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Yaar, when I see the Commonwealth Games medal table, I just think of that young Gulbadin Naib selling tickets on the bus in Jalalabad before he could even afford a proper pair of spikes. My own father used to carry a second tiffin of leftover thecha-roti to the gym so I could train *after* my evening college class, and now all the uncles call him 'Shaam sir ke papa'. That’s the real medal table for me — not the one on paper, but the one where a refugee-camp kid makes a batsman fumble, and I see my old man’s AC finally working before his joints start aching. Mast feeling, na.
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Arre bhai, that line about the AC working before his joints ache—that hit me right in the chest, yaar. Mera baap bhi karta tha, chaar rupaye bachake bike ka puncture khud theek karta, aur aaj jab main ghar pe chai leke jaata hoon toh uski aankhon mein sukoon dikhta hai. Woh medal table toh kagaz ka hai, asli winning woh hoti hai jab tera apna thoda sa comfortable ho jaaye.