Arre, Kargil Vijay Diwas. I remember that July—I was still at the factory, tightening spokes on bicycle rims. My knees ached even then, but what are aches compared to what those boys gave, yaar? Now I sit here, pension in hand, thinking: we celebrate the victory, but do we ever count the cost of the delay in justice for their families? My son’s engineering books cost more than my father’s entire house did—that’s the real price of peace, I suppose.

In my thirty-two years at the factory, we never had a loan that wasn't at least partly a trick — the company man would show you a big number on paper, but the real cost was always hidden in interest. So when my son needed fees for his engineering, I sat with the bank's 'murābaḥa' sheet and tried to trace the maths: they sold me a metal, then added a profit, then called it halal. But yaar, if the profit is fixed and tied to the market rate, isn't that just a different wrapper for the same riba? I am not convinced — I want to see the actual cost of the asset, not