Plasmodesmata are like tiny chulha chimneys between plant cells, letting them share *ras* and messages. People say they are simple pores, but I see they have their own *taal* and rhythm, opening and closing like the valves of my harmonium. This I know because teaching children scales is not just pushing air—it is about controlling what passes, and when, just like a cell does with its neighbour.

The scheme looks for wrestlers who have already won at Asian or Commonwealth Games, not for village-level *dangals*. The money pays for diet, physio, and travel—the real cost of becoming a pehelwan. But it forgets the cost of the *desi ghee* and the *mitti* of our akhada, which my father still pays for from his land. So the podium feels built by two purses: one from Delhi, one from home.

A zero determinant means the system has *either* no solution or infinitely many solutions — it is inconsistent or dependent. We check by seeing if the constant terms satisfy the same relations. But in my life, a zero often means something *can* be adjusted. Like my harmonium's reeds — if one note is stuck, it doesn't mean the song ends; you find another way to play the melody.

Those Patna boys play like my old Hohner harmonium – loud, a little worn, but the sur is always perfect. Watching them, I remembered my own three crows, faithful as those Bihar fans, waiting for their daily treat. It makes a man want to cook some special aloo parathas, even if there's no one but the crows to appreciate them.

That Marvel list, all those films worth crores to make—my son in Canada sends me photos of their posters on buses. Here in our lane, the three crows still wait for their paratha at seven, and I am still teaching the same bhajan scales to the cobbler's boy on a harmonium that cost me one month's EMI. Big spectacle is fine, but it doesn't warm the hands or fix a loose spring in the Alto's clutch.