县城青年

बाबा की पोस्ट ऑफिस की बचत बहन के नर्सिंग कोर्स के लिए रखी है, और मैं अपने मैकेनिकल कीबोर्ड के 'थप-थप' में कोड लिखती हूँ जो चलता भी है, पर बड़े शहर की नौकरी का मतलब है कि हमारे आँगन की वो धीमी शामें छूट जाएँगी जहाँ पड़ोसी का फोन ठीक करते हुए पोहा खाया जाता है। यहाँ सर्वर डाउन हो तो मैं अपने कोड को 'टहलने भेज देती हूँ', पर शहर में कौन समझेगा कि एक बग को ढूँढने में मजा भी आता है जब पूरी गली के लोग तुम्हारे ऊपर भरोसा करें? लोकल बोर्ड गेम के पुराने पुर्जे जमा करना और छत्तीसगढ़ी रीमिक्स सुनना मेरा ठिकाना है — ये

എന്റെ വൈറ്റ് വാഗൺആറിൽ ഇന്നലെ ഫ്രണ്ട് ഷോക്ക് അബ്സോർബറിന് ഒരു പുതിയ ക്ലക്ക് കിട്ടി. ഏതോ കമ്പനി നമ്മളെ കബളിപ്പിച്ച് പാർട്ട് വിൽക്കും എന്ന് വിചാരിച്ചിട്ട് എന്റെ പഴയ ടിപി തന്നെയാടാ —

Watching the landlord hike the rent on my gym again, I get why some folks swear by the stability of a government post. But when I see a quiet kid from Mawiong finally hit a proper deadlift after three months of showing up alone, I remember why I stay—that sngewbha beats any pension plan. Sure, the street goes dark by nine, but the real work happens in the early mornings, when no committee decides how hard we train.

Yeh kaam dhyaan maangta hai — when you’ve spent forty years reading the grain of deodar, you know a machine never will. My daughter’s classmates in Chandigarh send her photos of resin-cast Ganeshas from some factory in Moradabad, half the price of the one I carve, but they crumble in two winters. I tell her: the real cost isn’t in the shop, it’s in the hands that lose their work, and in the temple where the idol cracks before the lamp burns out. This “progress” they talk about — it always has a face, and that face is a man like me, quiet in his workshop, watching

Good brother, when my sons ask about that new Hindi film list for 2026, I just show them my old cassette of "Gharana Mogudu". The music is what stays, baagundi. These new stories come and go, but the feeling in those songs, it helps me save for the flat, one Friday biryani at a time.

আইটা ভাগৰুৱা নিশা, ৰেডিঅ’ত কিবা অসমীয়া গীত বাজিছে। মোৰ মাকে কৈছে, "এইখন চাহ টানি ল, কামলৈ যোৱাৰ আগতে।" শহুৰৰ টিউচন ফিৰ আজি পঠিয়াওতে, মোৰ ছিমলাৰ কোঁচত ৫০০ টকা ৰ’ল—এমাহতো কাপোৰৰ ক্লাছ এখনৰ ভৰ্তিৰ পইচা। এই নগৰতো আঠ বজাতে দুকুৰি লাগে, কিন্তু ৰেল কলনিৰ পৰ্ধাত, এই ধুনীয়া খালি সময়খিনিৰ দাম নাই।

आज एक फ्लैट में वायरिंग कर रहा था, मालिक बोले "पैसा है, अच्छा सामान लगाओ"। मैंने वही पुरानी फिनोल की तार दी जो बाप-दादा के ज़माने से चल रही है। उसने कहा "ये तो पुरानी है", मैंने कहा "भैया, यही असली है, नकली चीनी तार से तो आग लग जाएगी"। बाहर चाय की दुकान पर बैठकर लोग कहते हैं अर्थव्यवस्था डूब रही है, मगर मेरे हिसाब से जब तक लोग फ्लैट बनवा रहे हैं और उसमें तार खिंचवा रहे हैं, तब तक कोई बड़ा डूबने वाला नहीं। बस अपना छोटा-मोटा काम ईमान से करते रहो, बहन की किताबें आ जाएँ, चूल्हा जलता रहे, यही असली ट्रिक है।

આજે બાલ્કનીમાં પીપળાને થડે એક સાવજ પંખી બેઠું હતું, ને મમ્મીએ કહ્યું "જો, કેવું અટવાયું હશે શહેરમાં." એટલું જ નહીં, આપણા નાના શહેરની શેરી પણ થોડી ઓછી થઈ ગઈ છે. ભાઈ, સરકાર કીડીઓ માટે ઘાસનો એક ટુકડો પણ બચાવે નહીં, પણ નવા ટાવર માટે વૃક્ષો કાપવામાં કોઈ રોક નથી. મને લાગે છે જૂના જમાનાના લોકો કહેતા હતા કે છાંયો તો ગરીબનો સાથી હોય છે — એટલે જ દરેકે પોતાના આંગણે એક વૃક્ષ ઉગાડવું જોઈએ, પણ

Waiting for my battery-walla bhaiya last week, he told me his landlord raised the rent on his one-room home — not before Diwali, but before the school fees are due. All these grand plans for our towns, but who checks if the rickshaw driver can still live here? We paint benches and rescue rain trees, yet I look at his daughter’s notebook and think: is the good version of this town only for some?

My son, baba, asks why I never tried for a government posting in Delhi. I tell him: here in Guwahati, when the power cuts hit during my evening riyaz, I can still hear the rain on the tin roof — that rhythm you cannot buy with any sarkari bungalow. The market sorted out my tabla repair cost: forty rupees at the bazaar, no committee needed. Delay has victims, bhal — your engineering fees keep rising while they ‘discuss’ the new bridge. I trust this worn-out tabla more than any chart about happiness.

my kmie still sends me up to shillong with a bag of kyllang from the farm every time i visit, even though she knows i can buy them cheaper at the market — she says these ones haven’t been touched by any company’s fertilizer. i look at the new apartment blocks going up near my university and think about how many betel leaf plots they paved over, and the whole time the government keeps telling us this is “development.” maybe it’s just me, but i’d rather have a cooperative cold storage for the village than another mall that’ll be empty by 9 pm.

Aaj phir education minister ji news mein bol rahe the “skill development” ka. Beta Patna mein engineering padh raha hai, uska fee structure dekha? Ek semester ka kharcha barabar hai mere full salary ke, aur wo log bolte hain “Digital India”. Toh kya digital sirf metro cities ke liye hai? Mera padosi ka beta Delhi mein ITI karke wapas aaya, ab chai tapri pe baitha hai — skill kitna bhi le lo, jab local job nahi to kya ukaed. Chai garam hai, par dil thanda ho raha hai ye sab sunke.

Yaar, subah subah chai peete peete RSS ki baat chal rahi thi dhabe pe. Mere gaon ke ek bhaisaab, jo roz shaam ko CCTV repair karte hain, bole "yeh toh hamara neta hai". Maine unse poochha, "Thik hai, par aapke bete ki school bus aati hai ya nahi? Woh road kyun nahi banti jo panchayat ne 2019 mein theek karne ka vaada kiya tha?" Phir hum chup ho gaye. Mujhe lagta hai, bade-bade naam se kaam nahi chalta, gaon ki zameen aur uski sadak se chalta hai. Aur haan, mere Dzire ki chaat bhi theek karna jaroori hai — usme paani aata hai, yaar.

This news about Neha Bora makes me think of my own daughter’s commute in her new city. We talk safety in broad terms, but these are not abstract numbers—they are someone’s bhalo meye waiting for a bus. If a streetlight by the old canal here is broken, the neighbourhood committee fixes it by sundown. That local urgency, it seems, is what gets lost when systems grow too big to see the person.

Arre, yeh new supermarket wale itna discount de rahe hain ki log wahan se teen packet noodles utha kar le ja rahe hain—par unke noodles ka taste ekdum plastic lagta hai, na woh masala hai, na woh woh pyaz ka tadka jo chai ke saath chahiye. Postmaster uncle kehta hai market bada ho toh chaar log fayda mein, par main ginti karti hoon—mere gali ke padosi kitne dukandar band hoke wahan shift hue aur kitne apna dabba dhake baitha hai. Veere, mujhe sabzi bhi sahi nahi lagti jo aaj kal plastic mein band milti hai, bas dikhta hai ki kachri se nikalti thi woh kahi kho gayi.

My boy in Bengaluru keeps sending me charts about 'disruptive growth' and 'venture capital,' but when I ask him if his startup has paid its electricity bill this month, he goes quiet — just like the time he told me that Rs 35,000 laptop would 'scale.' I trust the numbers in my salon ledger more than any pitch deck: the prawn balchão I sold last week fed three families, my afternoon regulars still sip my kokum sherbet and pay in cash, and the old ceiling fan I fixed myself has outlasted two of his 'unicorn' friends' companies.

Arre bhai, subah 6 baje plant gate ke bahar chai aur misal pav ka stall nahi hota toh mera shift kaise nikalti? Dadar station ke side me ek bhai apna style se keychain bechta hai—maine uska ek old Ambassador car ka keychain liya, bas 50 rupaye. Ghar ke chhote se hall mein ek table hai jahan mai YouTube pe cycle repair video dekhta raat ko, aur mummy ke guthne ka halwa sochta hu ki pressing machine ki tarah kaam kare toh kitna mast hota.

आज सुबह बस स्टैंड के पास भेड़ की नई ऊन आई। बोरी खोलते ही वो मिट्टी और पहाड़ का जो गंध आता है, ना — उसी में लगता है कि कितना भी ऑनलाइन सस्ता माल आ जाए, हमारी शॉल का वज़न और गरमाहट कोई लैपटॉप नहीं दे सकता। फिर भी मन में यही चलता है कि सरकार अगर रेशम की तरह सब्सिडी भेजने की बजाए सड़क और बिजली पक्की कर दे, तो हमें हाथों-हाथ दिल्ली तक खपाने में देर न लगे। माँ कहती हैं, “बेटी, हाथ का काम समय माँगता है,” लेकिन मैं उस समय में उन शहरों वालों के लिए भी सोचती हूँ जो पहाड़ की ठंड में सिर्फ़ कंबल खरीद पाते हैं।

ഇന്നു രാവിലെ നാട്ടിലെ ബേക്കറിയിൽ പോയി, നാലു രൂപ കൂടിയിട്ടുണ്ട് എഗ്ഗ് പഫിനു — അതും ഞാൻ വായിച്ച പഴയ അഡ്ഡാണ്, അപ്പോഴും വില ടെൻഷൻ ആയിരുന്നു. അച്ഛന്റെ BP 150-ൽ നിക്കുന്നു, മരുന്നും ഇല്ലെങ്കിൽ എങ്ങനെ മാറും, കാശ് എടുത്തു വണ്ടി വാങ്ങിയാൽ ആശുപത്രി ഭയം ഒന്നു കുറയുമോ ആവോ. വീടിനു പുറത്ത് raintree ഇലകൾ പറന്നു വീഴുന്നതു നോക്കിയിരിക്കുമ്പോൾ, ഈ 'ഗ്രാമവും നഗരവും' എന്ന ചർച്ചയ്ക്ക് നമ്മുടെ നാട്ടിൽ തന്നെ ഒരു രുചിയുണ്ട്, 9 മണിക്ക് ഷട്ടർ ഇട്ടാൽ മ

The street here is quiet by nine, but my mind is loud with the loan statement from yesterday. Still, this Sunday I will sit with my chai and watch the kitchen ka dhuaan, thinking how this small house holds both our debt and our children’s dreams. It is a fixed deposit of a different sort.

Bas, I was sitting under the deodars last evening, sipping chai, and thinking about all this "return to the county" talk. My son tells me he wants to engineer in Delhi, and I tell him, "Beta, I freelanced my way from a tiny room—no government job, no committee, just a steady hand and a customer who paid on time." The market sorts out who can draw a wedding card worth keeping, yaar. But then I look at our rajma patch—that soil taught me patience, not competition. The real question isn't where you sit, but whether you can grow something honest wherever you land.

The other day, a young nurse from my ward—bright girl, just moved back to her husband’s small town—was talking about how the local pharmacy closes by eight, and the nearest hospital is an hour’s bus ride on a bad road. I felt that pinch, chetta. When I send money home, I always wonder: what if the city’s safety net was woven tighter, so a father’s illness didn’t mean a daughter’s whole salary? Because out here, a late-night cough can still bankrupt a family, and that’s not something a new coffee packet can fix.

Acha bhai, yesterday evening I was dropping a passenger near the old bus stand — by 8:30 every shutter was down, even the chaiwala had packed up. I remember when I first started driving in 2002, you could find dhaba food and mechanics working till midnight. Now they say "development" means fewer people can afford to stay open. Thik hai, but who does this help?

Saala mere Alto ka rattling noise ab roz badh raha hai, lekin bada city wala service centre toh bharosa nahi hai—local mechanic ne kaha engine mount loose hai, ₹500 mein theek kar dega. Uske haath ka kaam pe bharosa hai, chain shop ka nahi. Behen ke nursing college fees ke liye yahan rahna padta hai, nahi toh main bhi sochta hu kya Delhi se zyada aaram hai yahan? Par raat ko

The summer before last, I lost two whole kilos of butter to the Ongole heat—just melted away, no use for ladoos or anything—and I thought, what if the fridge repairs or the almond supply gets priced out for families like mine? Our girls’ dance fees shouldn’t depend on whether I can save for a cooler or haggle with the almond supplier, you see. When I sit on my balcony watering the basil, I see that the real worry isn’t the heat alone—it’s that one broken thing can tip the whole cart, and no one builds a shade for the whole market. So I say, let the state put its hand in the rich man’s pocket and spread some cold water over our street.

Na supermarket vanthu 20km thaan da, aana inga vandha regulars—like old Muthu uncle, vandhu oru 5 rupee beeda vaangi, half hour gossip paannu povaru—athu enakku supermarket laye kedaikatha sampath. Adutha varthai, yaaravadhu “e-commerce la discount, naalume delivery” nu sonna, namma village cycle shopkaran Kumar mathiri, avanoda 10 rupee chit fund-la rasam podravan—ivanuku kudutha AI-assisted inventory system edhukku? Munnaari thappa panna account dhaan correct, aprom cost-la yarukum loss, adha paarunga.