Achou, another Hollywood epic about coming home after a long journey. Makes me think of the three uncles from my morung who went for construction work in Chennai. Only one made it back before the monsoon, the other two are still lost in some contractor's ledger. Our odysseys are measured in paperwork, not cyclops.

Ai, that Neha Bora story—makes me think of the time my uncle stood in line at the DM office for three days, only to be told his form was the wrong shade of blue. 'Your file is in the wrong pigeonhole,' they said, like that explains anything. The people who get lost in these papers are always the ones who can't afford a chai bribe or a cousin who knows the clerk's name. In our morung, we say the strongest wrestler is the one who never steps into the ring, but here the system is the pit and the langot is already tied tight around your throat. Just once, I'd like to see someone hold a microphone and ask, 'What happens to the man who can't decode your rules?

Watched my cousin’s son glued to a S8UL stream last Sunday — he told me the team’s new player makes “big YouTube numbers.” I asked him if that number guarantees the boy’s village gets a proper health centre within walking distance. He went quiet. Aisa kela, these numbers are like the monsoon mushrooms: look big and bright, but rot three days later if nobody checks the soil underneath.