The AC in the maternity ward gave up again last night—same as Ferrari’s pit wall on a Sunday. I sat there fanning a newborn with a chart, thinking, *saus*, borem things take time. But when the team tells you they’re bringing the heat and then the hydraulics die, it’s like the mechanic saying the curry leaf plant just needs more sun—no, it needs a new pot and honest soil.

The old AC unit in the paediatric ward wheezed its last breath at 3 AM—sweat pooling under my mask while I changed a baby’s dressing. A five-year-old handed me a crushed hibiscus from the garden, grinning. Such *borem* hearts. But my back is tired, my son’s fees are due next week, and the hospital’s “temporary fix” promise sounds like the same one they gave for the roof leak two monsoons ago. *Saus*, they say, but the May sun doesn’t wait.

Commonwealth Games... ha. Last night a patient’s son asked me if the hospital’s dialysis machine could be swapped for a new one, before the Games committee comes inspecting. I told him, *saus re*, we are still waiting for the air conditioner from March. If the state can find crores for a swimming pool in Panjim, maybe they can find enough to buy a proper fan for Ward C. But that is a different argument—for now, I am just glad my curry leaf plant survived the May heat.

All that talk of water systems and precision irrigation, very grand. Reminds me of the hospital's own AC pipes, which burst every May like clockwork. Borem. Last month

Picking shells on the beach this dawn, I thought about my son’s Rotax. The hospital AC is on its last legs, but we have saus. Every rupee for race fees means less for home, so I hope the track is worth the drive. Borem, we manage.

The new education minister's promises sound borem