta hoon jo bewakoofi se "diabetes cure" likh dete hain nutraceutical product pe — phir pakda jaane par factory band karwani padti hai.

The classification hinges on the intended use and pharmacological proof: drugs claim to treat or prevent disease, requiring rigorous clinical trials, while Ayurvedic proprietary medicines and nutraceuticals, often based on historical or nutritional premises, cannot claim to diagnose, treat, or cure specific ailments. In the lab, I see formulations escape drug status by leveraging traditional texts or nutritional components, bypassing the stringent efficacy evidence required for a synthetic drug. This frustrates me because I’ve tested some “herbal proprietary” compounds in cell cultures and found zero pharmacological activity—they sail through on a technicality, not proof. My ambition to be a scientist born from a fishing village means I value the hard evidence of the net’s catch, not just the story of the sea.

In our hills, it's not about papers from Delhi, la? It becomes medicine when our elders have always known it to be one, like a certain root for fever or a leaf for the gut. These new 'nutraceutical' words... they feel like city ways to sell our old knowledge in bottles, ya know? What I see from my porch is the same tulsi plant my grandmother uses—no claim needed, just life.

Tropic of Cancer bharat ke beech se guzarti hai, isliye humara desh ka aadha hissa tropical zone mein aata hai aur aadha subtropical mein — yahi ek solid line humare mausam ki riti badalti hai, jaise ki garmi ki hadd aur barsaat ka pattern. Parantu India ko "tropical monsoon" kyun kehte hain, iska kaaran sirf latitud nahi balki Himalaya ki deewar aur samundar se aayi hui hawaon ka mel hai, jo ek alag tarah ka mausam chakra banati hai. Main jab apne computer model par dekhti hoon, toh woh dikhata hai ki yeh monsoon ki chaal kheti-waali ke liye kitni nirnayak hai. Mujhe yaad aata hai jab aam ka bhav badhta hai, toh main sochti hoon ki meri chutney ki dukaan kis tarah isi barsaat ki meherbani par chalti hai.

The Tropic of Cancer cuts through the middle, so they say it gives India this hot tropical sun. And the monsoon winds do the rest. But I tell you, I came in December from Gangtok, and in Delhi I shivered in a jacket I bought from a street vendor—where was this 'tropical' then? It decided my trip was all wrong. My life is a night shift, and my only sun is that 6 AM breakfast with my wife; I know about missing the right season.

This Tropic of Cancer line decides that our Rajasthan sun will roast you like a chapati on a tawa. It makes the north tropical, yes. But 'tropical monsoon'? That old name makes the rains sound so reliable. From my balcony, I watch the geraniums thirst. The rains now are all *jugaad*—either a flood or a no-show, never the steady rhythm my father remembered.

Here in Ladakh, that Tropic of Cancer line they draw seems a distant theory. It may decide some 'tropical' label for the south, but my truth is a high-altitude desert with biting cold and just whispers of monsoon. We call our climate *Trans-Himalayan*, because the mountains decide everything, blocking those rains the 'tropical monsoon' name relies on. My proof is our apricot trees, which thirst not for monsoon clouds but for the precise meltwater from our glacial streams.

वो रेखा कागज़ पर ठीक है, पर मेरी खिड़की से दिखता सागर और गरम, नम हवा असलियत बताती है। यहाँ मानसून ही साल का ढांचा है, बाकी सब "गर्मी" और "थोड़ी कम गर्मी" ही है। मेरी किताबें नमी से मुड़ जाती हैं, यही सबूत है कि यह तट उस रेखा से नहीं, बारिश की लय से चलता है।

Tropic of Cancer mein thoda garmi zyada rehti hai, lekin yeh monsoon ki baarish sab jagah barabar nahi hoti. Humare yahan "tropical monsoon" ka matlab sirf june-july ki chhataal hai, baaki samay sookha. Is saal toh kharif ke fasal mar gaye, kyonki baarish calendar ke hisaab se nahi, apni marzi se aayi.

At the morning assembly, my students and I listened to the Paralympic medal count on the radio, just a crackly voice between announcements. Renu, who struggles with her small left hand to hold a pencil, looked up and whispered, "Didi, they won it for all of us." We'll make a welcome chart for them tomorrow, with every name spelled in big, bright letters.

Trying to cut a hype edit for the latest Valorant tourney and my laptop fan sounds like it's prepping for liftoff. Reminds me of the insane focus on a para-athlete's face right before their race – that raw, quiet grind nobody broadcasts. Makes my all-nighters feel soft, ngl.

aaj subah Kamla ji ke baal karate waqt unke bete ne TV par ek para athlete ko bhaagte dekha. uske baad wo pooch rahi thi ki itni badi kamiyu ke bawejood ye log itna bada mauka kaise jeet lete hain? maine kaha, bahin, jis din aap apni takleef ko apni taakat samjhoge, us din aap bhi gold jeetoge.

Yara, aaj market se aate waqt radio pe suna ki ek Punjab da putt ne shotput mein medal jittiya! Usde coach ne kiha si, 'Sirf haathi nahi, dil vi chahida.' Waah ji...mere dukaan de samne wala transformer phir kharab ho gaya si, par kal subah tak theek karna baitha. Koi v ek insaan di himmat de age, bijli di kami kuchh vi nahi.

You know, sometimes I look at these para athletes and think of the old silk in my godown—every thread has a story, a tear, a repair. But what they weave from it is stronger and more beautiful than any untouched fabric. My own father taught me to measure strength by how you rise after the fall, not by the cloth you sell.

Those athletes on the TV, their spirit reminds me of my own tired knee at the end of a long delivery. To push past that pain and win a medal for the country... achha, it's a different kind of strength, yaar. I listen to their stories on the morning radio sometimes, when the cricket is not on.

My students drew the winners' podium today, and little Ramesh insisted on adding a wheelchair beside each figure. In our one-room schoolhouse, we listened to the medal updates on my old radio, and I thought about how much bigger their world becomes when they see all kinds of bodies being celebrated.

Watched the para powerlifting livestream instead of my ranked grind last night. The way Singh Sir locked out that 190kg bench had me yelling like it was a clutch play, bro. Felt weird sitting there with my energy drink, thinking my 'grind' is just pixels.

In my shop, I had the Paralympics on my old transistor radio while fixing its dial—what a vaah-vaah moment when the commentary described that long jump! My heart swelled like my dahlia buds, thinking how these athletes grow triumph from such tough ground. Truly, they are winning medals and also winning over our quiet afternoons.

My uncle's bluetooth speaker keeps cutting out, but we heard the anthem play clear as day when our para swimmer won. We all clapped so hard in our little stall, the cutlets jumped in the pan.

There's a new crack in the kiln that looks exactly like the javelin thrower’s arm on that poster from last games—a stubborn, powerful line. My own little studio catastrophe makes me think of the classifications I don’t understand and the finishes the news channels skip. Haaye, ki bolbo, maybe both are about finding strength in what others see as a flaw.

Today I was fixing a button on a school uniform, thinking how every stitch has to be just right for the whole thing to hold. It made me remember reading about the classification system for our Paralympians—the careful, precise work to make sure the competition is fair, so pure talent can shine. Like a perfect buttonhole, it's a quiet, essential kind of respect.

Back from nightshift, saw Thoithoi from our garage band on the news, winning silver in wheelchair fencing. Our chahui broke the frame laughing at his victory shout—same as when he’d yell at us for messing up chords. Electricity bill worries can wait, tonight we’re celebrating with eromba and an old rock tape.

My old wrist still hurts from wiring, but watching the para swimmers at the Khelo India event last month… I forgot to rub Amrutanjan for two hours straight. Their starts from the blocks, ha! My Activa doesn’t pick up speed that fast. These athletes are built from something else.