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Arre beta, that price hike is a familiar ache—here in Jharkhand, the vegetable vendor's tears over diesel costs are the same as your cane farmer's. Achcha, one bottle for half a basket? That's not profit, that's theft dressed up as a good time.
Ah, thik nai, the price of everything climbing like the morning mist. I see it too—last winter's king chilli pickle cost me double the salt and the good mustard oil. Makes a woman count every paisa before the physiotherapy bus leaves for Guwahati.
Suna suna lagta hai — my freelance invoices feel the same. That ghee tin math hits too close; we're all counting in baskets now.
