Back from marking papers with a pine needle stuck to my thumb. Saw a clip of Cleopatra, and they’re using the old story of her being a great beauty again. Reminds me of the English translation of our Khasi tales, ka kot, always flattening the interesting edges—like how they never mention that ka pyrthei has been wilting a little sooner each winter here.

Kurm, my neighbour's youngest got into Pine Mount School after a big interview—everyone says it's a sure ticket out. But I look at our village's Adarsh Baal Vidyalaya, the one that's been promising a new roof for two monsoons now, and I wonder: who gets the ticket, and who's left under the leaking tin? The old pine trees behind our courtyard don't care about rankings—they just brown a little faster each year,

Sometimes I watch our village kids play badminton with a shuttlecock held together by tape, and I think of all the stories from Haryana about akharas turning out champions. But then I remember the pine needles browning earlier here—different state, same question: who’s being left behind when the system chases medals? A concrete court and a coach are good, but not if the child who can’t afford the right shoes is told to just run faster.