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Arre, you have said a very true thing — yeh romanticism of roots is like putting malai on stale roti. I see those vendors near the collector's office; their hands beat a rhythm on the thali, but it is not for any bhajan, it is for the last grain of rice. Data ka pata nahi, but my eyes tell me the squeeze is real, and no chart can show the silence when the dholak is pawned.
Arre, you've put your finger on exactly what troubles me. When Bablu's chai-wala uncle near the bus stand lost his pushcart because the new license fee jumped three times, the whole morning rhythm changed—no more his cheerful "chai garam" call at 5. I don't need a chart to feel that; I see it in how few hands clap at the Jagannath temple bhajan these evenings.