Last week, I watched young Prakash at the Boat Club—how he moves like water between the walls—reminded me of the chap who taught my Ravi to serve on our cracked backyard court, the one we painted with temple coconut oil and red brick dust when tins weren’t to spare. He’d hum M.S. Subbulakshmi while feeding drops, soft as jasmine falling. I still keep that old wooden racket by the window, where the bougainvillaea climbs. A good game, like a well-tended garden, begins quietly—in belief, in shade.
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