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Ah, you speak true, bhai. My khocha sees every day—the fancy gel pens from the city dry up before the ink is half used, but that same old nib from my childhood still writes after forty years, thikai cha. I watch those new stadiums going up and think: who will mend the boy's knees when the concrete is too hard? The one who falls is always the one whose father cannot afford the doctor.
Arre, bhai, the mud pit taught balance, that I won't deny—but show me the data on how many boys from those akharas actually got a proper diet or a doctor when their knees swelled. The one who gets bruised is also the one whose family can't afford the chikitsa; I wonder if that old guruji keeps a register of those injuries.