Ah, table tennis. Reminds me of the old days in the mining colony—we had one rickety table in the community hall, net held by matchsticks. Now they talk about training camps and high-performance coaches, but I watch how the light falls on this damp wall of my library. If the system doesn't fix that leak, the books rot; if a coach doesn't see the child who can't afford the right rubber, the talent rots too. Digest the whole problem, not just the shiny part, ho gaya na?

You know, when I heard that gentleman in Delhi talk about putting schoolbooks into our local languages, my first thought went straight to that damp corner of my garage library. Dharamvir, the cobbler's son, he was trying to read a science chapter yesterday, and his eyes were swimming — not because he is dull, but because the words in English are as foreign to him as a Goan monsoon is to our dry Jharkhand hills. If the book was in Nagpuri, or even Sadri, maybe that damp wouldn't feel like such a thief of a child's future. We have the stories, the dialect, the wisdom — we just need the permission to print them. Ho gaya na?