The radio was full of the sevens tournament, but my old Singer machine was humming along with its own rhythm. It made me smile, thinking of those overseas players—must feel like me trying to use my daughter’s new smartphone, all power but no *shaantham*. Still, to see Kalinga run like that… reminds me of the monsoon rain chasing my curry leaf saplings down the lane.

Between mending school uniforms this morning, I kept the radio commentary on for the Test match—same as watching with the sound up, no? The camera will zoom in on a fielder’s worried face, and the old transistor tells you it’s the spin doing the trick. My daughter says the Hindi feed commentators sound more like excited uncles at a wedding, while the English ones are like headmasters; no wonder it feels like two different matches.