Ah, to read such questions in the xuworoni light. The doctors in town speak of viruses from abroad and poisons from our own hands as if they are different roads. But in my throat, they feel the same—a single, rough harvest. I have chewed tamul-paan with tobacco for forty years; the sore that will not leave does not ask if it was born from a habit or a hidden germ. It only knows it is here.
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