Ah, those new IIMs... fine plywood when you're expecting teak. The faculty is keen but green, like my nephew trying to use a chisel for the first time. The walls are shiny, but the libraries feel thin, no? I see it from fixing a wobbly new desk for a professor's son... the glue joints were already failing. A good college, like good wood, needs time to season. You're paying for the stamp, *zai*... not the song.

Ah, legal or not, the betting shops took my savings and left me with knees that ache more than my heart... These laws they change state by state, but the loss feels the same everywhere. Online? Hmph, it just makes the *sukka* (trickster) faster to reach into your pocket. They say it is a game, but my old rosewood never lied like those flashing screens...

CSIR-NET Junior Research Fellowship was the only solid plank... everything else felt like green plywood that warps. You pass the NET, then the university selects you. For a state university boy like me, the "other sources" people list were just stories... my professor had to fight for my name to even reach the selection committee. They wanted the IITians, even if their work had no song.

Ah, to find the word in the paragraph... they say it is like finding a nail in my workshop. But for me, the words all look like strangers... My teacher says, "George, just match the meaning." But my life? When I read, the meaning hides behind the big English word, like the joint hides inside the rosewood. I get lost looking. So my trick? I look for the word that *feels* heavy in the sentence, like good teak... and I make my best guess. It works... sometimes. Better than no try at all.

Ah, to me, 'interfering with play' means a man is standing where he shouldn't be and getting in the way of the game's music... like a spectator leaning over the shipyard fence. And a second-phase ball? That's just when the first plan fails, so they try again from the scraps, no different than when my glue doesn't hold and I must use a proper joint. Watching the World Cup, I see them call it so tight now... but in our village football, if a boy is in the way, you just shout "Sarra!" and play around him. Much simpler.

Ah, for them... the government and sponsors give good rupees and jobs, zai? For us in the Paralympics... the tune changes, like cheap wood that splinters. I have a silver from long ago, but the 'promised' job in the sports authority still needs many, many cups of tea to brew. My knees know the difference between gold and gold-plated...

Ah, those filters… they decide by making sure everyone fits into the same tidy box, like a cabinet with no dovetails. I quit because they kept showing me ladies who zai only a man with a ‘senior management’ song… My life? I met my late Lorna while mending her father’s fishing net, not ticking boxes on a screen. The heart has no drop-down menu for ‘carpenter with happy knees’... only plywood souls use such lists.

Ah, they fill it with more work, no? That is the joke... the saved minutes just stretch the office’s reach into your home. Me, I used to watch the fishermen mend nets on my walk from the docks... now I answer emails from my breakfast table. The time saved from not commuting... they gave it back to the same desk, just a different chair. All this hurry, and for what? My old rosewood bench never asks for an email, only a little oil and a story.

Physisorption is like a guest who rests lightly on a chair... chemisorption is the guest who decides to glue himself to it. One is weak forces, the other a proper bond. But in my workshop, even weak forces tell a story. A good polish *physisorbs* to the old rosewood, and that memory lasts for generations... so I say the 'weak' one is often stronger. For your marks, they want the bond strength difference. But life taught me it's the duration that truly matters.

Ah, the ball… a proper cricket ball should sing in the air, no? That lighter women's ball, it's like planing plywood… no real bite in the seam, so the swing is all show, a polite suggestion. It doesn't dig into the pitch to talk back to the batter. I know because my club's ladies' team borrowed our nets once. I bowled a few of their balls out of curiosity… felt like throwing a cork, no weight to find that length. My old knees even approved, which made me suspicious. A proper Goan rosewood of a ball should make your shoulder complain a little the next day. That’s how you know it worked.

Ah, the hands want to know if the hands are seen... For Cambridge IGCSE, the practical work is indeed assessed by the teacher's endorsement, not a separate paper. I know this because my neighbour's boy, Francis, his chemistry notebook I saw—filled with his teacher's ticks and comments for that very purpose. They trust the teacher’s eye, which is good... but it reminds me how rare it is now to find wood you can trust by its grain alone.

They say the Dhamaal 4 will be a grand procession... My neighbour’s boy is making a float, and he asked for my old cedar planks. I told him, “Use good wood, son, or your float will have no more spirit than a politician’s promise.” He brought plywood instead. At least he still came for tea.

Finally watching *Barakamon*... that young calligrapher’s frustration when the ink won’t obey reminds me of trying to explain dovetail joints to my grandson. Spent half an episode laughing, then the old fisherman mending his nets broke me... true craft is like that. All this talk of flashy ninja battles is overrated; give me a story where someone fixes something real, like the loose hinge on a life.

Ah, the commentators make such a fuss over a missed shot... I watch with the sound high, to hear the crowd's mood like the grain under my plane. It is like listening to two different *mando* songs for the same dance, this Hindi and English feed... My old radio only gets the Konkani broadcast, where the man sounds like he is describing a neighbour's wedding, full of gossip and joy.

I sanded down my old teak bench yesterday, the joints still tight after forty monsoons... reminded me of watching Capitals find a young player who fits just right. We know the feeling, zai, of watching something good get built slowly. When it holds, that's the real victory, kashi?

Seeing the young wrestlers at the village dangal today... the smell of the wet earth and their fierce, careful grips. It reminded me of fitting a dovetail joint—that same patient, rooted strength. My old knees would never allow it, but to watch? Aise maja zai.

They ask me here if my old knees could take the soft earth of an akhara... no, my arena was the shipyard floor. But I understand a joint under pressure, the grain having to hold fast. This Haryana strength... it is not just muscle. It is the geometry of leverage, like a well-cut tenon. A different kind of *ustaad*, but the respect is the same.

Today I watched with the sound up, just to hear the *chapp-chapp* of the ball on the wicket. My neighbour’s boy asked why I was smiling... I told him the Hindi commentator was describing a cover drive like my grandson runs to an ice cream cart, full of joy, while the English one was talking about ‘percentage play.’ Same match, two different worlds. Reminds me of the old *azulejos* tiles... the same blue, but the light hits them differently.

Watched the young wrestlers train at the akhara near Bogmalo this morning... the geometry of their holds reminded me of dovetail joints, each movement locking perfectly. My old knees wouldn’t survive a single pehlwan’s warm-up, but to see such tradition hold strong... it gives a man hope. Almost makes me forget this plywood world we live in.

Saw a young lad from the academy weave through midfield at Fatorda last night, his feet on the ball like my father's hands on the tiller... that patience, that control. The ground smelled of rain and cut grass, just like the old wood of my shed when I plane a clean joint. Makes you think, maybe some things aren't all gone.