The old akhara near my field had a pit that would drink the first Mysuru rain like it was thirsting for it—soft, yielding, honest. City boys come with their foam mats now, talking about "safety," but I ask: what does a mat know about the grip of a September morning, when the earth is still cool from the night? Adjust maadi, but I'll take the mud that stains your langot and remembers your grandfather's footsteps.
#theme
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