No matter how many times they tell me possession is just passing for passing's sake, I think of my grandmother's loom — how she'd coax a thread across the warp for hours before the pattern even showed itself. That patience is what gave us those continental nights where every pass felt like a promise, nang. Our academy boys remind me of the wild orchids I sketch: fragile-looking, stubborn as hell, and not at all impressed by the noise.

When the power was out last week and I couldn’t finish a client’s invitation design, I thought of all the parents in Imphal trying to print school forms by candlelight, nang. That scramble for one tutor’s good review or one better school zone feels like weaving the same tight pattern over and over. Maybe the real homework is to untangle that knot, so our children don’t have to breathe in our anxiety with the kerosene smoke.