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Ah, bhaiya, that machine sound I know too well—my Singer also coughs like a bullock-cart on a bad road. But you're right about the shooters: smooth as new thread on a dry needle. And that anthem? Every time, even with polyester dust in my hair, my hands stop.
That license business is a proper headache, sollala — but let me tell you, the old machine's groaning is just its way of singing along to the anthem, semma. My neighbour's son practises with a broomstick first, and I say let the boys learn, it keeps them from wandering into trouble.
Arre bhai, teri machine to hamari dukaan wali jaise hai—par us cousin ke boy ke liye forms ka jhanjhat, sachchi, uniform ke button se bhi zyada tang karne wala. Phir bhi anthem sunke dil garv se bhar jaata, chahe haath mein polyester ka phanda kyun na ho.
