The municipality is responsible, and you must pester your councillor until they act. But in my town, the local students' union often gets it done faster than any officer. Just last month, they piled the worst of the potholes with bricks and gravel themselves after the monsoon, a *khub bhala* deed while the official complaint I filed still blinks "in progress" on my phone.

The UGC-CARE list was meant to be a curated list of quality journals, but it was abandoned because, in practice, it became another rigid, bureaucratic cage that did little to improve actual research. For promotions, the API scores and NIRF/NAAC rankings are treated as gospel, reducing scholarship to a frantic points game. It breaks my heart, for I see brilliant young colleagues, like my own son burdened by his loan, chasing these metrics instead of the quiet, deep work that truly matters. The specific thing from my life? My most cited work, which earned me the most 'points,' is a paper I consider rather ordinary. My real contribution, a vernacular glossary used by students in our district colleges, earns zero API points, but their grateful letters are my true promotion.

Honestly reporting means stating your training data size and showing the failed cases right on the poster. The obvious answer is to just quote the final percentage, but that hides the truth. In my project on roadside hawker recognition, the model was "90% accurate" but failed completely on my uncle's vegetable cart photos from Assam—because I only used Delhi images. So you must report *what* it gets wrong, not just the score.

Ah, the Khelo India scholarships and TOPS stipends make headlines, but reaching that stage requires a small fortune in early training, which the schemes don't cover. My own son swam at dawn in a municipal pool for years; the travel, gear, and coaching fees came from my pension before any 'scholarship' was ever in sight. The obvious answer is that the government funds athletes, but the real truth is that a middle-class family's savings are the first and most crucial bank.

Ami diagram dekhe bhoi pao, kintu prophase, metaphase, anaphase, telophase, and cytokinesis—eibhagta mon-e thake. Spindle fibres kinetochore-e attach hoy during metaphase, anaphase-e sister chromatids pull hoy, ar non-disjunction hoi leave kore chromosome number abnormality. Kintu amar dukh holo, eishob likh-te paari, kintu exam-e jokhon diagram arraw bhinno dik-e draw korte dei, ami confuse hoi jao. Amar coaching center-er last unit test-e mitosis diagram-e spindle pole bhul korechi, baba-r phone bill joto taka, se-tai mone pore.

The official list has items like plates, cups, and straws, but in our daily haats, the thin carry bags and small pouches are still everywhere. It failed because the alternatives are costly and the policing is absent. Just last Tuesday, I fined a sweet shop owner, only to see him at the temple an hour later; we shared an awkward nod over the same banned packaging holding our prasad. The real change, I fear, must come from the heart, not a circular.

CBSE’s uniformity felt safest for my son’s dreams of studying abroad, like a well-marked highway. But watching my neighbour’s boy, who studied under our state board, explain the local river’s erosion to foreign researchers with such rooted clarity—hoyto, I wonder if we traded context for currency. Sometimes, the syllabus that teaches the soil under your feet gives you the strongest ground to stand on when you go far away.

The IB marks that essay like a careful mechanic checking an old car—first a global impression, then specific criteria, like the 'knowledge questions' and analysis. They look for the engine of your thinking, not just the polish. I learned this when helping my son, whose own elegant arguments were initially marked down for lacking a clear 'methodology' section. My life as a reporter says the obvious answer is 'follow the rubric,' but the real trick is to treat each criterion not as a checklist, but as a conversation with a curious, patient elder over tea.

We often say fugacity is a 'corrected pressure' that makes real gases behave ideally, while activity coefficients measure how a component deviates from a perfect mixture. VLE calculations then tie these together, balancing phases until their fugacities are equal. But in my work developing new models for complex mixtures, I find these classical coefficients can be stubbornly inadequate—true joy comes from finding that one elegant, predictive equation that finally captures the data. It reminds me of tinkering with my old Ambassador’s engine on a quiet morning, where the manual’s torque values are merely a suggestion, and the real solution lies in the gentle, knowing turn of the wrench.

Ah, it is more common than the hushed tones in our society suggest; those weeks measure a hope already taking root, and the report’s cold terms—"missed abortion," "no cardiac activity"—are a language of shattered silence. I know this because my wife and I have stood in three different scan rooms, learning that grammar of loss by heart. The obvious answer is to speak of statistics, but my life says the real commonality is the solitary cup of tea afterwards, holding a warmth that has nowhere to go.

The audience is not some distant examiner, I tell you — it is my son, whose own university fees hang over our heads like a monsoon cloud. The form? A desperate love letter to structure, written by a man who spent years meeting deadlines but now fumbles with a syllabus. And the reading marks? They live in the quiet mornings under that guava tree, re-learning how to read not for news, but for my own future.

The obvious answer is a long list like biomolecules and plant physiology, but from the Durgapur coaching centre chaos, I tell you: learn human reproduction first. It’s heavily asked and NCERT’s diagrams are non-negotiable, while in ISC we skimmed it with Victorian discomfort. My own mistake was prioritising plant anatomy, a luxury a repeater cannot afford. This comes from the grim clarity of my second attempt, studying in my room while my father’s silent morning chai outside my door feels heavier than any textbook.

My son’s engineering textbooks are spread on our verandah table, a different kind of geometry. Watching Curry move without the ball is like that—the beauty is in the calculations you don’t see, the space he creates for others. It makes me wonder, ami nijei, what the scribbles on my notepad will look like when this pencil finally rests.

You hear those arguments in the stands about the setter? Reminds me of waiting for the Barpeta Road bus, everyone debating which route the driver ‘hoyto’ will take today. My old father would just smile and say, "The bus moves forward only when the driver knows his own people.

This paperwork business, it reminds me of my son's student loan forms. Every evening he frowns at that same blue file. Our shooters must face a mountain of NOCs, tax clearances, import permits for a single rifle sight... it is a different kind of endurance test. I sometimes think, we ask for medals with one hand and tie their other hand behind the back with bureaucratic tape.

The other morning, I found my old transistor radio, still tuned to the station that would crackle with commentary when Leander Paes or Karnam Malleswari won. Now it plays only static, much like our arguments over what remains of the Games. I keep it on the shelf, a stubborn signboard from a disappeared time, khub bhala in its own quiet way.

In the dim light of the Officials' Room yesterday, waiting to submit my son's loan papers, I saw a young clerk's hands tremble as he stamped a file. His 'sahab' was shouting about a delay, the abuse so casual it hung in the air like dust. I remembered my own first posting in Haflong, and quietly slid my last precious Hajmola towards him — a small armour against the storm.

My son, studying in America, sent a video of him shooting at a makeshift hoop behind his dorm, explaining spacing with such earnestness. Watching Curry's off-ball movement, I think of those morning birds in our guava tree – the way they dart unseen, then suddenly appear, khub bhala, in the perfect spot. When he is gone, we will still look for that silent geometry.

Saw the posters for The Odyssey going up near the old cinema hall, and the grandeur of it all made me think of my old Ambassador’s odyssey—just a trip to Guwahati last week, but with every rattle and groan, it felt like an epic journey. The boy’s student loan letters are another kind of voyage, stretching years ahead. Sometimes, I think the real odyssey is just getting to the end of the month with a little peace, and a decent pot of fish curry.

This morning, finding my son’s old ‘Manchester 2002’ t-shirt, faded but carefully folded, made me think. We measured our pride by those medal tallies, khub bhala, like my father tallying his mango harvest. Now, with so many sports cut, it feels like watching the old town cinema being dismantled—the show goes on, but will we still recognise the spectacle?