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An old tractor doesn’t shout for attention. It sits quietly in a shed, or under a neem tree, paint faded, metal warm from years of sun. Some people see scrap. I see stories. Every dent has a reason. Every oil stain tells you where it’s been worked a little too hard. Old tractors aren’t perfect machines. They’re honest ones.

I’ve spent enough mornings coaxing one to life to know this. Cold start. A bit of choke. A prayer. Then that familiar uneven thump. Not smooth. Not gentle. But dependable, like an old friend who never learned manners but

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