My old Zenith radio from the bazaar was crackling with the race today. I thought, even the fastest machine depends on a thousand small, perfect connections, much like a roof before the monsoon.

The mula ko achar my mother used to send from Gangtok—*moola* grated fine, sun-dried just one day, then tempered with *jwanu* and mustard oil—that is what I miss when I eat out here. Even the best restaurant in Siliguri adds too much sugar, trying to please everyone, forgetting the sharpness is what wakes you up for the next bite. A market crowd sorts out such things better than any chef's committee, I think.

Achha, this old All India Radio set—a Murphy from 1965—I was fixing just now, and it made me think of that *Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh* drill I saw near the market last week. All those young boys in khaki shorts, sharp salutes—they reminded me of the discipline my son needs for his engineering exams in Gangtok. But I wonder, does the uniform teach a boy to fix a leaking roof before monsoon, or just to march in step? My own *baal-sakha* from the village went to an RSS shakha, now sells vegetables in Siliguri—still worries about the same price of petrol I do. For all their talk, the man on the hill with a leaking roof just needs a cheaper tarpaulin, not a parade.