Inseguridad, sin morbo

अरे वाह, कल सुबह तालाब किनारे टहल रहा था, तो देखा पटेल जी की दुकान पर ताला लगा है — तीसरी बार इस महीने चक्की लेकर भाग गए। गाँव में पुलिस आती भी है तो चाय पीकर चली जाती है, मगर हमारे पास क्या आँकड़ा है कि मालूम पड़े कि कितनी रिपोर्ट दर्ज होती हैं और कितनों पर केस चलता है? जब तक हम खुद अपने मोहल्ले की चौकसी न करें और कोर्ट-प्रेस में शोर न मचाएँ, ये लूट का दौर नहीं रुकेगा।

Arre, this Marvel list in the news... my daughter, amma, she used to save her bus fare to watch those films on a tiny phone screen at her friend’s house. Now she’s in first year engineering, and yesterday she asked me for three thousand rupees for a graphics tablet—"for CAD, nanna." I told her, beta, if that tablet helps you draw a bridge that doesn't fall on the poor man's house, then God willing, we will find the money. But first, let me check if the onion price has come down, or we'll be eating biryani without onions this weekend, and Bablu’s tutoring fees will have to wait.

Cleopatra katha suni loke nua yojana boli, kintu amara pratidina pakhala bhata bechara ra chinta bada. Aji raatire gali re birai ra awaj sunili, mone padila je suraksha se amara gali ra katha. Kila adi raja ra katha khali kagaja re.

হাঁ, সেটাই তো। গতকাল আমার ছোট ছেলের ইউনিফর্ম কাটতে গিয়ে বুঝলাম, দোকানে একটা আগুন লাগার ভয় তো আছেই, কিন্তু তার চেয়েও বড় ভয় — বাজার চলে যায় যদি। এই যে রাস্তায় নতুন রেডিমেড কাপড়ের দোকান খুলেছে কটকে, তাদের কাছে এক কোলে সেট, দামও কম। আমাদের মতন পুরনো দর্জিরা বলি, "নিজে কাটলে ফিট ঠিক থাকে", কিন্তু সময় বদলাচ্ছে। আসলে ভয়টা শুধু চোর-ডাকাতের নয়, এই বাজার বদলে যাওয়াও এক রকম এক্সটর্শনই তো — আর সরকার যদি ছোট কারিগরদের বাঁচানোর পথ না দেখায়, তবে আমাদের মতো লাখো মানুষ শুধু পুরনো গান শুনেই দিন কাটাব।

A doctor on a video call can only prescribe medicines from List O, like common fever or allergy pills, and List A, which are for follow-up on chronic conditions. They cannot prescribe the strong painkillers from List B, which need a physical check. This is what the town pharmacist explained to me when I asked for my knee. My own doctor, bhal manuh, wanted to see my swollen joints himself before giving anything stronger than paracetamol, saying a screen is not enough for such pain.

A doctor on video may prescribe medicines from List O and List A for common ailments, but List B drugs still need a physical consultation. As a pharmacist, I see List O prescriptions for fevers come often, yet I must gently refuse the anxious *beta* from Delhi who wants sleeping pills for his mother—those are List B, and her old heart needs a proper check. It reminds me of my own daughter’s video calls: technology bridges distance, but some things, like the soil for my *rajma* creeper, must be felt with your own hands.

For remote consultation safety, Schedule O lists medicines allowed for teleconsultation, A for those requiring physical examination, and B for follow-up prescriptions. But a list cannot replace the physician's hands-on judgment—my father's misdiagnosed 'back pain' turned out to be a kidney infection no video call could catch. Those jars of almonds are measured with more certainty than a prescription from a screen.

In India, over a video consultation, a doctor can prescribe medicines for common, non-emergency conditions, following the Telemedicine Practice Guidelines. List O contains over-the-counter medicines, List A is for chronic conditions we can manage remotely, and List B is for specific follow-ups of existing patients. But from my small town gym, I see these lists mean little when the nearest pharmacy is a day's trip away for a sprained ankle, and the real prescription is often patience and a hot water bottle.

As a doctor, I can only prescribe List O medicines, like simple vitamins or antacids, over a video call. List A and B need a proper physical examination. But arey, I once prescribed a common painkiller remotely, and it turned out the patient had an ulcer that worsened. My own mother runs a small home business, and when her back pain flared up, I insisted on seeing her in person first—because sometimes, the simplest *achaar* can hide a spoiled ingredient.

From a patient's view, a video doctor can prescribe many common medicines for ongoing issues like allergies or infections, but Schedule H1 drugs are tricky—they often need a physical script. Lists O, A, and B are schedules for selling drugs, with O being over-the-counter. Honestly, as a small business owner who's had zero time for a clinic visit this month, I've used e-consults for my chronic acid reflux prescription; it was a lifesaver during the café's renovation chaos. But I'd never get my first-time anxiety meds that way—that needed a proper, sit-down chat.

Arey yaar, kal raat bijli gayi thi na, main apna fuse box theek kar raha tha, tabhi suna ki ek uncle ke dukaan ke aage koi chhote motor-scooter pe aaya aur haath jodke 'dhandha chale ya na chale, hafta toh lagega' bola. Mera baap bolta hai, yeh naya trend hai, pehle chori hoti thi toh police complaint hoti thi, ab yeh 'protection' ka bhoot hai. Main toh yeh sochta hoon, jab tak log khud apni zimedari nahi lenge—chahe woh colony ke WiFi ki security ho ya gali ka guard—tab tak yeh competition ka galat version hi chalega.

सुबह चार बजे खेत पर गया तो देखा किसी ने मोटर की चेन और पंप के पाइप काट दिए। पिछले महीने भी बीज के बोरे चुरा लिए थे। पुलिस में रिपोर्ट लिखाने गया तो बोले 'चोरी तो होती रहती है' — ये सुनकर लगता है हम किसानों की परेशानी उनकी फाइल में नहीं आती। पानी का खर्चा बढ़ता है, शहर सरकता है, और अब डर लगता है कि बेटी को खेतों में दौड़ने दू

The man talks about digitising everything, making life efficient for the middle class — but my neighbour, who sells vegetables from a handcart, still can't get a bank account without three proofs of address. Meanwhile, my last order got flagged by some algorithm, and the platform held my payment for two weeks, yaar. All this 'Aadhaar-enabled' ease doesn't stop the local goons from demanding hafta from every shop on our lane, ji.

Yaar, kal meri mausi ke bete ka workshop — ek saal pehle khula tha, nounacche ilaqe mein — pe chhappar phaad ke teen aadmi aaye. "Mahina guard nahi diya to aag laga denge." Usne police mein report kiya to thanedar ne kaha, "Bhai sahab, aap toh businessman hain, adjust karo." Yeh koi rasta nahi hai. Jab sarkari nizam aap ki himayat kare hi na, toh phir apni basti ke logon ka ek common fund banao, ek dusre ki madad karo. Data dekha hai maine — jahan yeh local committees kaam karti hain, wahan extortion ke case 40% kam hote hain.

Arre yaar, just yesterday the aunty who sells bhajiya near the municipal school told me her nephew had to pay some boys to simply keep his cart open. When the most basic earning is taxed by fear, what is left? I watch the budget hearings, and we must ask why the schemes for safety never reach these smallest vendors first.

After my morning walk, I saw the chai-wallah counting his earnings with nervous eyes—extortion has made his small joy a risk. Bas, when the vulnerable lose their peace, it's not just crime but a disease on our economy. The fix won't come from committees, yaar, but from people raising their voices till the courts listen.

Last week, the chai-wala near my gully had his entire month's earnings taken by two boys on a scooter — no FIR, no help, bas “adjust karo.” I keep thinking: everyone says the solution is more police or better jobs, but nobody asks why the same lane has a functioning water ATM but no one will stand together to watch the corner. My landlord fixed the bathroom leak only after I got the neighbours to collectively stop paying rent for a month — so why can't we apply that same pressure to the goonda who collects "hafta" from the stationery shop downstairs? The answer is somewhere in the middle, yaar, but we keep waiting for someone else to move first.

Every monsoon, the same two tiles on my classroom roof leak, and the repair file makes its slow, damp journey from desk to desk. We track it each year—how many signatures it collects before the buckets are replaced. It makes me think: when a system is this slow to fix what everyone can see, yaar, what chance do we have with crimes that people are scared to even name?

Ah, I was just telling my deepam paapa about this. The shop next to my ration-wala, that nice boy who sells vegetables, he had to pay "mamool" last month to some fellows. He closed for two days, poor sombu. I told him, this is wrong — a

Dude, Pralhad Joshi talking about inflation control is like my PG owner saying “accha khana milega” — both are theoretical at this point. My monthly 600-rupee cup noodle budget has quietly become 750, and I’m dodging scooter theft AND extortion calls on the same walk to the metro. Feels like the city’s just one ranked game loss away from a complete system crash, and we’re all stuck in the queue with no ETA.

Arre yaar, ye 2026 Commonwealth Games ka medal table dekha toh kuch zyada excitement nahi aaya mujhe. Humlog yahan Jeedimetla factory mein raat ko strip packing machine ke saath lade rehte hain, aur oopar se loan ka burden — medal kya cheez hai, bas chai ki pyali bhi mil jaaye toh kaafi hai. Lekin ek baat hai, humare security guard Bhaskar bhai kehte hain, "Bhagwan ka diya hua kaam karo, baki sab bakwas hai," toh shayad woh sahi kehte hain — medal table se fark nahi padta, par apne gaon ka panchayat election result agar acha ho toh zindagi badal sakti hai, haan?

Yesterday, fixing a puncture on my old Hero near the bus depot, a chai-wallah told me police took his cousin’s whole day’s earnings for “protection.” Not a statistic, just a man with empty hands under a purple sky. When fear becomes a daily tax, the system isn’t broken—it’s working for the wrong people.

The young constable who sells me my newspaper this morning says the new XXX film is all about gangsters buying the police station timings. I told him, "My son in Pune says the mechanics of corruption are the same everywhere — it is just the dial tone that changes." I have seen too many case files gather dust at the district hospital, baba. When the rich can buy delay, the poor pay in blood. The only statistic I trust is how many FIRs actually became a court hearing, and that number has not moved in ten years.

You know, just last week our chai adda near the bus stand was robbed at knifepoint — the same chaiwala who gives me extra ginger when I’m low on voice. The police came, took chai and a bribe, wrote it as a "theft without violence," and left. I keep thinking: if the local grocer and the chaiwala cannot sleep without a lock and a prayer, what economics are we really talking about?

Bas, I see the same pattern every Tuesday when I park the schoolbus under the banyan tree—some shopkeepers don't open their shutters until I'm already sorting the songbooks. One bhaiya told me his cousin's mobile was snatched right there, and the police just said 'system hai, dekhenge.' Achha, but when a rich man's car gets a scratch near the collectorate, they fix the CCTV in two hours, na? I'm not against any theory—I just think fairness should work the same for the woman selling pakoras as it does for the officer buying them.

हम रोज़ शाम को डिलीवरी निकलते हैं, पिछले हफ़्ते एक गली में दो लड़कों ने रोका, बोले "चालीस रुपया दो, नहीं तो टायर चपटा कर देंगे।" मैंने दे दिया — पंचर लगवाने से ज़्यादा सस्ता पड़ा, पर मन में यही आया कि ये लोग भी कोई व्यवसायी नहीं, बल्कि उसी मोहल्ले के बेरोज़गार लड़के हैं। जब तक हम सबका अपना छोटा-मोटा काम और कमाई का रास्ता नहीं बनेगा, तब तक चाहे पुलिस कितनी भी फाइलें खोले, ये छोटे

Na minha gaav, uma vez roubaram a extensão do gerador do Paulo enquanto ele ia comprar peixe. Ele perdeu três dias de trabalho no beach shack. A polícia disse pra fazer queixa online, mas o site só funciona em horário comercial, e o Paulo trabalha até o sol cair. Mercado resolveu rápido: no dia seguinte, um vizinho começou a vender cadeiras de segurança com corrente, e todo mundo comprou.