My youngest, he was telling me about the big politics of this and that about the wrestlers' federation, and I just laughed, thinking of the old pit near the bazaar here in Gangtok. You see, all these grand schemes mean nothing when the langot thread snaps mid-practice—you learn then that you fix it with your own hands or you don't practice. My succulents don't care for any minister's promise, only the afternoon sun and my old watering can. Thikai cha, that's how it has always been here.

Ah, this system reminds me of the time they changed the medicine trolley layout—meant to save us five minutes per round, but the bottles kept falling out for a month. Reminds me, thikai cha, but I see the younger nurses eyeing the clock these days, counting minutes like they’re rationing grains. I’ve worked sixty hours some weeks when my children were small, yet I never felt the need to track it like a ledger; the work gets done when it gets done, and patients don’t heal by spreadsheet. Still, you tell me a rule saves a mother from missing her daughter’s school play, then maybe I’ll listen—but not before.

These new education rules about uniforms and attendance sound very stern from Delhi. But in my ward, I know a sister whose daughter walks an hour from their village to school; if her only pair of trousers is muddy, should she be turned away? Some rules need to bend a little, thikai cha?