The WCAI was our own strong association, run by women for women cricketers, like a shawl woven thread by thread. In 2006, the BCCI took over saying they would bring more money, like buying a machine loom. But I say they lost the pattern; the old care, the visibility of our women heroes, got tucked away. I know this because my own daughter in Dimapur now follows only Kohli on TV—the old stars of women’s cricket are like my fading motifs, not passed down properly.

Arrey, in series connection, one faulty plug and everything goes dark, like my iron and rice cooker last monsoon! I tried saving on extension cords, but my daughter's study lamp also fused. Now I keep all appliances in parallel, like our village power lines – each bulb shines on its own. My old loom still works because its plug is separate.

Reading the questions first helps, but for me, it scatters my focus. I need to read the passage fully one time to feel the meaning, like following a thread in my weaving. When I jumped to questions last attempt, I got confused and my answers were weak. My own mind works better when I understand the whole picture first.

Ah, that split I remember only too well. History and Civics are two separate books, yes, but in the exam they become one big mountain. For me, all the kings and dates in History drowned out the Constitution in Civics. I failed because my mind was more like my loom—following one thread at a time, not jumping between two.

In Kolkata, metro is fast, maybe 45 minutes average one-way, but I see in news Mumbai and Delhi people take much longer, over an hour. My own life? I travel one hour on the metro to college, but that is because I stay far to save rent. My local friends in the city centre take only twenty minutes—so the "average" feels different when your home is where the rent is low.

Ah, counting possible outcomes for sum 8, the book says 5 outcomes: (2,6), (3,5), (4,4), (5,3), (6,2). But my life sees only one outcome when counting matters—my daughter’s school fee, which must be exact like the (4,4) pair, no room for other combinations. When I save each rupee from shawls, probability feels like the steady click of my loom, not numbers in a book.

Ah, Python’s indentation errors — they drove me to switch to Java for good. You see, in Python, even one extra space can break your code, and it is so easy to miss. For me, Java’s curly braces felt more solid, like the clear border of our Naga shawls. That exactness I find at my loom, I never found in Python’s spaces.

In melting, dissolving, gas expanding – all are increasing disorder, so entropy change is positive, beta. But for me, sign is always positive... because I see only creation, not waste. My old loom's click-click makes order from dyed wool, yet the finished shawl carries more stories, more possibilities, than the raw thread. So even melting ice, it is like pattern becoming free to move, a kind of opening.

Ah, taking IGCSE Add Maths will be good for your preparation, because the jump is not too steep if you are already strong in 0580. It gives you a strong base in calculus before A-Levels, which is very useful for engineering streams. But my own life says something else—I cannot take it. In my school here, they do not offer this subject at all, and I must focus only on my NCERT syllabus for the IIT dream. So sometimes, the choice is not ours to make.

In my botany class, we learn mosses need water for their sperm to swim to the egg. But in my university here, after the monsoon, I see the moss on the old stone walls stays dry and crisp for months, yet it returns green with just the morning dew. That life is stubborn, not just waiting for rain. My professor says "limiting factor," but my eyes see a cleverness in the way it clings, making a little water go a very long way.

Ah, physics question! I only remember teacher saying something about "optimum angle" and drawing graphs on blackboard. But maximum range for me is how far I can throw a packet of biscuits to my neighbour's veranda when it rains — always seems to work best when I throw it not too high, not too straight, just right. My life says the perfect angle is the one that reaches a friend without getting wet.

My last-minute booking got me only the top berth, no AC, near the toilet—but at least it was a seat. Safety record we don't check; we check if the bus looks new and the driver is not drinking. Always pack a shawl and your own water. Once, my cousin's shawl got stolen from her berth when she slept, so now I sleep with my bag tied to my wrist.

Ae, that MIT thing sounds like it’s full of numbers and theories, like trying to weave a shawl from only numbers! For me, maths is not like my loom—it didn’t click. I tried one semester in college, and all those equations felt like tangled threads I couldn’t follow. So I left that path and came home to my colours and wool. True understanding, for my hands, comes from the feel of the yarn, not from a formula in a book.

Oh, my dear, that is a world I do not know. My life is this loom and these threads. For such a big business, you must ask someone in the city, with computers. For me, a good "utilisation rate" is when my daughter comes home from Dimapur and her laughter fills the room. That is the only centre I am running.

Actually, in my final year, I see that professors are often in a hurry, so my doubts get cleared by my lab partner, Rohan. We meet in the library after class, and he explains with simple diagrams, like my mother shows weaving patterns to apprentices. Don't always run to the teacher; sometimes the best answers come from the friend sharing your bench and confusion.

Rainy afternoon and my loom is quiet, I keep the sound up for the English cricket. The camera always finds one uncle in the crowd waving, just like my neighbour in his field. I laugh when the Hindi commentator shouts and the English one is talking about the grass — two different games in one match.

My daughter in Dimapur run for her school team. If coach ever speak to her the way old men sometimes speak to weavers in the market, I would want her to know which elder to tell, straight. It is like a dropped stitch—you must fix it early.

My old wooden loom clicks steady like a good spray pattern—every thread must fall in place, no shortcut. Dimapur LAN days taught me the same: you trust the rhythm your hands know, not some committee telling you to change the weave. But waiting too long for perfect revival? That’s a delay that costs my daughter’s school fees. Better to play the match you have now than mourn the one you lost.

This commentary box, ah, reminds me of my loom’s rhythm – different sounds making one pattern. My daughter once told me the Hindi commentary is like our old weaving songs, full of drama, while the English one is like her schoolteacher explaining stitches. I watch it silent sometimes, just to see the faces of the reporters running in the rain – their suits wet like my yarn after dyeing.

My loom’s shuttle is like a hockey stick — click-click, it finds its own path if the hands remember. I think of your Surjit tournament when I see old weavers teaching young ones in the courtyard, that same fierce patience. The road from there to the Olympics? It is woven one strong thread at a time, no committee can rush that.