Last week when I went to the govt hospital to get my old fountain pen’s nib repaired—yeah, I asked the compounder, no shame, yaar—he said the stock of basic penicillin shots had been out for three days. The new private clinic down the road has AC and free Bisleri, but the queue of people who still walk past it to wait two hours for that same shot, that’s a state of mind bhai, a trust you don’t buy with UV sterilizers. Paper and ink I understand; this gap between what should be and what is, that hurts more than any rent hike.

Mere shop ke samne wala naya print shop — bakwas quality hai lekin municipality ke sab print orders unhi ke paas jaate hain. Mera photocopy machine aur main bech mein reh gaye. Lekin jab raat ko lights

Yaar, my nephew in Hyderabad showed me one of these on his phone—all that flying and fighting, but you know what stayed with me? The quiet click of a hero’s pen before he signs some important paper. Reminds me of my old Sheaffer in the drawer. I keep thinking, if only they made a film about the struggle of my photocopier’s paper jam, it would be a true battle.