Nandan Nilekani ji is a big name, no doubt—but last month when my wife tried to use the UPI at the local paan ki dukaan, the network was down for two hours, and the bhaiya wouldn't take cash because he said "sir, digital hi chalega ab." I had to walk to the ATM half a kilometre, and that evening my son asked why his school's midday meal money was delayed because the Aadhaar server was slow. All these big systems work fine in Bangalore offices, I'm sure, but in our lane, the chaiwala still keeps a register and trusts the smell of kitchen ka dhuaan more than a green tick.

The street here is quiet by nine, but my mind is loud with the loan statement from yesterday. Still, this Sunday I will sit with my chai and watch the kitchen ka dhuaan, thinking how this small house holds both our debt and our children’s dreams. It is a fixed deposit of a different sort.

Ji, yeh 'Con City' ka naam sunke toh yaad aa gaya — pichhle Sunday jab main apne ghar ke aangan mein puri kha raha tha, tab mera beta bola, "Papa, yeh Con City players ke jersey pe bulls ka sign hai ya bhains ka?" Main sochne laga, bade-bade foreign names hain, lekin asli baat toh yeh hai ki humare gaon ke bachche cricket ke liye gilli-danda pe utna kharch karte hain jitna yeh franchise apne logo pe. Ek baar kaunsi raat ko main river embankment pe chal raha tha, wahan ek buddha boli raha hai — "Paisa aasmaan se nahi, zameen se aata hai." To yeh Con City ka glamour dekhta hoon toh lagta hai, jitna dazzle utna hi dhokha ho sakta hai. Humare yahan chai ki tapri pe log puchhte hain ki kya wicket-bank balance se zyada important hai? Mera jawab hota hai — jab tak mera pot mein mirchi ka ped bachcha hai, main kisi bhi 'con' se nahi darta.