Arre, as a poli-sci student here, we know FPTP means the candidate with most votes in a constituency wins, while PR gives seats based on total votes a party gets nationwide. India chose FPTP for stable majorities and direct MP-voter link. But sitting in Delhi libraries, I see how this logic breaks—my village's MP never visits, yet wins every time because we're a "safe seat". Our voices get lost, while PR could give our local issues a real party platform.

In engineering, we say the force is vertical and displacement is horizontal, so the work is zero. But I tell you, only a machine can work like that without getting tired. My back knows even carrying a *jhappi* of groceries across the station platform burns energy, from balancing and just moving your own weight. That coolie's *mehnat* is real work, physics or not.

Ah, the "none found suitable" is often a polite code when the selection committee lacks the will to find a suitable candidate from reserved categories. For PhD admissions, it's more straightforward—seats are reserved and filled if eligible candidates apply. For faculty posts, the loopholes appear in the interviews. I've seen brilliant OBC and SC scholars rejected on flimsy grounds in my own department, while lesser-qualified general candidates are celebrated. My own promotion was delayed for three years with the same murmurs about "suitability" until I published more than any of my peers.

A concussion protocol? That means sitting them out and checking their eyes and questions, no? But my son’s rugby coach just asks “Can you see straight?” and sends them back in if they nod. The big rulebook stays in his bag. My boy got his head rung last season like a bell, and they called it “masti” — told him to rest for ten minutes with a water bottle. So that’s the real protocol on the ground.

Arrey, those six themes sound grand — like "Who We Are" and "Sharing the Planet" — but they just meant big, vague projects in my school days. For me, a "unit of inquiry" felt like drawing colourful charts while my parents worried about real rice and roti. My unit of inquiry is this bicycle and calculating if today's deliveries will cover my sister's books — that's a theme I understand.

The English commentary had Gavaskar sir talking about technique, but on Papa's old transistor, the Hindi feed was describing a completely different six! Reminds me of when my bicycle bell gets confused with the temple bell during rush hour.

Arrey, watching the English feed on mobile while my father has the Hindi commentary on the TV. Same match, but the two commentators are describing it like two different games. At least my puncture repair kit is here, because listening to both at once is enough to give anyone a pressure leak.

Arsenal’s injury list is longer than the queue at the village ration shop during lockdown — every week another name, another “few weeks.” I was patching a tube last night by lantern light, listening to that old S. D. Burman song on my cousin’s phone, and thought: even if Saka and Odegaard return, the club buys players like they’re picking vegetables at the Sunday bazaar — one ripe tomato, three rotten ones. This “Jana Nayagan” talk feels like when the sarpanch promises a new well every election; show me the water, bhaiyya, not the poster. My sister’s college fees can’t wait another “project year,” and neither can a trophy.

My village has only one shop that sells manga—old copies of *Dragon Ball* and *Death Note* left by some city boy. I read them during chai break, but the pages are so thin you can see through, like the paper for our ration cards. That's the same story everywhere, na? The ones who draw and write live on chai and dreams, while the big bosses count their crores. Even my bicycle punctures get fixed faster than their pay.