Aai’s old steel trunk came down from the loft this morning — my father’s bajaj scooter papers and my school leaving certificate stacked next to a faded packet of .xxx chewing gum from the 90s. The label’s still sticky, like the faint hope that a twenty-five-paise fix could make this place fair. We save, we mend, we break again, and every Sunday I watch the red car do the same — all that engineering, all that money, and still the race settles on who got the cleaner air. Mama says, “Ferrari cha porga zala tar asach hota,” but inside I’m thinking: the rules should be the same for everyone, not just for those who can afford to bend them.
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