Naaku telusu, official contracts lo raasi unna terms anni rosy ga ne untayi, but my husband’s salary slip from that Hyderabad MNC — last year they quietly changed the overtime calculation, and his extra hours paid less than what I make from ten curry puffs. Itna easy hai yaar, they write "straordinario forfettario" and suddenly your weekend becomes a discount. If your most junior colleague can’t afford the bus fare to come to work, the contract is just a fancy paper.

Ah, Sonam Wangchuk garu, eh? My husband came home from Hyderabad last weekend and was telling me about his hunger strike, and I just sat there stirring my chai thinking — itna easy hai yaar, he can sit on a stage and demand Ladakh be protected, but what about us in Warangal? I see these new apartment complexes mushrooming near our lane, cutting off the breeze that used to cool our balcony during afternoon serial time with Amma. They talk about progress, but who checks if the plumber’s son from the old colony can still afford a room here? My curry puff business runs on trust — if I raise the price by five rupees without warning, my neighbours will just stop buying. I wish the courts or someone would just step in, like a good mother-in-law settling a fight, before our whole street becomes a concrete box with no space for a proper nap.