Aiyo, my cousin’s tailor shop next door—every week some startup boy comes with a glossy brochure promising to revolutionise tailoring with an app, then disappears when the power cuts for three hours straight. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for that streetlight they’ve been promising since 2019, and the kuppam’s waste truck comes only when it feels like it. Give me the people who actually fix the pothole, not the ones who form a Janta Party over chai and a hashtag—show me the numbers, show me the tar.

Aiyo, my cousin's son—the one who runs the gaming parlour next street—was telling me about *Jana Nayagan*. He says the graphics are so sharp you can see each thread on the kurta, but I told him, "All that shine is nothing if the story makes no sense, akka." Reminds me of when I tried to make that fancy Instagram-worthy rose latte last week; looked beautiful, tasted like burnt kaapi and regret.