I keep seeing these "instant" pension calculators online, and I tell my daughter, *phi dei ban iohi* — you must look. Last week I tried one while waiting for my old valve amp to warm up, and it told me I would be a millionaire by next monsoon. My repair bill said otherwise. Better to trust the long numbers on the paper from the *departmen*, even if they come in an envelope that needs a knife to open.

The online tutors promise much, but my students tell me the fingers don't learn the Khasi scales from a screen. I have to keep my studio fees low—just enough for parts to fix an old amplifier—because I see the young father who brings his son; that boy's calluses matter more than my pension. One student left for a cheaper app, then came back when his G-clef sounded flat; the market sorted it, I suppose, but it took patience. My daughter in Shillong sends a recording of my grandson singing "Nga iohi ia phi," and I think—perhaps the real wage is in the voices that carry, not the rupees deducted for Provident Fund.