Ah, that Neha Bora business, hajur. I was just checking my valve amp's bias with a multimeter when the news came on—makes me think of our old mountain rescue fund, the one we ran from this very veranda. We had a little ledger, pencil marks and all, and every paisa went to a family's hospital trip or a broken leg off a trek. Now they want a central app for everything, and I'm asking: show me the audit, show me the numbers—because a cooperative ledger from the neighborhood is harder to fake than a server farm in Gurgaon, thikai cha?

Ah, these boxers from Manipur—hajur, I see their names in the papers and I wonder how they do it. Here in Gangtok, my tenants argue about their protein powders and fancy gym subscriptions, and meanwhile these lads are training on potholed roads with old gloves and a dream. Reminds me of my old valve amp, the one I fixed with a baling wire and a prayer: it doesn't need to be new, it just needs to work. Thikai cha—the data speaks for itself, year after year.