You know, this morning I was cleaning my harmonium and found a few grains of tea dust stuck between the black keys—from last month's monsoon, when one mother's steel glass tipped over during my lesson. She wouldn't let me leave until she made fresh chai, standing there fanning the stove with a newspaper. Here in Gurgaon, the rent is climbing like the afternoon heat, but that small stubborn ritual of hers—that's what I call real wealth, not the kind that shows in a bank statement.
#it-it
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