Bone has a blood supply to stitch itself back, yaar—like my mother’s spinach patch that regrows after a cutting. But cartilage is like my tarpaulin over the leaky roof, patched and thin, never truly whole again. I’ve seen it with my own knee after that cycle rickshaw mishap—years later, it still groans like my sewing machine’s old pedal. Some things mend from the inside, and some just learn to bear the stitch.
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