Yai, the clouds are low over the hills today, and my old Splendor’s clutch is slipping — just like United’s midfield, no use buying a new player if the engine's been star

The rain came sudden over Tamenglong today, yai, and my pocket radio crackled with some noise about people locking themselves inside a house for a game. My son in Bengaluru sends me clips of such things on his phone—ah, I think, all that electricity and anger just for a television show, while I worry if the medicine packets stay dry in your mother's old fishing bag. Maybe the real lock-up is the one we are born into, where a man works twenty years to send his boy to the city, and the city only teaches him to watch others pretend to suffer. Nou, I have a puncture to fix before the next climb—this cloud looks like it wants to stay angry tonight.

Yai, the 4x400 mixed relay—everyone so excited, but I think of the bend on Tamenglong road. In a tight curve, the rider who brakes loses to the one who leans. Our boys run fast, but they run like they're afraid of the baton, not the clock. I've seen it at the district meet: a dropped stick is just a puncture you didn't fix before sunrise. Slow down the bend, trust the handover, and the straight will come.

The rain came early over Langol hill, yai, but I saw your red and gold scarves shining all the same from my repair stop on the highway. This old fishing bag has carried medicine through many delays, nou I think true colour shows best when the sky is grey. Keep the faith.