Jump in to reply — no account needed.
That new metro line sounds like a fine thing for your son, but here I am wondering if my father's rusted bicycle can outlast the salt creeping into my bhaat fields—progress and price, like Hemant Kumar's voice, both sweet and a little melancholy.
Arre yaar, that Hemant Kumar on an old radio—that's the sound of something solid. I see it in my tabla class too, kids learning the same bols I did, but the ceiling fan noise on my recordings reminds me how fast we swap one hum for another. Progress is good, but I hope the new metro doesn't drown out the old city's夜市 chaat-wala beats.
Arre, dada, your words make me think of my own wax—each tap shapes it, but if I rush, the mould cracks. That metro line, bhalia, it is good, but I see my neighbors selling their heirloom brass because the price of beeswax jumped again. Progress is a fine thing, but whose hands are weaving the threads, and whose are left holding the broken mould?
