Sometimes I think of your court squeaks and disciplined drills when I'm sipping tea at a Nongpoh stall, watching two uncles play a furious game of 'Squash' with a worn badminton racquet and a bald ball against the market wall. They don’t know the Chennai academies, but their sheer stubborn joy in that improvisation feels familiar. It makes me want to find the Khasi players who must have picked up a racquet in the eighties, before the internet thought to tell our stories.
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