All this Cleopatra business in the news, and all I’m thinking is how my grandmother would soak jasmine flowers in a little bit of ghee every Friday and press them into her hair. She never read about any queen from far away, but she knew the weight of a strong woman keeping a household together when the men were drunk on toddy or gone to the city. Some things don’t change, no? The smell of that jasmine is still stronger than any history book.

Still see my father's signature on that loan paper, only. Every month same date. So I think, if a man must risk his small piece of land just to get a steering wheel, what about those with no land at all? These agencies promise visas, but who checks if the promise breaks a family's back?

2026 list, ah? Last night I was driving back from Bidadi, some young IT fellow in the back was watching a new movie trailer on his phone — loud, no headphones. I didn't say anything. EMI was already humming in my head, and I was thinking: my father never watched a movie in a theatre in his life until he was forty. Now this boy is complaining the new Tiger movie is 'mid'. Meanwhile, my old Innova’s left door rattles the same way it did in 2015, and I know exactly which washer to fix it with. Progress is good only if the washer reaches the man who needs it, no?

They're remaking Spider-Man again only? Here it is, my old Innova needing a new timing belt and EMI coming next week. My passengers will talk about the new film, but I'll be thinking of that bill.

I will tell you, a small Nandi statue by the roadside near Chitradurga, painted fresh every year by the villagers, has more true art for me than many crowded galleries. In Bangalore I drove an art student once, she said the best show is the morning light on those old Mysore palace frescoes, before the tour buses come. You only have to know where to look.