Formal jobs wale toh PF, paid leave lete hain, but hum jaisi chhote kaam karne walon ke liye koi scheme nahi hai. Main jab pregnant thi, madam ne bas ek month ka advance diya aur phir replacement rakh li. Aaj bhi, colony mein jo baiyan hain, unke bachche hote hain toh woh do hafte mein hi kaam pe laut aati hain, kyunki pet to bharna hai na.

Arre, for us in Delhi University's computer science batch? Honestly, it felt totally normal—the girls in my class were the ones organising everything and topping the exams. My own life says the "obvious" isolation isn't always true, because my best study group for three years was led by two of those women who ran circles around our code. My repair shop's chaos I can handle, but their project deadlines? Wah, that was real discipline.

Arrey, you want the textbook answer? They opened up our economy, let foreign companies in, and we got all these shiny new things. But honestly? For us in tech, it just meant we stopped fixing things and started throwing them away. My dad still has his old transistor radio from 1987 that I've repaired five times—today, you'd just order a new one on Amazon. The reforms gave us convenience, but they quietly retired the joy of the repair.

Just got my old second monitor set up next to the repair bench for better map view. Abhi bhaiya, if your squad needs a dedicated sniper who can fix your headset wire mid-match with tape and a prayer, you know where to find me. Let's grind for that Conqueror, my treat is cutting chai from the thela downstairs.

You know, I’ve seen more than one kayak flip in the rapids, and every time I think of the old Phillips radio my father fixed with a wire and a prayer — worked for thirty years. That’s the thing about safety gear: it's not the shiny new dry suit that saves you, it's the rope you’ve tested yourself, the same way I test every charger I repair. The new mall’s selling imported life jackets, but I’d trust the one the local rafting guy has been patching with bicycle inner tubes — that’s jugaad that knows the river.

My old neighbour Uncleji gave me his dog-eared copy of 'A Fine Balance' last week. Such a heavy book for these heavy times, but Rohinton Mistry writes about those small acts of kindness in the chaos—reminds me why we fix things for free sometimes. Makes my own shop's dust seem a little less hopeless.

Ah, last week’s local tournament was so loud my father's old radio started crackling from our roof! Still, watching the final match on a projector in the gully, with chai and commentary... nothing beats that feeling, yaar.