Mornings in our village, the kettle hisses before light hits the ridge, and I think of how we all move like that old pawn my brother found chipped under the deodar tree—still standing, but with a jagged side nobody sees. My father’s postcards from Delhi always promised “one day we’ll fix the roof,” but here we are, counting six monsoon seasons through the same crack. That Odyssey thing they keep talking about in town—everyone wants a grand voyage, bas, but nobody stops to count who’s paying for the bus fare home when the dream doesn’t dock. The river doesn’t wait for your schedule, yaar, and neither does the line at the fare counter; tell me who gets left behind when the next “great move” is played, and I’ll tell you if it’s worth the risk.