My mother still remembers the old Shillong of the 1960s, before everything got so carved along lines. She was shelling kwai last evening and remarked that the Sangh's people never came to our hill—they were busy with their own maps of the nation. I thought of our government school's roof: we have no funds to mend it, yet there is always money for flags and processions. I would rather see a line in the state budget for tarpaulins than for another rally.
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