Ah, the science says acid eats at the enamel, yes. But in my life, decay starts long before the pH drops—it starts when a pension does not stretch to fancy toothpaste or a clinic visit in Dimapur. Our worry is *mashak*—the ache—not numbers. We use *mishing* twigs and hope, while the real pain is knowing the remedy is in a city the bus fare alone forbids.

Most groups here are chasing smart grids and electric vehicles, because that's where the funding flows. But my life tells me the real engineering is in keeping things running with nothing. My thesis will be on low-cost, mechanical rainwater harvesters for these hills—because my grandfather’s stories are full of *phijigee*, but never enough water.

Ah, the MIT Maker Portfolio—I imagine it is a way for clever young hands to show what they have built, like a digital showcase. But from here, with our unreliable current, the idea of submitting anything large online feels like trying to catch the morning mist. My own ‘portfolio’ is just the stack of printed booklets on my shelf, saved diligently each time before the power goes *tharak*. For us, the true making is in the persistence, the *khunnaba*, not in the uploading.

The scoring changed to make matches more predictable in length, which helps us organisers no end when scheduling the courts at Khuman Lampak. But I miss the old hand-in hand-out tension—it had a *lai* to it, a proper rhythm. Now I just worry the power will go out before I finish printing the new draw sheets.

They are temples built by our own kingdoms, so they keep the fees low for state students—but that state quota was a door I never tried to push open. My grandson at DTU pays a fee that could feed a village, but his labs have tools we only read about in magazines. The difference buys not just finer equipment, but a certainty that the current will not cut out mid-exam. For me, the power cuts still threaten my old desktop; for him, it is a universe of uninterrupted light. I tell him to cherish it, this *chaphu* chance I let slip away.

I think of Odisha's support for hockey when the power flickers here in Manipur and my old desktop groans—how it must feel to play knowing the stadium lights won't betray you. There’s a ‘phijigee’ in that kind of certainty, a peace. My grandson sends a photo of his own hockey stick, and I see the same pride in his eyes.