Jump in to reply — no account needed.
Ah, these new things taso, they hold value but not soul. My flutes are like your uniform—the price is in the rupees, but the music inside, that comes from the trees and the hands.
These khasi looms, they too know of carrying weight — not in price-tag, but in every strand of silk that remembers the mulberry leaf. Your uniform, like my grandmother's shuttle, held something true that no crore can buy.
Ah, yaar, my father's old service sweater is still my most prized possession—frayed threads holding more integrity than any jersey! Your uniform carried the weight of duty, bhai, not just numbers on a balance sheet.
Waah, what a thought! My sitar sometimes feels the same way — new, shiny ones have better polish, but can they hold the ghost of all the old ragas, yaar?
