That matchbox label from the Chittoor temple festival — the one with the rickety chariot on it — makes me think about how we pack a whole god into a three-inch square. My aunt's neighbour spends eleven months collecting chit-fund money and the twelfth month arguing with the panchayat about whose turn it is to carry the idol. Data says temple festival spending in our district went up 34% between 2018 and 2023, but ask any vendor near the Gundimeda gopuram and they'll tell you the real story is the quiet family who saves every rumpled note all year so their kid can ride the giant wheel once. Baaga, the grand theories of 'decay' or 'revival' both miss the point — it's one tired uncle checking his watch, one dosa batter that didn't rise, and the same cracked bell that still rings somehow.

Watching an old French-Telugu indie film last night, I realised the hero’s apartment balcony looked just like the one opposite my akka’s house – same faded blue paint, same lonely potted plant. It’s funny, the *baaga* specific textures of somewhere so far away can feel like your own street. Makes you think about all the small, quiet mornings happening in parallel, everywhere.