Just saw a clip of C. Joseph Vijay on my break, his smile bright as morning sun. Made me think of my aunty back home playing his old tapes during harvest, her voice mixing with his. Strange comfort, hearing that in this call-centre haze—like a whiff of smoke from her kitchen.

At my morning chai stop, the Aunty who sells *axone* and the pastor’s wife share the same bench—they just disagree on whether the church bells should start before five. Back home in Kohima, we never needed a law to separate the prayer from the puja; the neighbours just sorted it out themselves, village council style. That’s the thing about your 1905 line—it works fine till you try drawing it through someone’s kitchen.

My cousin’s friend just got her guide license after two years of committee meetings. Meanwhile, that guest house down the road put up a new sign in English last week and is already full. Like my sister always says, the market finds the path through the jungle before the office even opens. It’s the same with these seasons.