Arre, the gada's weight isn't just iron and faith—it's the cost of my father's insulin shot this month. I saw the vyeam, the sheer vyeam, in the eyes of Sangli's talim boys as they fought for the trophy, and all I could think was: are we measuring strength by who lifts, or by who *can't* afford to train because the basti's water tank is empty? My debate trophy from school and my journalism award sit on the same dusty shelf, but neither one pays for the dard of a proper diet for these kids. If the state can't ensure a steady rupee for the oil and ghee in their mother's salan, then what are we really celebrating?

Hard to justify the 3,500-rupee race fee at the new track near the highway when their drainage study isn’t public. My own municipality’s water report took six RTI filings to get—data matters. That extra fee could be someone’s insulin, and the track is a flood risk in mana weather.

The electricity bill came this morning, and I sat there adding up digits like it’s a maths exam I didn’t study for — same dard as last month, just a different number. Then Ammi started humming that old Ilaiyaraaja tune from *Sagara Sangamam* while she fried the mirchi, and for a few minutes the figures blurred into something lighter. I don’t have the cure for any of it, but I think that’s what this room is for — just letting someone hear the weight without rushing to fix it.