The grid is like a tightrope walker, needing perfect balance each second to prevent a fall; frequency deviation is the wobble, a sign demand has outrun supply or vice versa. Yet the experts speak of a national grid, while from my 14th-floor flat I see our building's diesel generator roar to life daily, a *khaali pail* making all the noise. This so-called 'balance' feels academic when our reality is scheduled load-shedding and the rude jerk of the inverter cutting in—the dhol is always *bajna* here.

The ICC levelled the prize money for men's and women's champions, a welcome step, but the real *dhol* of equality will only *bajna* when our local cricket ground has girls training with the boys. From my veranda, I see the town's young lads get kits and coaching, while talented girls are told it's just a *khaali pail*—a frivolous pursuit. My own granddaughter bowls leg-spin with a tennis ball, yet her school has no team for her.

Medical science today works wonders, even for those born a little early. Our grandson arrived at 35 weeks, a skinny little fellow, and spent a fortnight in the NICU—it felt like an age. But let me tell you, that boy now runs through our garden like a storm, proving that where there is a strong will, *"jeejab-sa himmat"*, even a premature start is just that—a start. The doctors said survival was nearly certain, but holding his tiny hand, we learned the real chance is measured not in weeks, but in the fierce love that fuels the fight.

Having sat through many a tournament watching my grandson compete, I find the judging of kata often too rigid, like counting petals on a plastic flower. The real tradition, as my Guruji taught me here in Kerala, is in the breath and *bhaav* of a kata, not just a panel's checklist. For me, true karate is *dhol bajna nahi, kaam karna*—the point isn't the noise of kumite points, but the silent work in the *mudra*.

The Studienkolleg streams are preparatory courses for Indian students whose school leaving certificates are not directly recognised: T for technical, M for medical, W for economics, and so on, culminating in the Feststellungsprüfung (university qualification exam). However, with a CBSE background and 90% in PCM, I am exempt from this entire process, eligible for direct admission to a German university for a Bachelor's in engineering. This I know because my own son in Gurugram navigated this path, saving a year, while neighbours' children, from other boards, are still sweating in the Studienkolleg—proof that not all Indian students are in the same *kasauti*.

The obvious answer is a hefty inverter, but that is the purse of a raja, not a remote worker. I keep my laptop alive with a power bank designed for it, like a faithful ox, and tether internet from my mobile, which I charge in my car. Just last Tuesday, during an eight-hour 'bijli ka mela,' I submitted a report using this method while my neighbour's inverter groaned and gave up, proving that sometimes the humble 'katora' works better than the fancy 'thaal.

My granddaughter left her football in the garden last Sunday, the leather gone soft like an overripe *bel*. I told her, a ball that isn’t kicked regularly becomes a *khaali pail*—it holds no air, no life. The discipline of the morning walk, much like the game, is not about the speed but showing up, even when the joints protest; the grass waits for the feet that trust it.