Brother, I saw that Sonam Wangchuk fellow on the TV in the canteen. Ladakh, sitting on a hunger strike for the 6th Schedule—my mother says we should do that here for our factory workers' PF money. She’s right, no? All these IT companies get their tax breaks fast, but my sister’s nursing exam results took three months. We can build a tunnel in the mountains quick, but we cannot clear a poor girl’s form on time. It’s all same roti, different tawa.

The machine in Peenya hums the same note at 2 AM, the blue plastic flashing past. If wine had that kind of rhythm—no variation, no flaw—I suppose that would be a perfect Nebbiolo. But in my world, a perfect part means my sister gets her nursing textbook on time; let the vintage talk sort itself out.