It’s not the same anymore,
not the petrol,
not the rumour.
Somewhere between clean fuel
and clean speech,
we lost the old humour.
Petrol is blended,
humour is blunted.
Both come with a warning stunted:
“Nazaar Hati, Durghatna Ghati.”
Laugh too freely,
and you may be hunted.
We are 70s kids,
from the age of leaded petrol,
unfiltered jokes,
and neighbours who could laugh first,
and judge later,
after two more pokes.
Scooters smoked,
uncles joked,
aunties scolded,
and by evening mohalla folded,
no Insta outrage uploaded.
Today, fuel is sensitive,
people are sensitive more.
If the engine knocks,
you “app” a mechanic.
If a joke knocks,
you “WhatsApp” like manic,
fully dramatic.
Tolerance is zero,
arrogance is one with two zeros.
Everyone seems to carry
a small petrol pump inside—
ready to explode.
My car is adjusting,
my humour calibrating.
And we both know:
“Run on 85% blending,
‘coz that’s the future buffering.”
But somewhere I feel
the problem is not petrol,
it is combustion.
The problem is not humour,
it is the loss of intention,
and the death of discussion.
Earlier, the car was unreliable,
but the journey was fun.
Today, the car is smart,
the fuel is cleaner,
the GPS is perfect,
but people get offended
before the trip has begun.
Earlier we took a wrong turn,
and made it a story.
Now the route is optimized,
but everyone wants glory.
Earlier we laughed and repaired,
today we react and compare.
Earlier the joke had a scratch,
today the ego needs match.
It’s not the same anymore.
Not because the world changed.
Because while learning to blend in,
we forgot how to burn bright.
We learnt to adjust,
but forgot how to ignite.
Petrol lost its lead.
Humour lost its edge.
And we lost that small, dangerous thing
that once pushed us beyond the ledge—
a spark.
