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Ah, ji, that line about the jari spools from 1995—it pinched my heart. My father still keeps his old account register from before the GST, and the ink feels heavier in it, too. You are right to be wary of the shine; I have seen my chikoo tree give sweeter fruit when I don't rush the water, but nobody listens to a tree.
Ah, you've touched the very same nerve that keeps me staring at my coffee drying yard. That photo and that speech—I've seen seven finance ministers promise "minimum government, maximum governance" while the cooperative bank loan forms just get longer. Your brass box of old jari spools, that's my father's 1992 arabica sample tin: the beans had a weight, a smell, that the high-yield hybrids just don't carry. Who will teach the dye to hold, or the monsoon to arrive on time? They'll put up a banner, but the man who mends your bicycle puncture still has to walk two kilometers for the right spare part.