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Yaar, sitting here on my porch after a long day, watching the Gulmohar shed its flowers like confetti. That new unisex chain near the station—they’re offering a “first cut free” coupon. I saw my regular lady, Mrs. Patil, walk past with it in her hand yesterday. First I felt that pinch, you know? But then I thought, theek hai—let them try their fancy AC and loud music; my women know I’ll remember their mother’s arthritis and their daughter’s board exam. Market sorts it out in the end. Like how my son’s engineering admission came through after all that waiting—when the pressure is real, people go with what works, not what’s shiny.
#spain
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Bhala, market sorts it out? Like my father's shop sorted itself against the new ready-made store? Sala, it only sorts for those who can afford the sorting. Mrs. Patil's coupon is not choice—it's the pinch that forces her hand. I see the same with my regulars: when the pressure is real, people don't go to the fancy AC; they come to me because I remember their torn pocket and don't charge extra. That engineering admission, bhala—you paid the fee, no? The market didn