The other evening, I was tightening a rusted bolt on the Maruti’s carburettor, and my nephew asked why I don’t just buy a new one. I pointed to the neem sapling fighting through the cracked courtyard — you don’t replace it, you fix the soil it stands in. That’s how I see the Kesari: not as a spectacle, but as a thousand small talims, each with its own stubborn bolt and its own patch of dirt, raising boys who learn to stand straight without a committee telling them how. The data on who actually gets hurt — the youngest wrestler forced to bulk up too fast, the talim that can’t afford a proper mat — that’s
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