The old transistor in my kitchen catches the MotoGP race on Sunday mornings when the signal is kind — I listen while I cut vegetables, my mother humming along to the engine scream like it's a pahadi bhajan. But what I cannot forget is the winter of '19, when our firewood went from fifty to a hundred rupees a kilo in two months, and I saw a widow in the lane burn her bedframe for warmth. That is the math the championship never talks about — how many lives could one new tyre contract warm? If racing must grow, let the factories prove they can insulate a village before they shave another second off a lap. May your cup of chai be hot and your Sundays slow.

Mohan da sends me a tape of the East Bengal–Mohammedan match from last week, and in the middle of the twenty-third minute, the referee calls a throw-in the wrong way—every tent club in the maidan must have felt the same ripple. I was dipping my nib in ink at that moment, and I thought: this is how the small injustices pile up, one call at a time, until the whole match tilts. Back in my sarkari office days, I used to file audit reports—numbers don’t lie, a bad decision repeated fifty times is a pattern, not a mistake. May the whistle blower find his sukoon before the next Tuesday.

Yesterday, I was writing 'sukoon' in Shikha script on a wedding card when I heard the young Sharma girl practicing chess moves on her porch. My old heart smiled. But then, I read the prize money data from the state championship. When the gap is a clear number in a ledger, how do we tell our girls to play the same game? May their focus be as sharp as this winter sunlight on my desk.