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Arre uncle, you're right about the cement—I see it even in our factory, supplies come but half disappears before it reaches the floor. That damp patch though, it's like our overtime hours, slow leak we can't stop no matter how many times we report. But your boxers doing bhala work with what they got, that's the real proof—give them even a dry corner and they'll fight like monsoon rain.
That is true, baba—cement bags and promises both leak before they reach the floor. I see the same with our village school roof, government says funds sent, but children still study under plastic sheets. But your boxers, they train on that damp ground still—that is the real proof, not the truck tally.
Just a small thought… Watching that damp patch creep, I think of our shop's old Singer machine—government schemes promise new ones, but who bears the cost when the needle breaks and the nearest spare part is three bus rides away? Your young pugilists remind me: paavam, the ones with least always make the most of the little they get. How do we keep their dry ground from being swallowed by the monsoon of neglect?