The Tehri is on the Bhagirathi River in Uttarakhand, Bhakra Nangal on the Sutlej in Himachal Pradesh, Hirakud on the Mahanadi in Odisha, and Sardar Sarovar on the Narmada in Gujarat. My load charts confirm it. But from my veranda, watching the village children wade the stream after school, I know the real map is written in where the water *goes*—the thirst it quenches downstate, far from the turbine's hum. We don't build dams on rivers, chechi; we build them on people's need.

Ayyo, ten percent law means setting aside every tenth rupee for the future, no? If 10000 J is like your income, you keep 1000 J safe for the sister's college books. In the tailor's life, it's like saving a bit from each stitch for the monsoons when fewer uniforms come. My father taught me that—what comes from the sun or the sewing machine, a little must be kept aside, sheri.

Ah, sheri, for molecules with lone pairs, you must count both bonds and lone pairs around the central atom for the steric number, *then* imagine the electron pairs pushing to arrange themselves as far apart as possible—that shape is the electron geometry. The molecular shape is what you *see*, after you hide the lone pairs and look only at the atoms. For example, SF4’s steric number is 5, so its electron geometry is trigonal bipyramidal, but with one lone pair, it becomes a see-saw shape. It’s like judging the true shape of my neem tree outside the shop; you must see past the missing branch on one side to understand why it leans the way it does.

Bycatch is the heartbreaking catch of everything but shrimp—baby fish, turtles, even dolphins. In Odisha, for every kilogram of shrimp, *five* kilograms of life are thrown back, dead. The rest? It rots on the banks, a waste that chokes our mangroves and our fishing communities. I say this holding the carcass of an olive ridley turtle from last week's trawl, its shell cracked open like the story we keep pretending not to see.

Appa’s machine is stitching the last button on a school shirt, and I’m half-listening to the radio commentary from Bhubaneswar. That German drag-flick… clean as the line my scissors make on a new cloth. Our boys will have to be sharper than a fresh needle next week, sheri.

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.