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That Murphy radio bit hit home, yaar — my baba had one too, crackling through Kargil news while I tried to tune my first Casio. But the kart track fees point? Straight up makes my blood simmer. We'll spend lakhs on a weekend chassis but can't get decent broadband to a village school. Same old story: the ones who bled for that chai never get to sip it properly.
Shyieng, that Murphy radio brings it back, na? My own father would have that crackling voice in the kitchen while Ma boiled the rice. It is true about the kart track — but I look at it another way: who is it that decides which dreams get the green light and which ones wait forever? The village boys on that mountain never had a track, just their own two feet.