හිත ගැන කතාවක්

The price of cotton went up again after his announcement, so my granddaughter’s butterfly cloth will be a smaller piece this time. This is the sukh they give us, no? More worry in the hem, less in the pocket.

Sometimes after school, grading papers, I hear the radio play old songs and just stop. For one minute, no thinking about fees or scores. It feels like pressing pause on a calculator. That small quiet is my real data.

आज फिर डोंगल का रिचार्ज खतम हो गया, और ऑनलाइन लेक्चर छूट गया — बीवी कहती है, "तू पढ़ाई में लगा रह, कद्दू के बीजों से तो कम से कम सब्जी निकलती है।" सच कहूँ तो, जब पड़ोस की गाय मेरी लौकी की बेल चर जाती है, तब इकोनॉमिक्स के थ्योरी से ज़्यादा समझ आता है कि असली नुकसान किसे होता

Yaar, aaj subah college ke canteen mein chai peete suna — beer ka daam fir se badh gaya. Mere papa kabhi kabhi Sunday ko ek cool botal le aate hain, lekin ab unko sochana padta hai ki "yeh bhi zaroori hai ya nahi." Aur main sochta hoon, jab hum laakhon ka loan chuka rahe hain, toh yeh chhoti chhoti cheezein bhi feel hoti hain. Bas ek routine ki tarah thi,

भाई, बीयर की बात सुन के याद आया — मेरे गाँव में एक बुड्ढा था, दिनभर खेत में काम करता, शाम को एक गिलास छाछ पी के सो जाता। आजकल वो लड़के जो जिम में आते हैं, पहली बार पुल-अप करने से डरते हैं, वो एक घूँट बीयर पी के कहते हैं "मोटिवेशन आ गया"। मोटिवेशन थोड़ी बीयर

Last night I was checking my elder son's engineering textbooks, trying to understand why the fees keep climbing. I told him, "beta, padh lo, but don't forget to check the tyre pressure on your scooter — a small thing saves big trouble later." The loan papers sit heavy in my pocket, but when I hear Kishore Kumar on the radio at 4 AM chai stall, I remember: our fathers built houses brick by brick, we'll build futures run by run. Delay hurts the most vulnerable — my son's dreams can't wait for the system to fix itself.

Kargil Vijay Diwas makes me think of my uncle’s old letters from the regiment, still tucked in a tin box under my bed in Namchi. Every year the TV reels show the same proud footage, but I wonder about the families in those mountain villages who still wait for a son to come home—not as a hero, but as someone who gets to grow old in a crooked house with a bucket of chilies on the balcony. The politicians will give speeches, but the data on veteran suicide and mental health after all these years says thikai cha, not everything is fine. I’m not against the flag-waving, I just want to know who’s taking care of the ones who came back with the weight still in their chest.

That trailer... the waves, the sky, that big boat. My father used to take me on the ferry to the other side of the river, before the new bridge came. We’d sit in the Omni with the doors open, watching the water, listening to the engine sigh. Dada always said a journey is not about getting there, but who you are when the engine stalls. Now the new builders want to cut down the old banyan at the bus stand for a flyover. They say it’s progress. But who counts the shade it gives the old bhaji-seller? That is the real math they never do.

My cousin’s wedding is next month, and all I can think about is whether I can afford to replace the brake cable on the old Vespa, or if I’ll have to skip a few days of renting it out to save. Everyone says “network” for jobs in Panaji, but who has time to network when you’re fixing scooters and reading Marx by torchlight? And my mother’s prawn curry—the one thing that keeps me sane—tastes a little less sweet when I know the rent for our stall might go up again. It’s not the big theories that get you, it’s the small, daily grind of deciding which need you can ignore.

I was scrolling through the list of 2026 Tamil films and it hit me — my sister used to save up her pocket money to rent those old Rajinikanth VCDs from the shop near the market. Now she’s in college, and I’m paying for it, but I still catch her humming ‘Valai Osai’ while she studies. Makes me wonder if the new ones will have that same yairoi feeling, or if it’s just another algorithm churning out stories.

Bhailogue, hafta ke beech mein market bandh rehti hai to Jigay ke papa ke shop ka shutter aadha khula hota hai — Sunday ke subah chai ki tapri pe baitha hoon. Kal raat meri behen ne bola, "Bhai, tuition fees ka installment kal hai," aur maine socha kitna ajeeb hai ki ek hardware store ki aamdani aur ek college ki fees ke beech ka pul itna patla ho. Par fir gym ke regulars ko dekha — Sunil bhai jo deload week mein bhi aate hain — toh laga, kisika bhi pressure akela nahi hota, hum sab ek doosre ke sambhalne ki bimari se guzar rahe hain.

The new tabla student, a software engineer from Salt Lake, told me yesterday: "Uncle, why practice so many hours? AI can compose the rhythm now." I said nothing, just showed him my old kharaj—the bass drum with its patch of elephant-hide, bought with my father's insurance money in '88. He watched my hands for a while, then quietly asked where I got the tuning hammer, bhai. Sometimes the heart knows before the brain does.

Beta, listen only. Umar Khalid ki baat sunke mera dimaag puraane dino mein chala jaata hai — jab main electrician tha, ek din ek professor sahab ke ghar wiring thik karne gaya. Unhone kaha, "Beta, yeh desh sawaal poochhne wale ko jail mein daal deta hai." Tab maine socha, yeh kya baat hai? Aaj bhi jab main Bullet leke sham ko ghar jaata hoon, to sochta hoon: jo log sawaal karte hain, unki awaaz dabana kaunsi badi samajhdari hai? Lekin yeh lo, mere dost ka beta — jo MBA kar raha hai — usko scholarship nahi mili, toh usne kaha, "Chacha, competition mein koi sympathy nahi hoti." To main kehta hoon, jab tak sabke liye same wiring nahi hoti, tab tak koi bhi light evenly nahi jalti.

Last night, the power cut during my revision and the only light was from my phone, scrolling. Today's coaching fee reminder arrived. Sometimes it feels like running on a treadmill in the rain – you’re working so hard but the view stays the same, yanno? But that 4:30 sun on my pages still comes. We keep going.

Yaar, aaj video call mein mere bete ne apna Lego tower dikhaya – usme ek window miss thi. Maine bola ziptie se theek kar dete hain, woh has diya. Thoda der ko saara pressure bhool gaya, par phir se EMI ka SMS dekh liya. Kya zindagi bhi ek ziptie se theek ho sakti hai?

ఈ పగటి పూట ఒంటరిగా ఉండే సమయాలు, నా పాత చాక్బోర్డు మీద జోక్లు రాస్తున్నప్పుడు తప్పించుకుంటాయి. నిన్న ఒక చిన్నపిల్లవాడు తన ఫైనల్ పరీక్ష భయం గురించి చెప్పింది, నేను అతనికి ఒక మిఠాయి మరియు నాన్న చెప్పిన మాట – "ఒక పేపర్ మీద రాయబడినది మన హృదయం కాదు" – ఇచ్చాను. కొన్ని సమస్యలకు పెద్ద సూత్రాలు కాక, ఒక చిన్న మంచి మాటే మందు.

दोपहर की धूप में वैन का इंजन जब 'खट-खट' करने लगता है, तो बस यही सोचता हूँ — कहीं बीच रास्ते में बैठ न जाए, नहीं तो ब