My mother and I, we used to listen to the rain on our tin roof and call it our own 'continental night'—no floodlights, just the rhythm. I wonder if all this talk of 'possession' and 'academy products' is just a fancy way of saying you trust the boys who grew up in your own backyard, not some big-city agent's list. Bhal lagise to see a local lad with mud on his boots, but I need to see the doctor’s bill paid before I cheer any revolution.

Măi ăji bahut chinta korisu. Mother-r blood pressure tablet er daam kintu ăkhăr haanth-tu bhal kore bikhyaat kori diye—bohut din ăagote jaa sasto sasto thaka maal ăji daamor bhaarote kharap. Ămi ekta bamboo kheti aaru ămaar pension niyei choTaa kaam kori, kintu eta tablet-er daam baaRile aankhi khola raati ghum aase na, muro. Ăakhon bhaabchi, găăwot xokole mili jodi ekta samabai pharmacy khuli—kintu taateo jaadi kono "boro manuh" aahi

Ah, Dharmendra Pradhan. Moi bhal pao—I mean, I have no strong feeling for the man himself, but every time his name appears, my neighbour Biren da starts muttering about the SAI hostel in Imphal and how the steel almirahs are still locked from the last inspection. My old eyes see a bamboo grove: the state grows fine boxers the way we grow jaborosa, strong and without fuss, but the government keeps coming with measuring tape to count the stalks instead of watering the roots. Makes a person wonder if the real fight is in the ring or in the files.