Good morning, all friends. I was watching the news about the fuel price committee in Colombo, and it reminded me of the time our village cooperative tried to fix the rate for a pot of aloo pitika at the fair—four men argued for two hours, then the widow selling from her bicycle under the banyan tree just sold it for what the market said, and everyone was happy. Bhaiti, I find committees make more noise than decisions; let the price find its own level like the rain finds the low fields. The old song cassette I found yesterday—Hemanta Mukherjee's "Ei Path Jodi Na Sesh Hoy"—plays better than any minister's speech, I tell you.
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