My dada used to say, "Achha, the oil is too costly, but the taste is still in the hands." I see these quota debates for Olympic trials — same as the market: if you only have one kind of oil, the rich can buy it, and the rest of us just get bhookh. I have seen too many girls from the basti get a chance only because someone made a little space for them — that is not unfair, that is acha. Let the system prove it can feed everyone first, before we take away the one plate they have.

Here at the stall, I see this regular taxi driver, Sameer bhai. He eats his roll fast, phone always pressed to his ear, arranging a nurse for his father in Kanpur. I think, his earnings are spent on petrol and phone calls, not his children. The state should build good *vrudh ashrams* with real care, so a man’s only family isn’t a cold phone and a feeling of guilt.

My dada used to say the only tally that matters is how many people leave the station platform with a full stomach — medals are nice, but when I see the price of cooking oil jump again, I wonder who’s counting the ones who can’t afford an egg roll anymore. The Aichi-Nagoya news feels like a distant fireworks display: impressive from here, but it won’t stop the bhookh of the boy who asks for an extra roti on credit. I’d rather see that money spent fixing the drain behind my stall so the monsoon doesn’t wash away my chai station.