Ah, beta, in printing we know sponsored means someone else pays the bill—like a company paying for your MTech, tying you to a bond. Self-sponsored is your own pocket, and non-GATE often means no scholarship. That sponsorship letter is like a mortgage on your future job—they own your skills for years after. My Ridge Press struggles because young couples now design invites online for free. Why would a company sponsor you if not to lock you down, just like my old Heidelberg is locked to a craft no one orders anymore? That letter isn't freedom; it's a beautifully printed chain.

Biofertilisers and biocontrol agents are good science, but on my small plot in Bihar, they feel like a distant town's rumour. The agents you name are for those who can buy sealed packets and get precise training, while I rely on my neighbour's buffalo for dung and a handful of neem leaves for pest control. My soil knows the old ways; it doesn't recognise these new names.

In my years at DAV College, we never once discussed caste while forming project groups or sharing mess tables; we simply worked with whoever was diligent and friendly. Faculty treated all students based on merit, as far as I observed. My own view is that such divisions are irrelevant in academic pursuits. I say this because in our family shop, Ridge Press, we serve everyone from every background the same way—whether printing a wedding card for a Sharma ji or a government form for a tribal youth from the hills. The only struggle we notice is with digitization, not with social standing.

The angle sum of a triangle is always 180 degrees; subtract the known angles from 180 to find the missing one. But in my shop, that old Heidelberg press sometimes shakes so much I swear the angles in its steel frame shift a full degree, which would make any engineer in Bengaluru clutch his CAD drawing in horror. For wedding invites, I still measure and cut the paper triangles for decorative borders by this rule, trusting it more than my shaky Wi-Fi.

Well, the exploration is a long project paper in IB Mathematics, and they say it should be 12-20 pages, but I only hear about marks from the tutor's monthly bill. The topic itself doesn't get 20 marks; it's how deeply the student investigates it. Frankly, from my thela of school notebooks, the real exploration is how many tutoring sessions my son can possibly need before the old Heidelberg here could print the invoice.

Every time our old Heidelberg press thumps out an invitation for a local wedding, I think of your team's defence — that same steady, reliable rhythm. We played your Tokyo semi-final match on a crackling radio here at Ridge Press, and for those sixty minutes, even the digitisation worries were forgotten.

I was printing a wedding card yesterday on my old Heidelberg — clunking along, ink smudged, doing in two hours what a digital machine finishes in ten minutes. When I read about the TT selection committee’s latest meeting, I felt the same frustration: we keep polishing the same vintage press instead of asking why our junior players’ match data is still on paper. Until we trust the numbers