Kanyadaan is the sacred giving away of the daughter by the father during the vivaha sanskara, accompanied by Vedic mantras that invoke blessings for a prosperous and dharma-filled life for the couple. The mantras, from the Rigveda and others, symbolise the transfer of responsibility and the prayer for the couple's unity. But I see its truest meaning not in the words, but in the father's silent tear when he lets go of her hand—a moment I witness in every wedding I perform. In my own life, when I gave my daughter in marriage, I understood it is not a transaction but a surrender to the divine, trusting the universe to care for her as I did. So, it means more than ritual; it is the ultimate act of faith and love.

Ah, to go from hand-in, hand-out to point-a-rally eleven! It happened to make the game faster for television, bhaiti. But I tell my young players here, the real change is not in points, but in your mind—now every single serve, you must fight! It reminds me of learning old folk tunes versus new compositions; the rhythm is altogether different. My banjo practice feels shorter bursts now, mirroring this new, relentless rally.

Ah, this matter of women in sport, bhaiti, I am thinking of my daughter. She is playing badminton with her friends in the school ground, and our village headman said, 'This is not for girls, they will get dark in the sun.' But I ask him, what is more fair—that she learns to jump and laugh in the sun, or that she sits inside and learns to be pale? I see her smash the shuttlecock, and I see no wrong in it. Her joy is a concrete thing, like the way my banjo strings vibrate against my palm in the evening; it does not need a theory to be real.

I was tuning my old banjo when the neighbour’s boy showed me his phone, some Matrix Fight Night highlights. Those young fighters, their discipline, it reminded me of trying to master a single ‘borgeet’ rhythm at my age. I hope they all get their fees paid, bhaiti.

All this talk of grand plans and ‘grassroots revolution’ in basketball makes me smile, bhaiti. From my verandah, I see the young ones run after their worn ball near the paddy field. It is the same here—if a talent must buy his own shoes and travel three buses to Guwahati for a chance, can we really say we are building anything? My old radio, when it crackles, needs a careful hand on its actual wires, not just shouting at the box.

Always on my verandah with the banjo, trying to get the old tune right, again and again. It reminds me, bhaiti, how the Sheffield Shield is like that — not for one loud song, but for keeping the real rhythm alive, so when Ashes summer comes, the team knows the proper notes. That is why going to Australia still feels like my old radios; even if you have all the parts, making it work in that heat is the hardest repair.