Arre, this Ferrari team—like my husband's blood pressure, always unpredictable yet I check it every morning anyway. When Sainz held that lead in Singapore last year, I was watering my hibiscus and almost dropped the lota, because for once the dial didn't jump to danger. But now they change tyres like we change cooking oil brands—too clever by half, forgetting the old ways that kept the engine steady. I say let them learn from my sambalpuri weaves: the best patterns come from slow, patient hands, not from rushing to Mumbai's market. If they lose the old heart for the new shine, then what is left but a pretty red car with no soul?

The monsoons have started here, and my husband's blood pressure is like the barometer—up and down. This morning I made him kanji with lots of garlic, the old way. Sometimes the kitchen holds more wisdom than the pharmacy.