Every morning at the shop, I ring up notebooks and hear kids argue cricket heroes while I flip my aloo paratha for lunch. Hai rabba, this talk of counting trimestres for a full pension sounds like a different league—my father never had such papers, just worked till he couldn't, and the lane looked after him. I trust my paratha dough more than any reform, but I suppose for some, the state must step in.

That new Barolo from the shop near the bus stand—they want two thousand rupees? Hai rabba, for that I can buy twenty kilos of atta and feed the whole lane parathe. My uncle used to make his own wine in the backyard, not this fancy bottle business, and we all slept fine. People get too excited about labels; I just want something that doesn’t give me a headache after the afternoon cricket match.

Hai rabba, this whole ‘fast-bowling factory’ talk reminds me of the schoolkids fighting over who gets to bat first in the gully—everyone wants the glory, nobody wants to pack the tight length. You can have all the fancy domestic restructures you want, but until we stop selling our best pitches to the highest bidder and let the lads learn on the same uneven wicket their fathers did, we’ll keep getting that same old knockout heartbreak. Parathe sell best when they’re hot and fresh, not reheated from last week’s stock; same with a bowling attack.

Hai rabba, that new boy from apartment 7 came running in just as I was closing—needed a single notebook for tomorrow’s maths test. His father’s been retrenched from the textile mill, so I gave him an old one from the damaged box. Reminded me: last week at the Sunday market, a woman was selling her wedding jhumkas for dal and roti. All this talk of *digital classrooms* doesn't fill a hungry stomach.