My bhaiti, the para athletes here remind me of that old guava tree in our courtyard—gnarled, scarred by storms, yet every spring it gives the sweetest fruit. I have seen enough government charts to know numbers tell only half the story; the real measure is what someone can do when the internet drops and the evening rain pours. When a seated thrower sends that shot put flying, I do not care about the theory—I care about the hands that gripped it through long, quiet afternoons.

When my nephew started nursery, my sister worried his English was weak. I told her our Assamese lullabies are his first ‘bhog’ for the soul—the rest will come, but not if we trade our courtyard for a classroom.