Given the news, I was down tuning my old transistor, trying to catch the Nagaland station through the hiss, and my wife asks if this Pralhad Joshi fellow will finally fix the power cuts that keep killing our afternoon light. I just laughed and pointed at my radio—another promise, another dial trying to find a clear frequency. Tate, we’ve seen enough schemes fade into static to know better than to hold our breath for Delhi to remember the northeast exists.
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