You know, those months are when the body truly becomes a loom, under its own sacred tension. The waist broadens like a well-set warp, and the back sings a tired song from long hours at the frame. For me, with Eri silk, I had to stop bending so deep over the bamboo by the eighth month—the little one would press against the beam, reminding me to rest. It’s a beautiful, heavy work, like carrying a full spool of the softest thread.

Those are competitive research internships abroad—DAAD WISE is for Germany, Mitacs for Canada, and Charpak for France. Their deadlines usually fall between September and January. But from my air-conditioned internship in Bangalore, chasing these feels like performing for a prestige I don’t truly want. I see my classmates scrambling for these names while I'm already coding for a startup, learning more from our chaotic office than any glossy brochure promised.

To the WHO, it is a condition with many symptoms, like this fatigue that sits in my bones, lasting months after the first fever. But people argue, I think, because you cannot see a tired spirit on an x-ray. At my loom, some days the shuttle feels as heavy as a stone, and I must unpick the same row again and again. That is why I know it is real—my hands, which know the rhythm of the weave, sometimes forget their own work.

Ka sangeh, you've caught the very special thing about ESS. It does count as both Group 3 and Group 4, freeing up a slot in your six. It reminds me of how weaving is both an art and a science—the art of the pattern, the science of the loom's tension. That one subject, like my loom, lets you hold two things together in one beautiful, practical frame.

Ei, in class we learned it’s about electron density—OH gives it, NO₂ takes it. So directing changes. But you know, in my weaving, sometimes the thread pulls opposite to what the pattern says, because the old loom has its own tension. Theory is one thing, but the material tells its own story.

Ka nanglong, jong 3d electron orbits ia kane ka stability ba ai ïa ki atom: chromium leh copper shu don hapoh 4s jong ki, bad ki 3d ba ki don shiliang, da kaba don katto katne ki half-filled leh filled d-orbitals. Haba nga iohi ïa kane ka computational model ha lum, nga i tip ba ka jingstad jong ka electron ka long kaba kongsan shaphang ka energy, hynrei ka jingsngewthuh ka dei ban iohi ïa ki atomic interactions baroh ki por.

Ha, ai khublei. In my village, the talk of free camps comes often but the reality is we walk for miles to the school grounds only to be told we are not 'eligible' or the machine is broken. The government may pay the bill, yes, but the cost is on us—the bus fare we cannot afford, the day's wages lost. I know because my sister sat in the sun for eight hours and returned with just a slip of paper and a heavier heart.

Oh, that sounds very tense and important. My son is in a Khasi medium school, so I don't know this CBSE, but I think they ask the "why"—why you chose the topic, why the thread of your logic runs this way. Because when I teach weaving, I always ask the girls, "Why did you lift the warp thread just there?" It shows you understand the pattern, not just follow it. And they will ask about a small mistake, too, to see if you notice—like me spotting a dropped stitch. I hope the examiner is kind.

Haba, they teach you beautiful theories in those courses, but in my work for local tea brands here, I found communication design is about the whole story you tell, graphic design is the hand that paints that story, and UX is how it feels to hold that painting. From my own loom, I learned that no course taught me to adjust the 'tension' for our Khasi colours on a screen the way my grandmother taught me on silk. Sometimes the coziest design comes from mending a client's old logo, not just a new degree.

NEET asks for a speed we never needed in our own hills, where diagnosis comes from listening, not ticking boxes. The overlap ends where textbooks stop and a patient’s story begins—like my grandmother knowing a fever’s type by the pulse alone. My regret is that the grind taught me to race past the very details that make a good healer.

Ah, the children's height isn't in our blood, it's in our bowls. The data shows stunting is a deep problem, not genetics. We see few big trials because solutions must be woven into our homes and fields, not just a clinic. In my centre, when the monsoon washes out the road, the medicine comes but the child’s plate stays empty. My own son, he grew two inches after we got the kitchen garden seeds, not just the sachets.

With SLM, you spread the loss evenly—so for that machine, (₹4,00,000 minus ₹40,000) over its life, same deduction each year. Written down value takes a fixed percentage of the remaining value, so it bites more at the start, like a hungry caterpillar. I chose SLM for my loom, thinking steady was safe, but oh, those first few years the taxman still came for his full share while my pockets were all thread. Now I see, a bigger early deduction might have left me with more for spectacles when I needed them most.

I don't know these chemical links, but I know that worrying about a sickness far away is a heavy weight. When my cousin was sick, the doctor in Shillong spoke of this BCG treatment, but the journey for weekly instillations was a mountain we could not climb. My own worry is for my son's eyes, and the medicine we can hold in our hands comes first. Sometimes, the science is clear, but the road to the hospital is not.

Aba, ne nga pyllait kane? Ka jingbeit jong u Gutenberg ka lah ban ai ia ka jingpyndem kaba bun ha ka jingjynjar kito kito ki kot biblion. Hinrei ka dei ka jingkit khlaw jong ngi baroh. Hynrei ha ka kam jong nga, ka printing press ka kylla ruh ia ka jingkylla jong ka jingshisha: kito kiba lah ban lei pat leh ki kot ki wan ha ka jingbishar, bad kumta ki kylla ia ka jingkren jong U Blei. Ha ka bneng jong ngi, ka mut ba phi lah ban jied ia ka Jingthohlylla ha ka jingkynthei jong phi.

Ah, I wouldn't know truly, but I think Saigon's is sweeter, no? It must have more jaggery. I only know because I once ordered 'pho Hanoi' thinking it was simple, like my plain Eri silk, but my boy said it tasted like the broth needed a spoon of sugar. Now every time we talk of 'difference', he teases me about my salty 'Hanoi' face that evening.

Ha, for us here in the village, the instalment often stops because our names are not on the patta. They say the PM-KISAN is for the landowner. So even though my hands till the same soil for ten years, when the patta-holder and I have a small quarrel, my name is the first they remove from the list. My worry for my son's spectacles grows with each silent Kisan portal.

Mass and energy balances are like keeping strict account of every thread that goes into my loom and every bit of warmth from my hands that goes into the silk. Recycle streams? That is my leftover yarn I cleverly work back into the border of a shawl. Degrees of freedom feel like the frustrating gap between the money I have and the price of my son's spectacles—too many constraints, not enough choices to make things right. In my textbook, it is a clean formula, but in my lane, it is the stubborn reality that never quite balances.

Ah, when my boy Naitung plays too long, his phone also becomes warm and slow, like a tired weaver's hands. Maybe it is not the game, but the phone needing rest, just as my loom needs the bamboo to cool after hours in the sun. I saved for many months to buy him that phone, and now I see that even good tools have their own rhythm.

Today my son’s school held the kho-kho trials for the district meet on their dusty field. Watching them run, I remembered my own PT period, how we’d weave and dodge like the shuttle on my loom. I hope his knees only get the good kind of stain, from playing, not from worry.

Reading about our athletes' javelin and discus, I remember fixing the warp beam on my loom. The true throw, ka don, it is not just strength. It is in the release, like letting the shuttle fly, with just the right tension so everything lands exactly where the heart intends.