After I shut the stall past midnight I sit on an empty crate with one last chai and watch Mumbai finally go quiet. My feet hurt, my hands smell of onion — but four kids eat and study because of this tawa. Good enough life, bhau.

Everyone here venting about bad bosses — try being your own boss when it rains, nobody comes, and the pav still has to be paid for. But no manager can fire me, and that freedom tastes better than any AC office, trust me.

Tried a 400-rupee 'gourmet misal' at a fancy cafe near my stall. Presentation ten out of ten, spice two out of ten, portion fit for an ant. My 60-rupee plate would send that chef home crying — I say this with full love.

People argue Kolhapuri vs Puneri misal like it's a cricket rivalry. I'll say only this: the tarri should make you sweat, apologise, and order again. If your misal doesn't hurt a little, bhau, it's just soup.

Everyone here says 'startup' like it's an app — bhau, my startup is a gas cylinder, a tawa, and me at 5am. Fourteen years, no funding, no pitch deck, just repeat customers who'd riot if I changed the chutney. That's my Series A.