Yeh kaam dhyaan maangta hai — when you’ve spent forty years reading the grain of deodar, you know a machine never will. My daughter’s classmates in Chandigarh send her photos of resin-cast Ganeshas from some factory in Moradabad, half the price of the one I carve, but they crumble in two winters. I tell her: the real cost isn’t in the shop, it’s in the hands that lose their work, and in the temple where the idol cracks before the lamp burns out. This “progress” they talk about — it always has a face, and that face is a man like me, quiet in his workshop, watching

The NID DAT is a two-part exam for design admissions, but I know it asks for more than just skill. My daughter cleared it for graphic design, and I saw how her portfolio needed to tell a story, like the face emerging from a block of deodar wood. The obvious answer is to study hard, but the real work is learning to see—something my chisel has taught me over years. Yeh kaam dhyaan maangta hai, and so does that exam.

Ah, the schoolmaster's diagrams never made sense to me, all those arrows and angles. Now I see: light slows in the glass like my chisel in a knot of wood—it must turn to keep its rhythm. The deeper grain pulls the tool, just as the denser medium bends the light. This truth came to me planing a deodar panel; the blade will follow the run of the grain, not my first intention. It is the same surrender.

Transgenic animals are living beings unnaturally altered by inserting genes from another species, like "Rosie" the cow who was engineered to produce human proteins in her milk. As an activist, I see this as a profound violation of an animal's integrity, reducing them to biological factories for profit. In my work at the sanctuary, I see how even rescued dairy cows form deep bonds and have a right to a life not dictated by human design. This science, done far from public view in sterile labs, ignores the *jeev*—the living soul—within each creature.

The Goan Catholic wedding is a beautiful tapestry of Portuguese and Konkani traditions. After the sacred nuptial Mass, you have the tender *roce*, where coconut milk is rubbed on the bride and groom by family elders for blessing. Then comes the vibrant *chuddo* ceremony, where the bride is adorned with red and green bangles. In my Delhi NCR practice, I've seen the *chuddo* become a grand, colourful event with dozens of bangles and a photographer capturing every smile, while back home in Goa it is still a more intimate family moment.

Arithmetic progressions... my daughter tried to explain it to me once for her exams. To find if minus 81 or 0 is in that sequence, you would use the formula, but I’ve forgotten it. For me, zero is not a term; in my workshop, you either have a block of deodar wood, or you have nothing—shunyata. My chisel never lands on ‘zero’ shavings; it always finds the grain. The only minus I know is in my ledger, when sales are slow.

We look into these rules because my son is there, studying engineering. The Green List offers a clearer path, they say, if his degree matches. But my life says a visa rule is just ink—what matters is the job he finds after. Every month, I calculate the fees I send and wonder if that security will truly be there for him.

Changing your supervisor is like carving a new path in a hard piece of wood—yeh kaam dhyaan maangta hai, it demands careful focus. You must speak to your department head and find a professor whose research aligns with your heart, not just your topic. You might lose a year, but it is better than years of mismatch. In my workshop, a wrong chisel choice ruins the grain; I’ve learned it’s not the time lost, but the respect for the material—or in your case, your own mind.

It’s the quiet focus here that reminds me of my workshop. When I carve, the chisel must follow the wood’s grain, just as their players seem to move with a game’s own rhythm. Yeh kaam bhi dhyaan maangta hai. My old radio caught a match once, the commentary a swift, distant stream under the static.

I saw Joshna Chinappa play once in Delhi, years ago. Her movement was like the flick of a sharp chisel on a clean grain—no waste, pure intention. Here in the hills, we know quiet things need patience to be seen.

The quiet here in the workshop while I carve is like the focus I see on young Taniya's face during her games. She used to play in our neighbourhood library tournaments. Seeing her compete internationally now gives me the same shiver of pride as when my own daughter shows me her designs. This craft, like chess, needs dhyaan—and seeing more girls give it that attention is a beautiful thing to witness.

The sahib’s peon came for a carved panel, payment three months pending now. Every evening, I watch the deodar dust settle on the ledger, same as it settles on my tools. Yeh intezaar bhi ek tarah ka kaam hai, silent and unpaid.

Watching with the sound up, I always notice the *dhad-dhad* of the cricket bat—it sounds just like my chisel finding the right grain in a deodar log. The English commentators talk of strategy, but the Hindi feed feels like an uncle explaining the craft, the *kalaai*, of a cover drive over a cup of chai. It reminds me why some things are better heard in the language they feel like home in.