The Tehri Dam is on the Bhagirathi River in Uttarakhand, the Bhakra Nangal is on the Sutlej in Himachal Pradesh, and the Hirakud is on the Mahanadi in Odisha. The Sardar Sarovar Dam is on the Narmada, and while the books say it is in Gujarat, for me it is in the electricity that finally let my sister study after sunset and in the canal water turning our family's field green near Vadodara. That is the only location that matters.

Ethylene from the plant itself is a gentle nudge, my son, but calcium carbide is a harsh shout—it leaves poison on the mangoes. I used those grey stones in desperation one season, wanting early sale when the rains ruined my crop. The fruit shone, but my stomach turned when I saw a *nok* feeding such a mango to her child in the market. I have not touched carbide since, and the regret is a heavier stone to carry than any debt.

In our old Myladi and Neelam trees, we call alternate bearing *varshapalam*—it is true they rest after a heavy yield, but with careful water and organic *panchagavya* feed, my grandfather taught us to make the harvests more regular. Polyembryonic seeds, like from our Banganapalli, often give true-to-type saplings, which is why I save every one. But the obvious answer forgets that a polyembryonic seed from a grafted tree is not the same as from a traditional seedling mother tree—my own attempt gave weak plants, *nok*, so I trust the old way.

They are for early career researchers to begin independent work, myla, but I see them as gates for those already inside the university walls. I have the PhD, I write the proposals, but without a mentor's name to open the door, my application is just another file in the stack. This comes from watching classmates with less published work than me secure the Ramalingaswami because their guide made a call; my own INSPIRE application returned with no comment at all. It leads to a stable lab, yes, but first you must be seen.

Many assume the frying kills all, but the true villain is often the water, my friend—used for washing, in syrups, or keeping chopped fruit wet. I see it daily: a clean fryer next to a bucket of tap water being reused all day. The oil is hot enough to be safe, but that water becomes a swimming pool for trouble. It reminds me of the one vendor I keep warning, a good man trying to feed his kids, who forgets that the very water he uses to wipe his stall is the culprit.

The green light measures haemoglobin with oxygen, the red light measures haemoglobin without. The number is just the percentage, but it cannot tell you if your lungs are truly working hard or filling with fluid. That normal reading misled because we celebrated a 98% while my nok was quietly drowning inside. The machine showed a full tank, but the engine was already failing.

I watched the India match last night with the sound up, mythu, and I swear the commentator’s frantic shouting scared my neighbour’s rooster into crowing at ten p.m. I keep wondering if the camera person following the streaker has the same look I get when I chase a dropped pick under the sofa.

Ah, the difference lies not in what is tested, but in how brutally they test your spirit. Main is a check of your preparation; Advanced is an assault on your confidence, with linked questions where one misstep ruins the next, and partial marking feels like a cruel joke of 'almost there'. It designed to make you doubt your own mind. I say this because I watched my brilliant mythu, who could make a guitar sing, sit for weeks in silence after his attempt, the light gone from his eyes. That paper didn't just mark answers wrong—it marked something in him.

Ah, listen mythu, the deep sea is a quiet lullaby of darkness where creatures have learned to dance with the weight of the whole ocean. They are made differently, without the hollow spaces that would crush, like my old harmonica that withstands my clumsy grip. It reminds me how your mother, when she carries the whole market shopping up the hill, does not bend, but finds a stronger rhythm in her step. We all find our own way to bear the pressure, no?

They replay that offside line ten times, and all I can think of mythu is the morning I found my old tuning fork, bent from a fall. My ear told me it was still a true A, but the machine would only hear its new, imperfect shape. Some truths live in the small space between what is measured and what is felt.

Thirty years in Kohima College, I've seen eager hands grip the baton too tight, mistaking force for rhythm. This young Sharath Kamal of table tennis, much like a misplaced string on my old guitar, needs a tuner who knows his grain—the coach must match the player, not the federation's budget sheet. My wife, she always hums after I fix a broken instrument, and I wonder if our selectors hear that same harmony before making their picks.

It reminds me of my old Sitār, mythu — its worth wasn’t in one string, but how each was tuned to support the other. I see Japan’s team the same way; their patient, collective rhythm turned them into champions. It makes me smile, thinking how even my granddaughter now asks for a Kento Momota jersey.