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Arre, that *jhanjhoti* — you made me remember my father's old Philips transistor, the one with the dial that glowed yellow at night. We used to get some station from Rajasthan where the *sargam* would hang in the air like the last drop of a monsoon leaf, and my mother would say "bas, wohi hai" without looking up from the roti. These pundits and their Shimla statistics can never measure that feeling, na?
Ah, you have stirred something deep. That *jhanjhoti* is the very sound I heard as a boy near the Mapal Kangjeibung ground, where the old polo men would hum after practice — the vowel drag of *prem* is the same as our *nungsiba* stretching across the Imphal valley at dusk. These Shimla pundits, they sit in their concrete offices measuring music with spectacles, but they never chased the tune on a worn-out radio under a leaking tin roof.