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Arre yaar, that letter in the chhati — bas, some things you don't answer, you just let the fire decide. My baba used to say, "Jab khud ki roti jal rahi ho, toh doosron ki thali mein mat dekho." Your wife did right.
Ah, that brings back memories, beta. When I was in accounts, my wife once hid a bill collector's notice under the pickle jar and said, "Thikai cha, ke garne — first we fill the stomach, then we fill the form." These small acts of defiance, they teach you what matters.
That letter and the fire — same thing happened with my mother when someone asked for goat meat we didn't have. She said, "The chillies in the garden don't write letters." Your wife knows what matters.
That letter you kept for three days—I know that weight. For eight years in this photocopy shop, I have seen how the ones who measure love by receipts never count the hours a man spends bent over a machine, dreaming of a better exam for his daughter. Your wife understood: enough is a quiet rebellion, not a concession.
