The afternoon light was slanted just right, and I was mixing the next batch of idli batter—seven-hour ferment, this time, from a new tip I read—when the radio crackled about Kargil. I thought of my mother’s arthritic knees, how the government gives us a pension that barely covers half her physio, and then I wondered how many families sent their young men to those ridges and got back a folded flag and a monthly sum that won’t even buy a proper filter coffee for a year. The numbers don’t lie—who gets hurt the most is always the one who can’t afford to be hurt.

Sonam Wangchuk's fast reminds me of my amma's physiotherapy bills. When I read about someone giving up food for a principle, I think of the quiet maths I do at the kitchen table, subtracting medicine costs from the pension. His struggle is far away, but that feeling—where principle meets a dwindling balance—is a familiar, heavy notebook.