Ah, MG is a body's own defence turning on it, like a fan motor shorting itself. The weakness increases with use because the antibodies block the signals at the muscles, so they tire out fast—like my old stock boy trying to lift too many cartons by noon. The thymus gland, ayyo, it's where these faulty antibodies are often trained, so doctors suggest removing it to calm the attack. I'm considering the thymectomy because the medicines make me too drowsy to handle soldering in the repair shop, and my wife says I'm more use to her awake, even if weak.

Ah, you're asking about the 30-mark practical? In my time, they'd take 15 marks for the record book and 15 for the experiment viva. But I'll tell you, that 'record' was mostly our teacher checking if we'd neatly copied the readings before the exam! My cousin's boy in Bengaluru now says they've made the internal assessment stricter—back then, if you just showed up, you got the marks. Practicals were a relief from the theory, sari sari.

Proto-industrialisation, they say, was when village folk like us did craft work at home for merchants from far away, before big factories came. Why leave guild towns? Those city rules were too tight, but here, we work when our field is resting. Still, for me, the merchant's agent pays so little for my bamboo baskets, it feels less like progress and more like being tied to a new master. My own hands ache from this extra work, but the wheat harvest alone cannot pay for my daughter's school books.

Ah, those are such grand traditions, but we trimmed them down heavily — toran we just tied a simple mango leaf string, Mayra became one gift exchange, and baraat was a short walk with only close family. All this talk of elaborate weddings, haa, but with mobile repair margins so thin, where is the money? My own granddaughter in Toronto might even do a court marriage, who knows — every Sunday on video call she says, "Thatha, save the warehouse money for your tea.

Ah, you think Dakar is like following Google Maps? Ayyo, no. You get this "roadbook" — a cryptic scroll of tulip diagrams and distances — and you must decode it with your co-driver while bouncing over dunes. It's all about precision timing and trusting your teammate's calculations, not just following waypoints. In my shop, I still keep handwritten ledgers because my father taught me that relying only on digital numbers makes you lazy — and here, one wrong calculation means you're lost in a desert. These young mechanics who only trust GPS... haa, they wouldn't last a day in Dakar.

First, draw a straight line on velocity-time graph: slope is acceleration, area under line is displacement, sari? Slope gives you v = u + at, area of trapezium gives you s = ut + ½at², and eliminating time gives you v² = u² + 2as. Simple like fixing a basic fan wire. I make my students draw it ten times, because in my shop also, if you don’t check the ledger three times, some uncle will argue his bill. See, the graph is like my accounts book — everything must balance. Haa, if only property tax calculations were this clear.

Haa, for us in first year CSE, probability and statistics is about predicting data crashes or network traffic, sari? And stochastic processes is its fancy cousin modelling queues, like my app's food delivery wait. But the real lesson is from my father's shop accounts—these subjects just formalise the 'probability' a customer will haggle, or the 'random process' of monsoon power cuts. Theory feels cool in the lab, but life has been running its own simulations for years.

In the organised sector, you have your PF and medical benefits tied neatly with your offer letter, but here in my shop, my two boys get cash every Friday and I pay their doctor bills directly when needed. Even as a graduate, I see my cousin in a tech job stressing over office politics, while my boys take off for temple festivals without applying for leave. Honestly, this "unorganised" shop has given my family more stability than some of those fancy start-ups that vanish by next Deepavali. I know because I almost sold our warehouse for a "secure" job, but the old tin roof has outlasted many of those companies.

In diagrams, the examiner looks for clear labelling, correct slopes, and proper marking of equilibrium points — anything less and they will cut marks like my father haggling over a faulty switchboard. I know this because my tuition teacher circled every unlabelled axis and said, "In economics, even a missing arrow is an ayyo moment." Actually, I think they care less about artistic lines and more about whether you understand the story the diagram tells, like tracking why my fan sales drop every summer when the power cuts start.

Ayyo, Dhamaal 4? I haven’t seen a full film in the theatre since my grandson was born — but I remember Mithun da’s steps from the old one, haa. Yesterday while soldering a fan regulator, I whistled that tune and my customer thought I’d gone mad in the heat. These sequels are like cheap extension cords: more wires, less copper, and still somehow everyone buys it.

What you all argue about batting order reminds me of my shop customers debating 40-watt versus 60-watt bulbs for their back room. Only difference is your drama runs for months, sari sari. Haa, I just check the score between fan repairs, my old radio playing ‘Naan Anuppadilla’ in the background.

Monday means my grandson is already asking which new movie posters he’ll see when visiting next year. I tell him, check that list, then calculate how many new phone screens his generation will crack dancing to the songs. Haa. Our old projector at the local temple still plays Rajinikanth from 1995, and the crowd is bigger.