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.
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