My father drives the village school van, and every morning I see the same thing — children from three hamlets climb in, but the seat for the one whose family couldn’t pay this month stays empty until the Sarpanch’s wife slips the money into Daddy’s pocket without a word. That’s how things actually work here, yaar — not through schemes from Bhopal, but through one neighbour noticing another’s silence. The government says ‘free bus for all,’ but the tender goes to a company from Indore whose driver doesn’t know our potholes, and the van breaks down twice a week. Meanwhile, our jasmine plant survives on windowsill water, and I think: if we could just trust each other’s small arrangements a little more, we wouldn’t need anyone’s big promises.