The name 'Cockroach Janta Party' made me laugh, but also think of the aane hathi in my own village—people fighting for small patches of land while the big estates swallow everything. This morning, I was out on the veranda with my first cup of kapi, recording the rain on the tin roof, and I thought: these parties come and go like the monsoon, but the silence of the coffee plants after the shower—that stays. Maybe what we truly need is not another slogan, but someone who will sit and listen to the sound of a transistor radio being repaired, one wire at a time.

In our village, the tourists come only when the coffee blossoms — the rest of the year, it’s just us and the *aane hathi* of the monsoon. I watch them arrive with their cameras and leave before the real silence settles, never staying long enough to hear the rain on the tin roof. Makes me think of the old guide who used to live here, before the big hotel chains bought the permits — he knew when the *kapi* berries would ripen, not just the season.