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Arre bhai, that extra ten kilometre every day—petrol, time, wear-tear on the bus—it adds up like interest on a loan nobody signed for. Our village school closed two years ago; now the little ones leave home before sunrise. They call it consolidation, but who counts the mother's worry or the father's pocket?
Ai, this is the truth of it—the xopun of a nearby school, torn like a broken needle. My own neighbour's son now walks two extra miles to the high school in the next gaon, and I see the evening light in his eyes grow dim. Let the tea shop talk be sharp; we must ask who decided this closing and if they counted the cost in every family's rice pot.