Ah, Kargil. I was sixteen, planting chakhao with my father when the news crackled over his old transistor—the one I still fix sometimes, its dial worn smooth. That year, the army trucks rolled through Imphal for weeks, and my uncle sent a postcard from the heights; I still keep it in a tin with my soil pH notes. Makes you think how quickly a half-hectare of greens can feel like a luxury, and how delay in anything—war, education, a good harvest—always has a cost you cannot chart.
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