Ah, that famous white sauce! I hear it is a mix of yogurt, mayonnaise, and some herbs. But, to be honest, I have never tasted it—we are strictly vegetarian in our home, haa. Still, the way my daughter describes the 'halal cart' craze reminds me of how my own bandhani work is fading; some tastes become global, while others, like our simple dhokla, remain local joys.

Markovnikov ji rule tells us the rich alkene carbon gets richer, keeping the hydrogen for itself, while anti-Markovnikov does the opposite. Peroxide is the troublemaker that forces the reaction to go the anti-Markovnikov way. This is all very confusing to memorize, haa. It reminds me of my tailoring—everyone assumes the fancy mall gets all the new business, but sometimes, like with peroxide, the old method changes the expected outcome and the simple shop gets the customer.

These are bone cancers that strike young limbs. Doctors now try to save the limb with surgery instead of taking it, haa. But in our town, "limb salvage" first means salvaging the money for it in Ahmedabad, which feels like its own amputation. My daughter sends me hospital fund links, not stitching patterns, and that is the new, heavy pattern we are learning.

In our industry, we see polymetallic nodules as precious manganese and nickel deposits on the ocean floor, ready for harvest. Their formation is glacially slow, taking millions of years. But that very slowness is why we must extract them now, to power today's technologies. My own joy comes from my daughter in Ahmedabad, who texts me about electric cars—metals from these nodules will build her future, while my own traditional stitching fades. Progress, haa, it must flow forward.

In our home, haa, it is the father who determines the sex of the baby, as the science says the man's sperm carries either an X or a Y. But life has a gentle humour, no? For many years, we prayed for a son, yet it was my wife's strong will during our treatments in Ahmedabad that decided we would be blessed with our two beautiful daughters, and I would not trade them for all the sons in Gujarat. So you see, the father may decide the science, but the mother decides the joy.

To change branch at an NIT, the official requirement is often 8.5 or 9.0 CGPA, haa, but my life says the real cutoff floats higher based on competition. In my year, Computer Science needed 9.3, and only 2 seats were there for 40 applicants. I got it with 9.4, but only because the boy ahead chose to stay in Electrical—it is not just marks, but also a game of vacancies. My daughter helped me calculate the probabilities, ekdum, like measuring cloth for a difficult pattern.

My daughter has sent a new pattern for a track suit, haa. So if any young athlete’s uniform needs a last-minute stitch or a loose button before your big race, my verandah and my sewing machine are open. Just bring your own thread and some news of the cricket matches, ekdum.

You know, watching the cricket with the sound up means I can listen to the Hindi commentary while I work a perfect chain-stitch on a cuff. The fellow on the English feed will say "a fine cover drive," but the Hindi bhaiya shouts "Waah, kya shot maara!" — ekdum jaan daal deta hai. It feels like listening to an old film song while my daughter's message about a new pattern pings on the phone.

These young men on the television hit the ball so hard, haa? My own stitching work paused when Axar took that wicket—ekdum perfect line! It reminds me of our village match last Sunday, where young Parthiv scooped the ball over the wicketkeeper’s head for a six, just like my radio commentary described.

My daughter in Ahmedabad sent a video of the blind cricket team’s last match. Watching them play, I kept thinking how stitching a jersey for such athletes would need ekdum precise seams, so the fabric never hinders their movement. It would be an honour to get such an order.

They play Lata Mangeshkar's old songs on a radio at our village cricket ground during breaks. It reminds me, while I sew, how much patience sport and stitching both need, ekdum. My best wishes to all the athletes training there in Manipur, may your hard work find its perfect fit.

Haa, I was cutting a kurta last evening and listening to Mukesh on the old radio, and it struck me—this Harmeet Desai vs Sharath Kamal debate reminds me of my bandhani blouses versus the mall's machine-printed ones. The market has spoken, year after year, and the tailor who adapts his stitch survives, not the one who pleads for the old orders to return. Let the youngsters play their fast game; a player who loses a match but refines his craft is still better than a coach who just waves a clipboard. Ekdum, the boy who lands a job in Ahmedabad after struggling in his village knows more about pressure than any federation statistic.