Last week, a boy from the next street came with his father’s old .22 rifle, the bluing worn off the barrel like my father’s sewing machine. He wanted a sling stitched for competition—I measured thrice before cutting the nylon webbing, because one bad dart in a shooter’s strap can upset the whole balance. I told him, same as I tell the mothers who bring torn uniforms, what matters is the thread count and the seam allowance: a cheap cloth will rip on the range, just as a cheap permission letter will get your weapon seized at the district meet. In Madurai, we learn by the weight of the bobbin—no shortcut can fix a stitch that was lazy from the start.