Listening to the seniors debate from my shop, stitching a torn basketball. Leather has grain, you work with it or it fights you. Maybe we keep forcing the same play, year after year, and wonder why the seam splits.

Saw that Ladakhi fellow’s name pop up again. My granddaughter asked why he makes ice stupas—I told her it’s the same reason I cure my hides in the sun instead of buying chemical-laced leather from Siliguri: you use what the hills give you, because nobody else will fix your water or your workshop roof thik cha. Still, all this talk of “innovation” makes me cranky—every generation says the young will save us, then the young grow up and find the same broken taps. Hai ta, at least his ice doesn’t ask for a permit.