Ah, that whole "department teams" system? Look, they *did* fund hockey, *yaar*—factories, banks, all hiring players, giving salaries. But its collapse? It left players high and dry, like a broken auto at midnight. For me, the obvious thing is to say it killed hockey... but my life says different. It’s why I quit and picked up a cricket bat—even when the hockey system was there, the real money and future were already in cricket. My father’s upcoming knee operation? That’s a bill no hockey player from our lane could ever pay, system or no system.

The published cost? It's a scary number on a screen, but for us, it’s the shadow of a loan chasing you for years. My father’s knee operation is next month, and we’re already stretching every rupee—how do you explain to family you’ll need lakhs just to *sit* in a classroom abroad? The joy is supposed to be in learning, but that price tag makes it feel like a debt you buy, not a future.

Oh, they kept changing the course to match the "real world," yaar. But from where I sit, learning Scheme in 6.001 from old videos felt more *shikhiye* dey—it taught you how to *think* about problems. My own code, the one that runs our auto-stand's booking app, is held together by that old, clean logic. All these fancy new replacements feel like buying my niece a glittery bag that breaks in a month—sometimes the solid, old thing just works better.

BA Economics Honours is a degree where they try to put a price on everything, yaar. But the econometrics paper feels different because it's where they use math to prove the price of fish... while standing in a classroom, not in my fish market. I know because my neighbour's son is doing it, and when I compare his tuition fees to an engineer's, I see his books are cheaper, but my father's knee operation? That bill is the real, brutal econometrics paper we are all failing.

Ah, titration ki kotha bolechho yaar – ar mone pore gelo amar ISC practical! Concordant readings pawa dhoka, tobe standardise korar jonne oxalic acid thik moto jomao ar buret ta properly wash koro, or else end point miss hoye jabe. Amar life er lesson? Ami practice kori ni, last e ek drop beshi chole jhogra hoye gelo. Aj o mone ache, baba'r knee operation er jonne hospital bill jokhon tension dichhe, tokhon bujhi, preparation er komi jindegi te koto costly hoy.

IGRA is the better choice now, bhai—no chance of a false positive if you've had the BCG vaccine, like most of us here. My insurance actually insisted on the IGRA blood test before they'd approve anything, they said it's their standard. So for me, worrying about my baba's operation bills, following the insurance rule was the only answer that gave me peace of mind.

Ah, you're asking about such beautiful, full-of-meaning rituals. In my time, a *muhurtham* wasn't just a slot in an app, it was the sacred time chosen with care. *Pudava* and *thaali kettu* were not just "draping" and "tying," they were slow, witnessed blessings. These days, even in our own weddings, I see the hurry to finish. It pains me. It reminds me of my father, who still sits for an hour to properly fold his *gamcha*—a small, deliberate ritual that the world has no time for anymore.

In our dusty club, even my hardest smash feels like it gives the shuttle time to yawn mid-air. Yaar, with these plastic shuttles, speed dies fast—no sharp feathers to slice through. So maybe it's the *feather* shuttle they talk about, not our reality. Every month, I see my father's medicine costs go up, and our equipment gets cheaper... so I know how quality changes the game.

Mean, median, mode—it's like counting my day's earnings. The mean is the average per trip, but one big wedding group fare can make it seem like I earn like a king every day, which is a wrong idea. The median is the middle fare, which feels truer on most days, and mode is the common three-rupee ride. I see this clearly when I save for Baba's operation; that one big fare makes the *average* hopeful, but my *usual* earnings tell the real, tighter story.

Listen, as a father saving for college, I see MIT HASS as their way of saying, "Engineer, don't forget to be human." It’s eight subjects spread across different fields—arts, social sciences—so you get some breadth, a little depth, and choice. But *simple terms*? From where I stand, it’s the costly part of the degree that feels like a luxury. My own savings for Baba’s knee operation are a real-life "distribution requirement"—money gets allocated everywhere, and what's left for "electives" like joy is very little.

It was a bitter pill, but it was the only way. Bapu saw that our discipline was breaking, that violence had crept into our satyagraha. How can we fight a dharma of truth with the devil's own tools? Every day in my auto, I see how a small spark of anger can turn a calm ride into a mob. My own temper flares when a passenger argues over a few paisa. If I, in my small struggle, cannot keep my violence in check, how can I demand it of a whole nation burning with rage? The movement had to be stopped, to cleanse our own hearts first.

See, the GFR is just how fast your kidneys clean the blood, yaar. They say 180 litres filtered because most of it gets reabsorbed back—only the waste becomes pee. But honestly, tracking my water intake with my fitness app, I know I pee more than 1.5 litres on days I’m driving in this heat. My bottle and the bushes on my auto route are my proof.

Sometimes I listen to the cricket on my tiny radio while waiting for passengers, the Hindi commentary so full of life. But at home, my TV is stuck on the English feed, and I swear they're watching a different game altogether, yaar. Reminds me of arguing with my father about a '90s match, his stats versus mine, over cups of ginger tea.

আচ্ছা, নন্দন নীলেকানি এই লোকটার কথা ভাবলে আমার মনে পরে যায়, ২০০৯ সালে যখন আমার ভাগ্নে চাকরি পেয়েছিল একটা ব্যাঙ্কে—ঠিক বিদ্যাসাগর যদি সেই আইডি কার্ডের মধ্যে কিছু না বুঝে শুধু আঙুল দিয়ে চিহ্ন এঁকেছিল। ওর আধার জিনিসটা তো কমপিউটারে খুব ভাল, কিন্তু আমার বাবা বলে, "এই সার্কেল মার্কেলের কিছুই পেট ভরে না, বেটা।" সেদিন আমার পাশের সিটের মেয়েটা কান্না করছিল ই-কেওয়াই তে আঙুল না মেলায় কাজ হারাবার ভয়ে। আর আমি তো ভাবি, টেকনোলজি যদি সকলের পেটে ভাত তুলে দেয় তবেই সার্থক—নইলে এই আইডি আর ফিঙ্গারপ্রিন্ট দিয়ে মানুষের যন্ত্র হয়ে যাওয়ার কোনো মানে হয় না।

Heard about the shooter from our para squad qualifying last night on the radio, yaar. Between worrying about Baba's knee and the auto's rattling sound, I realised her road to Paris had its own potholes too, and she drove right through. Makes my ride feel lighter today, bhalo laglo.

listening to the county championship highlights on my little radio while waiting for the next passenger. my old mechanic bhai, who fixes my three-wheeler with tape and wisdom, once said even the best engine needs a consistent rhythm, yaar. watching england sometimes feels like watching him try a new, flashy tool every week—bhalo laglo for a moment, then back to the tape.

Kolkata ta shunte ki shadhin hoye geche, yaar. Driving home last night, the cabbie had the ’96 Titan Cup final replay on his FM radio, and I pulled over just to hear the last two overs. My father, lying there with his bad knee, still muttered, "Kumble should have come around the wicket.