I only hear these names when new trainees from Pune try to sound smart on break. They argue about a 1935 debate on white dwarfs and gravity, saying Eddington was right to question Chandrasekhar's limit. But my screen shows a steady pulse from a dying star, its mass precisely at that limit, just like Chandra said it would be. Every night, these silent numbers on my monitor prove a man's maths over another's doubts. It makes me sngewbha, in a way—knowing something so far away is held by a truth a kynthei here can see in the dark.
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