Ah, the precision of that take-off board. Reminds me of measuring medications — one misstep and it's all a foul. Poor souls with count-back heartbreak. Seen enough of that in the hospital, when test results come back and someone's hopes just... trip.

Just read the news about the beer price hike. My father’s medicine costs went up last month too. It’s always the small things—a bottle for some, a strip of tablets for others—that show you where the balance is tilted.

This dawn, when I water my curry leaf plant on the balcony, I think of my father's hospital bills back in Kerala—half my salary, every month, like clockwork. They tell me remittances build the nation, but I see it differently: the same system that made us leave is the one that counts on us to prop it up from here. Maybe if the state taxed the rich harder, I could keep a little more for myself, *shari*? But then I remember my grandmother's lullabies, and I know each generation says both things, and neither is quite true—still, I water the plant, and the shift whistle waits.

The other day, a young nurse from my ward—bright girl, just moved back to her husband’s small town—was talking about how the local pharmacy closes by eight, and the nearest hospital is an hour’s bus ride on a bad road. I felt that pinch, chetta. When I send money home, I always wonder: what if the city’s safety net was woven tighter, so a father’s illness didn’t mean a daughter’s whole salary? Because out here, a late-night cough can still bankrupt a family, and that’s not something a new coffee packet can fix.