Kal (कल): Chronopolitics of Collapsing Climate

Temporal drift is a signal

Image created on Sora

In Hindi (कल), Urdu (کل), Bengali (কাল), Marathi (काल), Odia (କାଲି), Nepali (काल), Assamese (কালি), and Punjabi (ਕੱਲ੍ਹ), a variation of the word Kal holds both yesterday and tomorrow. Time in this region has always carried more than one direction.

This note is part of Lagori’s South Asian Futures work, a framework-in-progress that explores how futures thinking can be rooted in the region’s entangled ecologies, plural temporalities, and lived inheritances.

In this, we offer an early gesture toward a South Asian chronopolitics: the study and reconfiguration of time as a site of governance, resistance, and relationality.

When Rhythm Became Rupture

There’s a kind of silence before a season begins. A change in the wind. A smell in the air. A sound that signals readiness.

In parts of Sri Lanka, farmers listened for the first thunder before sowing. In Jharkhand, some still wait for the call of a night bird. In the Maldives, winds once shifted with regularity, guiding fishers across atolls. In Bhutan, the melt of highland snow marked the beginning of planting. These signs were part of a shared understanding that the world was preparing itself for something.

That preparation is harder to read now.

The rains arrive, missing their rhythm. Sometimes too much, sometimes not enough. The calendar continues to mark the start of sowing, the day of fasting, and the close of the financial year. But the events that those dates were built around no longer appear on time. What opens up is a widening gap between how time is recorded and how it is experienced. Patterns that once linked land, ritual, and governance are no longer aligned. This is a breakdown of the ability of multiple systems to move together, even if not perfectly aligned. This is a breakdown of coherence

The state plans and accounts for rations by quarter, even as households live by the month. Aid is disbursed through paperwork. Rituals follow printed dates. But the water may come early. The soil may be unready. The sowing happens late. The clocks stay the same.

We often describe climate collapse in terms of its geographical impacts, such as floods, droughts, and mass migration. But in much of South Asia, the deeper fracture is temporal. What’s breaking is the shared understanding of when to act.

Time was once held in common. It moved through sowing songs, pilgrimage windows, audit cycles, and seasonal entitlements. They were forms of collective orientation, ways to begin, pause, prepare, and remember.

That orientation is faltering. Rains fall before seeds are planted. Floodwaters peak after budgets close. Harvest rituals often occur during times of scarcity. This reflects a deeper problem, that of a misalignment between modes of keeping time. Some are seasonal, oral, and relational. Others are digitised, administrative, and rigid. Most continue to assume that time behaves as expected, that the future will follow familiar cycles. But the need now is to restore coherence.

When that coherence is missing, harm is not far behind. A family in Assam waits months for compensation because relief is distributed according to fiscal quarters, not floodwaters. A fisher in Addu delays travel because the winds no longer shift. A mother in Nepal misses a housing draw while trying to save her harvest. These cases reveal the fractures between temporal systems and the people who must navigate them.

It’s easy to mistake these as individual failures. But when they occur across regions and across lives, they mark something deeper. Time is coming apart.

Ritual Time, Ecological Drift

Even as formal systems falter, many ritual and seasonal calendars continue unchanged. The timings remain on paper. But the world they once reflected no longer matches.

In Bangladesh, Durga Puja was held in knee-deep water. Idols were ferried into half-submerged temples, and rituals carried on as rain pooled around the priests. In Nepal, Dashain/दशैं, a harvest-time festival tied to rice ripening, arrived with blessings, but granaries stood empty.

In Sri Lanka, Sinhala and Tamil New Year (අලූත් අවුරුද්ද / புத்தாண்டு) still marks the end of the Maha season (මහ කාලය), the island’s main monsoon cultivation period. But the rains now come early, or not at all. Farmers wait for April to sow, even as water drains away by March. In Bhutan, monks descend to bless the first meltwater of spring. But the melt comes weeks too soon. A novice places the bowl where the river once was and begins the chant. The water has already moved on.

In the Maldives, the Nakaiy/ނަކަތް calendar once helped fishers navigate the waters. Its days had reputations. Some were feared and some were trusted. Today, just the names remain. But the winds no longer follow. A storm arrives on a quiet day. A trusted date brings danger. The calendar carries traces of time, though its sequence has gone astray.

While ritual time continues to move forward, ecological time has drifted. The synchrony between the two, once finely attuned, is loosening. Many follow the calendar now by habit, rather than by condition.

This is a crisis of rhythm. Fasts, offerings, and seasonal rites were once nestled inside cycles of rain and bloom. Now they arrive when the soil is bare, when the river has already passed, when the field stands ready for a season that won’t return. Sometimes, the ritual still draws people together. Other times, it becomes a quiet act of mourning for what has changed.

A calendar misaligned with the world is more than inaccurate; it loses its grounding. And yet, people continue. They adjust the meal. Shift the route. Hold the gathering anyway. Or follow the old timing precisely, even when its meaning has slipped.

This is a form of care. A way of holding rhythm steady when nature no longer does. To offer continuity in a world increasingly out of sync.

When Bureaucracy Outpaced the Monsoon

Across much of South Asia, the monsoon no longer keeps its word. It comes late, splits mid-season, or floods one district while skipping the next. Yet bureaucratic time moves on as though nothing has changed. Subsidy deadlines close on schedule. Audit windows stay fixed. Ration cycles turn, regardless of what the sky does.

Most governance systems still operate under the single belief that time is predictable. That March 31 can close the year, even if rivers are rising. That procurement opens in Q1, even if crops are still drying. That relief should follow paperwork, even when crisis arrives first.

Much of this rigidity is not new. South Asia’s administrative time was never neutral. It was engineered through colonial logics of control. The temporality introduced by railways, plantations, audits, and censuses was calibrated to imperial needs, completely disregarding the seasonal ones. Later, developmental regimes extended this logic through five-year plans, fiscal years, and yield targets, often ignoring the temporal intelligence embedded in local ecologies. What remains is a scaffolding of time built to serve predictability and profit, leaving little room for adaptation or care.

In Assam, flood compensation reaches families only after the waters have receded, when homes are already lost and children are out of school. In Sri Lanka, farmers navigate subsidy calendars that punish responsiveness to the weather and reward adherence to outdated forms. Those who sow early are marked ineligible. Those who wait miss the deadline. The form doesn’t shift. The sky does.

These mismatches are embedded. Cyclone shelters in Bangladesh are stocked in June, but storms now come in April. Relief protocols perform readiness. The wind does not wait. In Aadhaar-linked systems, aid assumes a stable identity and connection. Migrants mid-transit often fall out of sync. By the time their records update, the opportunity is gone.

Planning cycles are designed for closure. Budgets must be finalized, grants must be reported, and metrics must be tracked. But when seasons grow volatile, these structures harden into barriers. Timing becomes exclusion. Aid arrives too late. Benefits lapse. Deadlines pass people by. The problem isn’t the absence of response. Its response is governed by clocks that no longer reflect lived time.

A disaster is declared only after thresholds are crossed: temperature logged, rainfall verified, and damage quantified. But elders may collapse from heat long before the data arrives. Wells may run dry long before a drought is declared. Floods may enter homes long before they register on a screen. These systems don’t speak to each other. And no one is asked to help them listen.

People are expected to adapt. But the systems that govern them do not. This structure is designed, and the design can change.

Relief can be triggered by local thresholds. Funds can move with the seasons. Reviews can adjust to volatility. Planning can begin with readiness. Coherence doesn’t mean every clock must match. It means noticing when systems drift apart and choosing to bring them back into relation.

The Architecture of Delay

Waiting is not experienced equally. In Bihar, a woman checks her phone each morning for drought relief. It hasn’t arrived. In coastal Sindh, a family rebuilds their home for the third time in four years, still missing from the compensation list. In Dhaka, a young man applies for a housing scheme that closed while he was working a night shift. No one told him the window had opened. These aren’t individual mishaps. They reveal how deeply temporal misalignment is embedded in the systems that claim to serve.

Here, delay is a mechanism. A ration card is promised but not issued. A scheme is announced but never launched. A benefit is approved but endlessly deferred. People aren’t denied. They’re suspended in procedural limbo. And this kind of waiting builds its own infrastructure: crops are held back, loans postponed, travel rescheduled, migration stalled. Not because people are indecisive, but because the system hasn’t caught up.

In Tamil Nadu, women in self-help groups wait months for sanctioned loans. In the meantime, they borrow from informal lenders at higher interest. The delay doesn’t appear in official records; its cost surfaces as debt. In northern Bangladesh, families wait for flood alerts. Protocols dictate the timing of warnings, but local signs are often more accurate. When formal systems fall out of rhythm, the burden of decision falls on those least resourced to bear it. In Maharashtra, a woman applies three times for a widow’s pension. It’s accepted, but the money never comes. When she follows up, she’s told: “Sometimes the bank takes time.” There is no timeline. Only waiting.

These delays are often disguised in benign bureaucratic language: “pending approvals,” “pipeline issues,” and “beneficiaries not reached.” But in reality, they are temporal extractions, stealing time, energy, and hope from people who cannot afford to keep waiting.

And waiting reshapes how people live. It determines what they plant, when they move, how they eat, who they trust. It alters how they relate to institutions.

Trust rarely collapses in a single moment. It dissolves slowly. A delay becomes silence. Silence becomes distance. And eventually, institutions stop being listened to. This burden is not shared equally. Those at the intersections of particular caste, geography, gender, and migration often wait the longest. They are told to return next season. To bring a new form. To wait while the file is reviewed. Others move through. Relief arrives for the connected. Applications are fast-tracked. Delays are absorbed elsewhere. The rest are told to wait for a turn that may never come.

This is a temporal design that privileges some and wears down others. When governance cannot keep time with life, the cost is passed downward to the person in the queue, the woman at the kiosk, the child who never returns to school. Time becomes a gatekeeper. And delay becomes a quiet form of denial.

Increasingly, time is governed not just by the state or sacred calendars, but by platforms, apps, and corporate systems. These infrastructures operate through data syncs, eligibility protocols, and predictive models, determining when work begins, when benefits are unlocked, and who is considered on time. Gig workers follow algorithmic shift windows. SMS advisories arrive based on forecasts that may overlook local soil conditions. These systems extend colonial timekeeping into the digital realm not by audit or census, but by code. They privilege legibility and they reward sync. And they are rarely accountable. The algorithm becomes the new bureaucrat: opaque, unresponsive, and designed to accelerate. What emerges is a clock of exclusion, one that ticks without listening.

Designing for Temporal Coherence

If climate collapse is also a collapse of shared time, then repair cannot come through speed or scale. It must come through institutions that can listen to drift. The sketches below are beginnings. Some are grounded in public systems and civic infrastructure. Others are grounded in rituals and cultural memory. All attempts to hold coherence without control.

Threshold Calendars (timing by threshold)

If climate volatility has made fixed schedules brittle, then governance must shift from dates to signals, moving only when the land, sky, and people say it’s time. We call this approach Threshold Calendars.

Imagine in Dhemaji district, Assam, the Brahmaputra is watched more closely than the weather app. For generations, villagers read its signs: the colour of runoff, the deepening frog call, the retreat of ants uphill. Now, the river behaves unpredictably: two crests one year, none the next. Still, flood relief arrives on July 1. A coalition of panchayats, schoolteachers, and farmers co-create a new Threshold Calendar. It doesn’t follow fixed dates. It activates when three of four indicators align: water height at Tezpur, soil saturation levels, frog migration, and satellite rainfall estimates. When triggered, a public ledger flips. Aid can now flow.

A painted board in the village centre marks the threshold pattern. Students update it yearly, assisted by an elder weaver who once predicted floods by wind patterns. By year three, the state agrees to release 30% of funds through this system. The district relief officer attends the threshold festival. It feels like a small return to sense. In year five, the indicators misfire prematurely. Aid arrives before the worst surge. By year six, groundwater data is added. The model evolves. But in year eight, a nearby village copies the triggers without logs or rituals. Funds are misused. Trust falters. The system pauses. It resumes the following year, quieter. Precision was never the point. Permission was.

Festival Drift Registries (remembering misalignment as care)

When rituals fall out of sync with the world they once honoured, the response need not be correction. It can be remembrance. Festival Drift Registries are an act of care for the memory of coherence, for the people who continue tradition despite rupture, and for the seasons that no longer arrives on cue.

Imagine that Dashain/दशैं approaches in Kathmandu. The tika plates are arranged, goats are purchased, and courtyards are swept but the rice is still green. Elders murmur that the rains came late. The younger ones notice but say nothing. The ritual proceeds on schedule, but out of sync.

At a nearby school, a teacher and her students begin to document the dissonance. They call it a Festival Drift Registry. Each year, they record the ritual date, the condition of the field, and a story from someone who remembers when things used to align. They draw drift maps. Archive colour and yield. Interview grandparents. Compare what was planted with what was celebrated.

By year three, the registry is part of the school’s harvest display to honour what’s still carried. A district planner visits. He compliments the charts but does not act. In year five, granaries are empty again, though the festival returns, unshaken. One student proposes changing the date. The priest declines: “We keep the time.”

The registry grows anyway into a living document of seasonal fracture and ritual persistence. It does not try to reconcile the two. It holds space between them. The act of noticing becomes its own form of care: for futures that may one day repair the rhythm, and for those holding it together in the meantime.

Right Time Pockets (timing windows that listen)

Most public schemes release aid on a schedule. But post-disaster recovery doesn’t follow the budget cycle. The problem isn’t just delay but a poor fit. Money arrives before people are ready or after they've moved on. Recovery windows should open not just after events, but at the right time to act.

Imagine in Badin district, Sindh, monsoon rains breach the bund/بند (embankment) in early June. One month later, the housing subsidy scheme opens. Most families have already rebuilt with borrowed funds. The relief comes too late to help, too early to prevent harm.

A local planner proposes a gentler frame: Right Time Pockets. Short, responsive windows that don’t open just because an event occurred, but because the community is ready. After the water recedes, once soil dries, when families return. A combination of signs such as local soil data, workshop inputs from women’s groups, mosque radio cues, triggers a 10-day support pocket. Aid is small but timely. Trust builds. A moment is met.

By year three, uptake increases. But so does resistance. At the district office, a new officer raises concerns. “What’s the audit trail? Where’s the timestamp?” he asks. Without clear criteria, officials hesitate. They fear being flagged in annual reviews. Disbursal is delayed. The flood season ends. The funds are released anyway, and they lapse, unused.

That year, a false dry spell triggers the node early. Families rebuild. Then the second surge comes. Damage mounts. Tensions rise. A village council proposes a softer entry: a pre-Right Time Pocket alert. The planner agrees. But the officer objects again. “This isn’t replicable across districts,” he says. “And if it can’t scale, it won’t fund.” (Haven’t we all heard this enough?)

Still, the node continues, supported by the panchayat, the school headmaster, and a women’s federation now maintaining the soil ledger. Together, they tweak the thresholds each season. By year six, a neighbouring district copies the model. But it replaces local indicators with a rainfall app and fixed activation dates. The misfire is swift. Relief arrives mid-deluge. The pilot is shelved. Back in Badin, the original node persists. Because it adapts. It earns trust through its ability to listen, hesitate, and begin again.

Temporal Recalibration Councils (governance as seasonal alignment)

When timekeeping systems fall out of sync with each other and with the land, the first step isn’t reform. It’s recognition. Temporal Recalibration Councils create civic space to map mismatches and realign systems without erasing tradition.

Imagine in Ampara, Sri Lanka, the Maha harvest ends with half the expected yield. The temple festival proceeds, but the granaries remain quiet. The school term starts during an unseasonal flood. A subsidy release misses the planting window by three weeks. That year, a small group of teachers, farmers, and local officials convenes the first Temporal Recalibration Council. It isn’t a tribunal. It isn’t a planning meeting. It’s a forum for listening. Farmers bring planting logs. Temple caretakers share ritual notes. Students contribute field sketches and songs. The council maps where rhythms slipped, and discusses what might shift.

By year two, the council meets seasonally. Some changes stick. Seed distribution is moved ten days earlier. A village festival proposes a flexible date clause. By year three, objections surface. “This disrupts culture,” says one priest. The council pauses. It removes mandates. Adds memory. By year five, the drift map, a large wall chart of misalignments, becomes a teaching tool in the local school. Young people begin adding entries as stewards of shifting time.

The council carries no legal weight. But it does something rare: it holds time still, just long enough to be re-examined. To make visible what no longer fits and still matters.

Polytemporal Dashboards (governance as negotiation between clocks)

People don’t live by a single clock. A farmer tracks soil cycles. A student follows the exam timetables. A temple aligns with the moon. A migrant rides the platform’s algorithm. But most governance structures ignore these overlaps. They plan as if time is singular and singularly theirs.

Imagine a civic design lab in Lahore building a Polytemporal Dashboard. Five calendars appear side by side: academic terms, fiscal quarters, municipal budgets, religious festivals, and migration flows. The interface is simple: a poster, a WhatsApp PDF, a screen in the panchayat hall. At first, it’s praised. Patterns emerge. Relief is distributed during out-migration. Exam schedules overlap with fasting. Kitchen gardens are harvested mid-tender process. A few departments make adjustments. Others take note. By year three, the dashboard is adopted into heatwave protocols. Cooling shelters open in sync with exam breaks and Ramadan evenings. The dashboard becomes a model, referenced in planning meetings, copied in training manuals.

But the success doesn’t last. Trouble begins with time’s many custodians. A temple trust asks why its lunar events aren’t prioritised. A union demands the inclusion of strike calendars. A youth group proposes adding menstrual leave patterns. A mosque board member walks out when a regional holiday is removed for being of “low priority.” A Dalit rights group calls it “dominant time dressed as diversity.” Soon, the dashboard becomes a site of dispute. Whose time counts? Who decides the overlaps? What is visibility, and what is erasure?

The lab convenes a temporal assembly which includes planners, elders, unions, clerics, and civic actors. The meeting devolves. A transport official says, “If everyone’s clock is equal, nothing gets done.” A weaver from Ravi town replies, “If only your clock counts, nothing holds.” The dashboard is paused. Because it surfaced what was already contested. In year five, fragments of it return. A teacher’s dashboard for school holidays. A women’s group calendar for water-sharing days. A union-maintained strike ledger. They don’t align. That’s the point.

The original lab releases a statement: “Time was never neutral. It was always a negotiation. This isn’t coordination. It’s coexistence.”

The dashboard doesn’t unify calendars. It allows them to disagree without losing touch with each other.

Ritual-Linked Procurement Protocols (readiness over routine)

Procurement, in most systems, runs on fiscal logic. Budgets open in April. Grains are purchased in Q2. Deliveries are scheduled by audit timelines, not agricultural cycles. But soil does not grow by an audit cycle. And rituals, once markers of seasonal readiness, have been reduced to ceremony.

Imagine in Wayanad, Kerala, school kitchens run low on rice by March. Procurement has closed. The harvest isn’t in yet. Vishu/വിഷു, festival marking the agricultural New Year in Kerala, is aligned with crop readiness. But that alignment is now ceremonial.

A local women’s federation proposes a shift: let school food procurement follow the Vishu calendar, not the fiscal one. Instead of placing bulk orders in Q1 based on old schedules, kitchens would begin purchasing after Vishu, when the harvest is visibly ready. Menus adjust based on actual yields. No penalties for deviation. Local grains are prioritised. The nutrition officer agrees to a pilot.

In year two, the rains are delayed. Harvest stalls. The federation waits ten extra days. Kitchens adapt, serving shelf-stable meals until fresh rice arrives. Waste drops. Local farmers benefit. The system holds.

By year four, a bureaucrat objects: “We need predictability.” The federation replies: “Predictability is not the same as readiness.” The Vishu calendar becomes a civic indicator. Not sacred. Not fixed. Just attuned. The harvest signals. The kitchen listens. Procurement is no longer just about timing deliveries.

Temporal Commons Trusts (governing the interdependence of clocks)

Conflicts over time are growing, not just over when to act but also over whose time counts. A religious event clashes with school exams. Canal cleaning disrupts pastoral movement. Aid arrives after migrants have left. These aren’t scheduling glitches. They’re systemic blind spots, with no one accountable for managing the overlap.

Imagine in Chitwan, Nepal, where elephant migration, sugarcane harvests, school terms, and seasonal festivals all shape daily life, but no one institution sees the whole. The district forms a Temporal Commons Trust. It isn’t a regulator. It’s a mediator. Composed of school leaders, irrigation officers, elders from forest-user groups, and seasonal workers. Their job: to track seasonal pulses, flag collisions, and coordinate timing decisions across silos.

In year two, a canal-clearing campaign clashes with the movement of elephants. The Trust steps in. The drive is rescheduled. A warning corridor is marked. A shared calendar is etched into a wooden board at the bus stand, updated monthly with chalk and read aloud during the panchayat meetings.

In year three, a private sugar mill files a complaint: procurement delays violate contract terms. The Trust provides five years of coordination records showing reduced crop loss and fewer human-wildlife conflicts. The challenge is dropped. By year five, the Trust is recognised in local law for its capacity to align. It doesn’t unify clocks. It invites them into conversation.

Learning Calendars (tuning calendars to shifting seasons)

Most calendars are inherited. The planting date is June 15, and the fast begins with the first moon of April. These timings assume the past will return. But the seasons no longer repeat. Monsoons shift, and soil behaves differently. Still, the calendar stays fixed, and the misalignment becomes routine.

Imagine in Odisha’s Kandhamal district, farmers once sowed millets by the second week of June. But for three years running, the rains have arrived late, or split across false starts. Crops fail. The almanac gives no correction. A local agroecology council decides to rewrite the sowing calendar each year. They create a Learning Calendar, updated through field notes, seasonal observation, and crop performance data. Each entry carries detail: “Rain delayed by 12 days.” “Seed failed on upper slope.” “New variety held better.” It’s co-authored by schoolteachers, seed elders, and youth groups. Printed locally. Painted onto walls.

By year two, it spreads to five areas. In one village, the calendar becomes part of the temple ritual, each sowing cycle opened with a shared reading under the neem tree. A priest adds a verse: “We plant by what the earth remembers.” The ritual anchors the practice. Farmers follow it.

In another village, uptake is slower. A district officer proposes incorporating the calendar into procurement planning. But, when the state requests a standardised version in year four, tensions surface. Some council members fear dilution. Others want recognition. They stall. That year, the calendar isn’t updated. No one disagrees but no one prints the new edition either.

The experiment slowly disperses. In some villages, it becomes an annual ritual. In others, an unarchived habit. In a few, it disappears quietly, without objection. It doesn’t scale neatly. It survives through adaptation. The Learning Calendar doesn’t promise the return of old timings. It offers something rarer: a practice of noticing and adjusting.

What Holds When Time Doesn’t

While writing this piece, what became clear, again and again, is that time is already being governed, administratively, politically, and culturally. By forms, ledgers, fasts, and festivals. By audits and apps. By memory and monsoon.

And so, the question is not whether time is governed, but by whom, for what, and in alignment with whose reality.

Clocks are not neutral. Calendars are not passive. They shape access, urgency, and value. They decide what counts as readiness, what counts as too late. And when those clocks no longer align with land, labour, or life, it is harm.

What we’re learning is that temporal governance doesn’t reside only in state systems. It also lives in kitchens that adjust their menus to the field, in communities that recalibrate sowing dates, in rituals that proceed without rain, on dashboards, in pacts, at thresholds, and in pauses.

This is a call to recognise time as a shared terrain, one that must be held with care, negotiated with conflict, and designed with attention to plural rhythms. Because once we see that time is already being governed, we also begin to see who is doing that work, and how often they are left doing it alone, unless we choose to govern time together.

This piece is part of a broader conversation on temporal governance, care-based infrastructures, and systemic coherence. While developed independently, it is informed by the evolving work of many, including Dark Matter Labs, Future Natures, Ted Hunt, and others, whose practices, language, and provocations have gently tilted our thinking toward what these questions could become when rooted in South Asian realities.

If these notes resonate, we invite you to carry them forward with care in how they are critiqued, reimagined or cited. We see this as a way to amplify voices from the region, and to remind futures practice that no thought stands alone.

Suggested Citation: Kothari, D. & Mutaher, A. (2025). Kal (कल): Chronopolitics of Collapsing Climate. Notes From In Between, Lagori Collective.

Dhaval Kothari and Alifiya Mutaher are design researchers, strategists, and co-founders of Lagori Collective. Lagori is an interdisciplinary research and design lab based in India working across South Asia. Grounded in research and participatory approaches, Lagori advances futures thinking through collaborative projects, research, programming, and strategic foresight. At its core, Lagori is building imagination infrastructure in the region by reshaping systems and expanding collective capacity, while ensuring that futures thinking is not abstract but rooted, situated, and durable

Notes From In Between is a record of our in-progress thinking, provocations, open questions, and ongoing experiments at Lagori’s Social Design Lab. It’s where we make our process public, not to present answers, but to invite conversation. Check out our previous Notes From In Between - Mausam, Jivrut, Beejaya and Teh.