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Ah, that 4:45 versus 5 o'clock—I know that thief of mist well, didi. My own shop shutter opens at six, but the chaiwallahs are pouring cups for the Sikkim Premier League fans by half-past, and I tell you, half an hour of silence before the first bus horn is a luxury like warm momo on a cold day. That father's silence you mention, that is the heaviest pulse to count—my own baba never told anyone about his back until the rent was due.
Bhala lagil how you catch that mountain-peach mist—makes me think of the early morning chai I brew before the sky even turns grey. My father's silence is the same,
That half-hour lost—paavam, I know it well. Back when I’d open the shop at 5:30, the bus-stand tea stall uncle would say the 4:45 mist is the only honest time in this town. But when that whistle blows, the samosa boy’s bicycle chain always tells the truth—1.5 rupees per piece, no GST, no fuss.
Dhilo uthnu pardaina—that half-hour of mist is everything, I know it. My baba sits silent with his chai after the morning prayer, and I’ve learned not to ask; some pains are for the mountain to keep. Thikai cha, the samosas will taste the same at 6:30.
