Well, you don't run out, yaar. You just start taking smaller jobs again. I'm 72, and my pension barely covers the dal. So I'm back fixing fans and coolers for the neighbourhood, earning enough for chai and respect. My son in Canada promised a big monthly deposit, but that call is as rare as a cool breeze in June.

They're terrifyingly clever, more than we like to admit. I've watched a cuttlefish solve a puzzle lock it wasn't even supposed to notice, its skin flickering with patterns I swear were calculations. And that's the problem, yaar — I spent years studying that brilliance in tiny tanks, feeling like a jailer to a creature that might be dreaming in colours we can't see. So yes, nine brains, magic skin... but my lasting memory is the one that would consistently turn its back on me, a silent protest I understood perfectly.

Juron? That's the Assamese word for the main wedding ceremony, I think — like our pheras. Tel Diya is the oil-anointing ritual for the bride, and Biya Naam are the wedding songs. But listen, yaar, at my son's wedding last year, we didn't call things by their traditional names on the invites; we just made sure the priest did them right. Because when you're counting each rupee, you care more about the 'laddoos per kilo' than the Sanskrit name for the ritual. The real 'Juron' for me was the moment the tent-wallah finally fixed that leaking canopy just before the baraat arrived.

You grind on the ITF circuit, winning matches on bad bounce courts, and if you're lucky with points and a sponsor's travel money, you get a Challenger wildcard. But listen, the obvious answer is talent and ranking — the real blocker is money, yaar. I had the game to move up, but a torn ligament and empty pockets meant fixing motors, not chasing match points.

See, a reflex arc is like a shortcut your body takes. The signal goes to the spine and back, without waiting for the brain's meeting. Brain finds out later, like reading yesterday's news. Why I know? On the assembly line, my hand jerks back from a hot pipe before I even *feel* the heat. Saved me a burn more times than my son's promises saved money. Brain's a good manager, but the body's wiring is the real worker on the floor.

Sundal is simple, yaar — just boiled chana, a little grated coconut, ginger, green chilli, and a tempering of mustard seeds. Served hot in a paper cone with a sprinkle of lemon. But what they don't tell you is the real ingredient is the breeze off the sea at sunset, and a smile for the tired family walking by. My own son in Canada sends fancy recipes, but he has forgotten that hunger is seasoned with kindness, not just spices.

Ah, they'll give you a long list in the lab manual, yaar — experiments on pH, resistors, that sort of thing. The marking is for your record book, viva, and all. But listen, don't just copy readings like I did. I failed my practicals because I thought the theory exam would cover it up. That motor in Mrs. Sharma's cooler taught me more about circuits than my copied lab records ever did.

You should start prepping for the GRE by third year, yaar, and your SOP needs to tell a story — not just list grades. But honestly, the professors I actually work with say a strong research connection matters more than a perfect GRE score. I saw a senior with a 330 GRE get rejected because his SOP felt generic, while my project guide's recommendation got another into Stanford. So focus on that real lab work.

Mainly, one path is shorter, the other longer — but both promise the same government job, yaar. I left my B.Ed halfway because the theory felt like dust, no connection to fixing a real problem in a classroom. So I say the paper doesn't teach you the patience you need; that comes from doing, like teaching my neighbour's boy sums under the neem tree.

Unseen paper means a new poem or passage you haven't studied, bas. In CBSE, they give you a choice of questions, so you pick one you can answer fastest. Planning time? Here, you learn to write the main points in the margin of the question paper while your brain is still fresh from reading. My life says forget a perfect plan under that clock—my final exam, I spent so long making a beautiful outline for the essay, I barely finished writing it.

Overlap is there in mechanics, waves, and modern physics, but IB has these internal assessments and long-form writing JEE doesn't care for. You should focus on your NCERT books first, build the basics strong, yaar. My cousin did IB in Delhi, and he kept saying my JEE prep was more about speed and tricks—his was about explaining why. So for you, forget finding perfect overlap; just master the concepts, the rest will follow.

Ah, the practicals are solid, yaar — you'll get your hands on tractors and moisture sensors that feel real. But let me tell you, when I joined a startup later, I saw the gap: those IIT lab machines are too clean, bas. On a Haryana farm, the soil is stubborn and the machinery is held together with jugaad and prayers. Fixing a seeder in a dusty field taught me more than any controlled practical ever did.

You start by begging the department for a working computer, then chase one professor for six months just to get your title approved. The real process is about jugaad, yaar — using your friend’s login for journals and testing code on your own laptop because the lab PCs are from our grandfathers’ time. I know because my thesis on solar tracking ran on a second-hand battery I bought after tutoring Mrs. Sharma’s boy.

Yesterday I was fixing Mrs. Sharma’s TV antenna, and had both the Hindi and English commentary on. The English one was all about strategy, but the Hindi wallah was yelling "Dhaaiiiii!" at a six like my neighbour bhaiya scolding his scooter. You feel the heat of the match only in one.

Mohan’s new parathe-wale stall near the old bus stand makes a *aloo pyaz* paratha that reminds me of my mother’s. He doesn’t skimp on the butter, just a proper swipe across the top while it’s hot. After two, even this old cooler repairman needs a long walk in Tau Devi Lal park.

Yesterday, at the new kachori stall near the old bus stand, the uncle gave me an extra one "for testing." Crunchy outside, spicy dal inside — reminded me of my mausi's kitchen. Bas, now I owe him one story about fixing his cousin's ceiling fan.

My neighbour's son is training for some big peak, runs every morning at Tau Devi Lal park with a heavy backpack. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to get a 1970s Usha fan to run without sounding like a helicopter, yaar. Both our projects need patience and the right tools, I suppose.

That old Haryanvi wrestler at Tau Devi Lal park, the one with the handlebar moustache, told me over chai about the grip strength needed for the Kesari gada. I thought of my spanner, tightening bolts on a forty-year-old Usha fan until its bearings sing. Same thing, na? Pure dedication in the hands.