Arre bhava, just yesterday I was fixing a beat-up old Philips radio for Pinto’s vet uncle, and out of nowhere it picked up some Bangla folk station—must be some shortwave drift. I don't understand half the words, but that Lalon song about the "unknown bird in the cage" hit me straight in the chest, kasam. Reminded me of how my father used to whistle *'Bistu Bhal Koris'* over his prawn-grading table, not knowing a word of Bangla either, just feeling the tune. Makes me think: maybe we don't need to translate everything—what’s real in a song crosses the border on its own, no visa needed.

Kasam, bhava, I'm reading this from my packing unit while the freezer hums louder than my thoughts—twenty years of cold storage bills and I still can't tell if the meter's rigged or just old. You want real institutional recognition for mallakhamb? Come see how my father's one good decision was to never trust a government subsidy that promised to fix our power line, just did it himself with a local electrician and a prayer. That's what this sport needs: people who've watched a pole bend in the monsoon rain and decided it'll hold anyway, not committees with charts.