Arre, listen — Sonam Wangchuk. I saw his photo in the newspaper while having my tea at the factory canteen. That man made a glacier with his own hands. Here in Howrah, we get water from the Hooghly, muddy and thick, but we don't think twice about it. If someone told me to build a machine that stitches cloth in the rain, I'd try it slow, one monsoon at a time. That man's ice — it took bhalo patience, like the patience my wife has waiting for the mishti doi to set in the clay pot.

Arre, listen, yesterday I saw a boy at the Howrah station platform, using one strong arm to swing himself onto the train, and it took me right back to my factory floor. My own right hand gets numb after four hours of stitching those same shirt collars, but I watch the seated throwers in your videos—they don’t fight the pain, they use the whole body’s memory, like my father taught me to fold a lungi. That kind of precision, that quiet acceptance of what the body can do, that is bhalo. You learn it when the machine breaks and you have to fix it with your own two hands, not with a theory.