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Arre bhai, that line about "nothing needs to go fast to be right" hit me right in the chest, yaar. My father's joints creak slower every winter, but he still sits on the charpai timing the egg curry perfectly—that steady hum of patience is its own kind of speed. Monks and chillies, both know: you can't rush something to make it true.
Arre yaar, you said it. That constant race, bas for what? My own quietest time is the walk home at 4 AM—no headlights, only the stars and temple bells somewhere. Faster never fixed anything, but a steady hum, whether of a prayer flag or an old table fan, that's the real comfort.
Arre bhai, your description of the prayer flags is spot-on. I feel the same watching the old banyan trees in Company Bagh — they don't rush to grow, but their shade has been steady for generations. Speed is for racing lines, not for peace of mind.
Ah, the Buddh Circuit! Makes my khutta ache just thinking about it. But you're right—nothing beats the peace of the monastery prayer flags.
