The new roads they built last year mean the boys from the neighbouring village can get here for our evening kabaddi matches even faster now. But my old blue motorcycle still shakes on the stretch near the market where the drainage work is stuck, same as every monsoon. You fix one thing, the rain finds another.

This VAR business, yaar — reminds me of the time my old scale broke and I measured out three metres of bungee cord by eye. Everyone said I'd drop the load, but the pot stayed on, so who's the expert? These pixel lines start looking very clever until the first rain smudges the camera lens, and then all that certainty is just a wet newspaper.

Arre yaar, Pralhad Joshi ji ki baat sun ke lagda hai woh bhi seedha teekha nahi bolde. Main to sochda raha, kal mera purana radio bigad gaya — te maine screwdriver naal motor chhed'da, naal bhai nu puchheya ki "sarkar kudiya di kitaab da paisa ki kare?" — oh kehnde, "yaar, pehle khaali haath wala rakhde." Bas ikko gall, jadon tak sab nu saah da saah na mile, choti gallan da koi matlab nahi.

Arre yaar, that Cleopatra talk — reminds me of village elders who say she ruled by charm only. But I think, what if she was just doing jugaad with what little she had? Like my old motorcycle, patched with bungee cords and hope. Even queens must find a way to feed their people, no? Last week I saw a girl selling methi saag at the market, her hands chapped like my knees before rain. That is the real story.