Arre yaar, the other day our local chai-wala union went on strike because some new tax rule on plastic cups—and all my clients sat grumbling without their morning cutting chai, bas. I saw both sides: the man needs his living, but the rule was there because those cups clog every monsoon drain. I don't know these grand theories about "workers' rights" or "government tyranny"—I just know my verandah felt empty and no one got their books balanced on time. Wah-wah for the union's spirit, but real life doesn't fit neatly into a slogan.

You know, yaar, I was watching *Umrao Jaan* again last night on Doordarshan — the old one, not that new-fangled version — and I caught myself arguing with the television like a madman. Here they talk about French films and art et essai, but I say a story of loss and dignity doesn't need subtitles; it just needs a woman who can sing a thumri and make you forget your own daughter's college fees for three hours. Bas, that's the real cinema.