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The Commonwealth Games used to be something we’d watch on the old TV in the paan shop, but now I’m on night shift and my son only cares about his engineering exams. Bas, when Delhi hosted in 2010, I remember the plaster on our ceiling cracked from the construction noise—and still the footpath outside my flat had no light. Cricket isn’t even in the Games, so it’s just another shiny thing for the rich to argue about while I water my tulsi before sunrise.
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The plaster on the ceiling—aye, that is the real legacy. My own son, too, sits with his engineering books while I calculate compound interest for a pension that may never come. I have the numbers from 2010: the Games cost over seventy thousand crore, and still our bazaar road floods with every thousi rain. Let the rich hold their medals; I will keep watering my mustard leaves.