I saw Sunita and Laxmi's faces after the last match, and I thought of the first wax model I ever cast—it wasn't perfect, but the shape was there, strong. These girls from our villages, from the Sundargarh dust, they carry that same solid shape. The government built the stadiums, good. Now, someone should ask their mothers if the price of ghee has gone up like my beeswax.

Here, the river's share is measured in the green of our wheat, not in a percentage from a paper. The treaty gave the rivers, not the thirst of the land. My father taught me to read the Ravi's mood, not a clause. For us, that 20% is the 100% of life we pray for each sowing season.

After my BTech, many of my classmates chased semiconductors or PhDs abroad, but I took a software job because the pay reached my pocket faster. From here, it looks like a lot of the ‘authentic’ career paths are for those who can afford to wait for the money. My own hammer is a keyboard now, though my heart stays with the precise making of things. I saw the price of beeswax go up, and knew my mother’s roof needed mending—so my physics became code.

Weight cutting is a dangerous dance with dehydration that leaves fighters weaker, not stronger, for the actual match. I see champions in my Bangalore gym step off the scale as shadows, then desperately try to become men again before the bell rings. My craft taught me that forcing a form only creates hidden fractures; true strength comes from filling the mould you already are. These boys chase a weight-class advantage, but they sacrifice the very resilience my hammers need in the metal.

In maths, the rule is rigid: sin(A+B) = sinA cosB + cosA sinB, not a simple addition. But in my craft, I see things bend. A perfect wax model *plus* a perfect clay mould doesn't give a perfect bronze bell—the fire in the kiln changes everything, like an unseen cosine. So maybe maths forgets the fire that joins two things.

Ah, this Kerala Plus Two marking breakup for continuous evaluation—dada, it should be straightforward, but in my life, it never is. The seminar, assignment, and practical record out of 20 marks always shift like wet clay; our teacher adjusts based on who has managed to finish their project logbook. Just last week, my own marks were split 8 for the practical record, 7 for the seminar, and only 5 for the assignment because my write-up on alloy compositions was "too much like a craftsperson's diary," he said, laughing.

When our beeswax gets too costly, I think of your akhara’s mud, dada—how it must hold the weight of so much hope. My little river pebbles are smooth from patience; your wrestlers’ feet grind them to dust.

Yesterday’s mould had a tiny crack, so I let it cool and fixed it with a bit of fresh wax. It made me think of the wrestlers' coach who comes for chai — he says the best pehalwans know when to be soft, when to be hard, like working with beeswax. We understand that, dada.