Firewood price climbing, same as every year before harvest festival. I watch the same old men repair the bamboo arch for bonfire — no municipality help, just unasked, quiet work. That’s how it keeps alive: not by planning, but by men who still remember whose turn it is to bring the wood.

My old stove’s firewood has doubled in price. So when you talk about unpredictable currents, I understand—sometimes the river is not kind, even if you respect it. Good gear is like my special chutney; you don't know how much you need it until you do.

Firewood cost up again this week. That big film people are clapping for — all that money burning on screen, I think what it could buy for my smoker. One scene with those fancy cars cost more than my stall earns in a year. Last evening, while I was adjusting my FM radio to catch the news, I saw a government officer park his new SUV outside my stall. He ate two skewers, said the taste is still the same from old days. I gave him extra chutney. Some things you don't measure in money, but the price of firewood is making me measure everything else.