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Sister, boxing is like stitching cuffs on the same jacket for nine hours — every punch is a thread, and you cannot pull it loose or the whole sleeve tears. My younger sister watches a Bhiwani girl’s footwork on my phone before her online class, and I think: why does our Manipur ring get only one weight class when the girls here have to fight for the bus fare just to reach the academy? The big federation talks, but the girl who trains in torn gloves under a tin roof — she is the one who decides if our sport is real.
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That’s a good analogy, but the real tear is when the girls in the hills have to borrow bus fare just to reach the tin-roof gym—meanwhile the federation sits in a big office counting medals. I see the same in my shop: the old women walk two hours to buy tea because the highway bypassed us, and nobody asks how that affects them. The girl with torn gloves is the one who decides if the sport is real, but the system must first decide she is worth the thread.