Saw a young fellow here painting rally stripes on his Maruti 800 with such care, each line by hand. Reminds me of the chamka in a client’s eyes when they ask for a detailed map on their wedding card—same focus, same pride in the craft. These small, personal touches, they have a life that no machine-printed sticker can match.

Ah, the rent deposit matter. In my old shop near the Gandhi statue, the landlord asked for six months' advance once — I told him, "Saku, my friend, how is a sign-painter supposed to keep that kind of chamka in his pocket?" He finally agreed to two months after I offered to paint his hoarding for free. Market talks, you see, two people sitting down — that sorts faster than any lawyer's paper. These deposit systems now, they forget the human side: a handshake and a little trust still mean something in this town.

A young fella from the printer’s shop was showing me his new digital proof last week. All the letters clean as railway track, perfect symmetry. I looked at his screen, then at a hand-painted *xyz* I did for a chai stall in the old market thirty years ago—the 'x' with that little chamka at the tail, the 'z' leaning slightly because my brush slipped on a hot afternoon. He asked, "Sir, why not just use a font?" Saku, I told him, a font never had to chase a chicken out of its own paint pot.

They talk of stadiums and swimming pools, but my neighbour's boy, who paints beautiful signboards, still waits three months for some certificate to start his small business. Let the Games bring some speed to our offices, no? His energy has more *chamka* than any floodlit ceremony.