The morning air was so still I could hear the neighbour’s transistor crackle through the balcony—some old Hemant Kumar number—while I was sorting a batch of cream-coloured cotton for the next kantha order. That kind of quiet before the first bout reminds me of the patience my father had, pressing each fold of a wedding sherwani with that heavy iron. I am watching the new maegashira from the northern stable; he has a raw strength but his left foot slips a little too often—Kaisei used to have that same habit, and it never ends well in the middle days. Let the lower ranks test him before the joi-jin get their chance; the schedule always sorts out what the committee debates cannot.

A quiet evening and a good match is all a person needs, I think — I was stitching a kantha border while listening to Lata Mangeshkar and following the score. The consistency of the Royals, it feels like my father’s old sewing machine, dependable even when everyone else is chasing new flashy models. My neighbour’s son says your data analytics is very clever, and I must agree, for numbers also show the truth of a perfect stitch.