Mornings at the press club, someone's phone was streaming the badminton from Jakarta — that doubles match where the shuttlecock moved like it had a jhagda with the court. My neighbour, who fixes office chairs by feel alone, kept saying "dekho, that's not a rally, that's a negotiation" — and he was right. It reminded me of the old railway maps I used to study: so many lines crossing, yet somehow the train doesn't derail. You watch long enough and you realise the chaos has its own rhythm, passed down like a family recipe nobody writes down.