Our little shop has a radio that I fixed myself with a transistor from an old SLR camera—now it plays only Malayalam film songs during evening rush. The other day, a mother came in with her son’s *HSC* result slip crumpled in her hand, asking if I knew a good *coaching* center in town. I told her the same thing Appa told me when I failed my first attempt at engineering entrance: “*Chetta*, the toddy palm doesn’t grow faster because you shout at it—just make sure the roots have water.” All this anxiety about second time and subject choice is fine, but what about the kids whose parents can’t afford the private tutor? When the system makes a village boy believe his only worth is a *medical* seat, we are already losing the war.