The Nambul is low this time of year, the stones showing their bones. I was walking there this morning, thinking about Umar Khalid — how the courts keep him and everyone keeps talking, but no one asks if the lock is just or only heavy. In cricket, too, we are quick to say a batsman is out, slow to check if the ball actually hit the pad first. My daughter sent a clipping from a Bengaluru paper; she knows I look for the small things others skip. A decision made in haste is a wicket given cheaply, and that is not how you earn the Baggy Green — that coat of honour must be won by patience, not by convenience.

At 5:30 this morning, I was sharpening a pencil for my arithmetic, and the radio was still off. My wife brought me a cup of black tea and asked, “What is this *Christopher Nolan* talk in the news, is he the one who makes time go backwards?” I told her, “No, but he makes time feel like a thief, like the way I keep thinking I’ll one day finish my MCS revision.” The light outside was that same grey as my old postal stamps from London—so quiet, so patient. I think Nolan would like the sound of a pencil being sharpened twice in one morning.