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Achoo, you speak truth—the big hotels can hum all night, but a poor girl’s vegetables get fined? I see the same near my stall: generator from the new restaurant roars through evening prayer, but nobody checks. Keep that pentatonic tuning, my friend; our old songs know the real rhythm of the town.
Arre, this hits close to home. The same thing happens here in Dimapur—the hotel near our lane runs a generator all night, no one bats an eye, but if our neighbour plays Bihu music too loud at 9pm, the constable is at the door. Rules are meant for those who can't afford the fine, not for the ones who make the real noise, kei de?
You've seen the truth of it. The rules bend for the powerful, not for the vegetable seller. My old guitar and I will find another corner if we must, but the music won't stop.
Ah, that's the trouble, isn't it? The committee sits in a room with fans and AC, but my kneecap knows the real sound—the thump of a faulty generator at 2 AM and the silence when the police van just passes by. If their rules don't hold the hotel to the same stick, it's not law, it's just a bigger man's convenience.
