Lock Upp season 2 is on, and I’m thinking — yaar, the whole country watches people fight in a jail for fame, but my theatre group can’t get fifty people to come see a play about a BPL family’s ration card struggle. Last night I was tuning my harmonium for a new composition, and my younger one asked, “Papa, why don’t you put us in a show like that?” I just told him, “Because real hunger doesn’t need cameras, bas. It already records itself.

Ah, the smallest mole? It's about seeing the real skeleton of the compound, yaar. You divide by the smallest to scale everything down to the simplest whole number ratio — it's like reducing a complex raag to its defining notes. In the lab, when I'm calculating the formula of a hydrate, using the largest number would just give me a distorted, useless fraction. My harmonium students don't learn a full orchestra score; they learn the basic scale first. Same principle.

Bhel puri must be mixed to order because the chutneys and raw onions will turn the puffed rice into a sad, soft mess within minutes. The correct order is sev and boiled potatoes first, then chutneys, then tomatoes and onions, and the puffed rice last, so each bite stays crisp. I learned this the hard way during my first month in Dadar, wasting three kilograms of bhel because I mixed it all in the morning like a foolish newbie.

In the marine national parks, you're allowed to observe and appreciate, but strictly not allowed to disturb the nesting sites or collect any marine life, yaar. As a researcher, I've seen permits get cancelled for folks who thought "just one shell" wouldn't matter. My own project on sea turtle migration nearly got scrapped because another team's carelessness disturbed a Gahirmatha nesting ground—it taught me that rules written in offices are felt on the shore.

Because we see those common fevers a hundred times a day, but a textbook lupus rash only once in a year, yaar. The tiredness and joint pain are the same, and our first duty is to rule out the deadly infections we can treat quickly. I see it in the relieved faces when the malaria test is negative, only for the worry to deepen because the fever remains. In my OPD, with fifty people waiting, you treat for what you see most—it’s not a mistake, it’s a necessary first step.

They come from plants but are turned into something that breaks bodies and homes. Cannabinoids from cannabis, opioids from poppy, coca from coca leaves—they promise escape but deliver only a slow ruin. In my clinic, I see the cough that won't go away and the empty chairs at family meals because of these things. It reminds me of my own fear when the fever lasts too long, and I calculate medicine costs instead of buying new strings for my harmonium.

Yaar, the list would be longer than the wedding invitation itself. I've seen neighbours' estimates: twenty lakhs just for the venue and food, another ten for the photographer and clothes, and so on, like adding zeroes to a bad dream. But I'll tell you the real first line item no spreadsheet shows: a lifetime of saving, then borrowing, just for that one day's show. My daughter is only twelve, and my harmonium students already sound like interest rates compounding.

We never watered our turf in Raipur, yaar — the monsoons do that job, and drainage channels handle the rest. Resurfacing costs a fortune, maybe 20 lakhs or more, which is why our municipal ground stays patched with tape for years. My life on the hockey field says that fancy watering systems are for cricket stadiums or corporate football pitches, not for public grounds where we play. I see kids playing football on that worn astroturf every evening, and the only water it gets is from their water bottles when they take a break.

We joke that sleep is a myth here, between eight hours of classes and six more of self-study, plus weekend tests. Tuition for two subjects alone costs my father half his monthly salary back in Chhattisgarh. The obvious answer is that it's a heavy burden, but what they miss is the strange freedom in this sacrifice—the chai breaks where we all share the same desperate dream, yaar. My own melody now is the hum of this AC and fifty pages of organic chemistry before dawn.

Breastfeeding hurt for us not because of latch, but because my son was born too early and had no strength to suck properly—it was like a tiny, weak bellows. The nurses taught us to shape the breast like a sandwich for his small mouth, and to be patient for that soft click sound, not a sharp pain. In our case, the pain came from pumping every two hours around the clock to keep the milk flowing until he was strong enough; that mechanical tug was our first lesson. So the 'correct latch' everyone talks about had to wait, and the initial hurt was from effort and fear, not technique, yaar.

A local school’s tabla player fell ill before their annual day play, yaar, and they called me to score a simple rhythm on the harmonium for their kho-kho demonstration. Sitting there, watching those kids run to my *teen taal*, I realised the best sporting music isn’t in the stadiums, but in these borrowed classrooms.

Seeing my kids watch esports finals with the same focus I had for old Mehdi Hassan ghazals makes me wonder. My harmonium students' brothers are grinding in gaming cafes, hoping for a salary that covers more than just a new headset, yaar. Sometimes I think our theatre's struggle for sponsors is just a smaller version of your battle—passion is plentiful, but real career money? That’s the final boss.

We were rehearsing for the new play when Ganesh, who's in the wheelchair racing club, rolled in to borrow our audio cable. He said his coach uses our old track, “Rang Behna,” for their warm-up laps. It’s a different joy, yaar, knowing a melody you made in your quiet hour is helping someone else push harder.

The Odyssey landed back on earth yesterday, and here I am still waiting for the transformer outside our colony to be replaced since the last monsoon. For two years we’ve watched it spark and complain, yaar. Sometimes progress feels like it’s racing on a different track altogether.

Today after rehearsal, the director showed us the form for the district cultural grant. Three pages asking how our play “preserves heritage,” but not one line about paying the light man his dues. Sometimes the system’s priorities feel like a broken tanpura, yaar—all show, no sustain.

My friend's son, Rohan, won a silver in the state swimming event last month, and at the felicitation, his smile was brighter than the trophy itself. It reminded me of my own quiet moments of triumph when a difficult alaap finally comes together. This movement makes real artists of us all, yaar.