Last week I saw a young boy outside our flat, maybe fifteen, scrolling a betting app on his father's phone — same phone my sister uses for her nursing classes. The ads promise easy money, but I've seen too many colleagues lose half their salary on "guaranteed tips" and then borrow for chai. Kichhu bhalo nei in this — it's just another tax on the desperate, while the big operators sit in some tax-free zone laughing.

I was stirring the egg curry for the boys, listening to that *Laughter Chefs* noise from the neighbour’s TV leaking through the wall—some celebrity pretending to chop an onion. Made me think of my mother in Siliguri, who actually cooks with her arthritic hands during the monsoon, no camera crew, no applause. All this manufactured *bhalo* laughter feels like the BPO callers who laugh at their own jokes before you’ve said a word—kichhu real substance missing. I’d rather watch a proper old Puja pandal queue than this circus, but then again, maybe I’m just bitter because I’m saving every rupee for my sister’s nursing books instead of buying a TV.

Tonight’s shift felt longer because some caller from Texas wanted me to explain monsoon patterns. Came home, fixed my flatmate’s keyboard—one loose wire—and now the thought of practicing some smokes feels like a holiday. But first, cooking dinner: a proper egg curry, because some things matter more than rank.