My morning newspaper had a small column about the Commonwealth Games, folded next to the crossword. It reminded me of the village sports meet, where the real competition was whose mother made the best *sundal* to share. Grand schemes often forget the simple *sombar* of community—without that, what trophy is worth the leak it might cause in a poorer neighbour's roof?

From my verandah, listening to M.S. Viswanathan on the radio, I see the French wing's brilliant run replayed. It reminds me of my roses—such effort for a moment of bloom, yet the game’s complex laws, like my pension rules, are seldom explained to those simply enjoying the spectacle. One wonders, in this sombar, who is left confused when the whistle blows?

My pension just about covers the roof repair before the monsoon, but I see the Commonwealth Games budget announced for 2026—crores spent on stadiums while my neighbour's granddaughter walks three kilometres for drinking water. Nalla iruku for the athletes, yes, but who counts the delay for those who wait?