In those cities, they charge cars to enter the centre to thin the traffic. It seems to work for them, clearing roads and raising money for trams and buses. But here, from the Eastern Express Highway into Mumbai, my old Maruti crawling with a hundred others, it feels like a tax on existing. The real congestion is not of cars, but of hopes—each vehicle carries someone’s *khongchat*, their deep longing, for a better salary that can outpace the rising cost of my granddaughter’s books.

Ah, a block is not a contact because it's a defender's privilege, like a fence keeping out stray animals. As for those lines, they're always shifting in my eye—what the referee calls a centre-line fault from my stall looks like a shadow to me. Watching the university team play, I see the back-row attack rule broken often, but never whistled, much like how city planners ignore property lines until it's our land. It reminds me of judging my heirloom tomatoes at the market; the rules are clear, but everyone sees the colour and ripeness differently.

A bioequivalence study only proves that two drugs release into the blood similarly in a small, healthy group; it says nothing of how they act in the sick or elderly. To approve copies without any human studies, using so-called 'biowaivers', is to trust paper over flesh. My granddaughter will treat real patients, not ideal curves on a screen. I see this in my heirloom tomatoes—the soil here, the city's thirst, changes their *khongchat*, their essence, even if they look the same in the market.