A wooden racquet from a roadside stall in Cuttack is what I know of tennis — the net sagging between two poles near the bus stand. But this Wimbledon talk, yaar, it reminds me of the way we save a boiled egg for my grandmother’s tea, always the same, always careful. Maybe there is something in this patience, in grass that takes a year to grow just right for two weeks of play. Still, twenty-two families in my lane share one tap, and I wonder whose time gets counted more.
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