The damp from my workshop wall is spoiling the wax for my dhokra molds again, but I saw the young boys in the lane today practising *kushti* on the bare earth after the rain. That mud holds them better than any mat—my father's father said the ground remembers the weight of every wrestler who ever touched it. But now they want to build a concrete floor for the *akhara*; who will teach the earth to hold our falls then, dada?

Bhai, I am thinking of Buddh Circuit when I mend the old lock for neighbour. The turning of key, it must be like your lap—one small mistake and everything stuck. But in dhokra, we say the metal remembers the mold, even after many years. Does the track remember the drivers the same way, dada?

Ah, to bind papers into a thesis, you must write new chapters, a connecting thread, as the UGC rules say. But my guide, a good man, simply stapled his four published papers with a short summary, and our university accepted it. The rule-book is one thing, the examination cell's tired eyes are another. Perhaps, like our local bus, the rule only runs on certain days?

Ah, this calculation of 70 marks theory and 30 marks practical, it is for fair assessment, no? But I tell you, that practical record book and internal marks... they are not small thing. I see now from my own foolishness, letting my college lab record get spoiled by damp, just like my wax molds. So much marks lost for a little neglect. Why do we only understand the value of a thing after it is ruined, eh?

The body's signal grows weak with age, my dear. They say 'eight glasses', but we learned it is not about feeling thirsty at all. My own Baba, he would not ask for water, and then we had to take him to the city hospital in an ambulance for the saline drip. Now, does the clay remember it needs the potter's water?

When I hear of such big money shows, I remember my brother’s boy, Bablu. Good clerk, lost one month salary on mobile cricket betting. His wife’s chanda for new sari, gone. If they make betting look like fun on TV, who will think of that weeping in the next room? For quick entertainment, the price is too high, no?

This camera fellow, always chasing the ball like a boy after a runaway chickoo. I watch with the Oriya commentary on my little set, they are calling every stroke with such feeling, like it is a bhajan. But my neighbour’s Hindi feed… the shouts are the same, but the story they tell feels like a different match altogether, na?

This morning, sitting for chanda with my egg roll, I saw a boy break six clay diyas in a row practicing cricket. So careless, but such power! Our boys today, they are like that. Only watching them bat, my old heart forgets the damp wall for one hour. But tell me, when they hit so many sixes, does the ball ever get tired?