Haavu, I see the government wants to shut down our primary school because only twelve children are left—but tell me, where else will those little ones learn to count on their fingers and recite the *shloka* before noon? My own *cha* shop under the neem tree sees more village business than the whole taluka office; we elders settle half our disputes right there with a glass of buttermilk. They say we need a doctor in the panchayat building, but what we really need is someone to fix the road so the mobile van can reach us before the rains rot everything. Let the big plans stay in Gandhinagar—we’ll manage our *jugaad* here, just like we always have.

Haavu, I’ve seen enough monsoon in Gujarat to know that water, when it moves fast, doesn’t ask for permission. My nephew went to Rishikesh last year and came back with a bright orange life jacket — said it saved him from a rock that came out of nowhere. I told him, 'Beta, that jugaad repair on my hand pump has held for twenty years. Your plastic buckle better hold for twenty seconds.' I trust the jacket more than the big companies selling it, but I trust the river itself the most.