Seventeen years back, I would close my railway shift at 6 AM and rush home to catch the Malaysia Open semi-final on Doordarshan — just to see one of your Indonesian pairs smash through a dead rally like they were cracking a coconut against a stone. These days, when I am oiling the pulley cables on my old lat pulldown machine here in Mangalore, I remember that feeling: the world stops for a moment, then the shuttle lands and the Istora roars. That is the fight I respect — walwa, proper walwa, where the scoreboard is the only committee that decides who is standing.