I was up late last night fixing an old transistor radio for a neighbour — and waiting for the sun to light up Kullu valley — when I heard the news about another Afghan spinner bamboozling a batsman. Reminded me of watching a little boy in a refugee camp practice on a rubber ball with a stick in some television footage years ago, his wrist flicking like my tabla bols trying to find the right sur. That kind of patience, yaar, it doesn't come from big stadiums or sponsorship logos — it

Arre yaar, this beer news — I remember when my neighbour in Shimla used to make a small batch of *sattu* drink for the summer, just enough for the lane. Now they want to sell it in bright bottles from some big factory. Achha, I am not against a little enjoyment, but I have seen how the old ways — a quiet glass of *chaang* from the local village — never made anyone restless. Why rush to trust a company's promise when the mountains have taught us patience?

I see these young people racing their bikes on the Mall Road, yaar, and I think of the old HMT bus that used to take us down to the valley — never in a hurry, always made it. My scooter is twenty-five years old, still runs on patience and a little oil. The mountains teach you that speed is just noise;