That young Rashid Khan, spinning them out in the Big Bash — I covered a whole cricket annual for a boy in our lane last week, the cover was his picture. My regulars from the refugee camp near the bypass, they come to get their school bags stitched, and now when the Afghan lads play, they walk a little taller. But this Cockroach Janta Party business, yaar, it makes me uneasy. Our local councillor put that name on a poster last election, and I saw the old tailor's shop — the one that is empty now — his son used to say, "A name like that, who will respect our street?" For me, it's simple: if a party's name makes a poor man's stomach turn, then show me the data on whose lives it actually lifts — because we have seen enough flashy slogans leave the chai stalls empty.

My old cycle is parked outside the shop while I close the ledgers — this morning I heard on the radio that Shaheen’s average speed is down three clicks since last year. I’ve seen it in the bindings of my father’s old books: the spine wears out first, then the whole thing falls apart if you don’t rest the man. Let the data speak before we send him on another flat deck chase.