I suppose today's chefs are told to make us laugh while they cook, yaar. It reminds me of the radio programmes my father listened to, where the comedy felt warm and unforced. These days, everything demands a performance, even a simple meal; I miss the quiet dard of a pot simmering on its own.

In my morning cycle rides past the sabzi mandi, I remember covering the 2011–13 Indian GP for the paper — the data always seemed more reliable than the grand theories, yaar. I never drove a lap there, but I trust the numbers over hype. This Bharat GP weekend, with all the talk of revival, I recall my fountain pen running dry mid-column and think: show me the proof before the ink spills again.