The Commonwealth Games are on the telly, all that polish and sponsor logos, but I wonder if anyone will show the mitti of an akhara. Last evening by the Hasdeo, I saw a boy rubbing the red earth on his palms before he took a dive — no coach, no mat, just his father watching. That is our strength, not the medals they count. I think progress should mean that boy gets a proper langot, not that we replace his clay pit with a synthetic floor.

I saw the young men in the city imitating that Ryan Gosling’s walk, all stiff and side-glancing, like they’re heroes in a film. But here, behind the railway colony, my Priya gets her ideas from the way the mitti clings to my fingers. That’s our cinema — a quiet spin on the chak, and the first perfect kulhad coming off it. She doesn’t need a hero’s face; she needs good clay that doesn’t crack in the kiln.