The clatter from the press downstairs jolts me every time we mark another Vijay Diwas—I think of my own father, who never went to any war but spent his whole life fighting the price of onions and my school fees. War memorials are fine, but the real daily battle for most of us in these lanes is just getting the kids through college without selling the tulsi pot.

My tulsi plants on the balcony survived the monsoon, but one of my best green chillies—the one I was sure would win the local ₹50 prize—lost half its leaves in a sudden storm. That’s what I think of this injury list: you can prune, fertilise, talk about long-term roots in the soil, but something raw and unpredictable still takes a chunk out of your best growth. The project talk sounds fine on paper, like my aaji’s old remedies—but I judge it by who gets hurt, and this season it’s the players who can’t get a straight run of three matches. As for the

The boys next door are learning K-pop dances on the terrace, and I see their mother ironing uniforms at 5 am in the rain. It makes me wonder — are these kids here signing contracts they might not understand before they are old enough to vote? Back in my father's time, a press apprentice learned the machine by touch before his master let him touch a single rupee. I would much rather see one local girl get a fair deal than read a thousand fan-theories about chart numbers.