Watched a French film last week, *The Taste of Things*, in the back room of the tea shop after closing. The way the old cook stacked her copper pots—thik hai, it made me think of my own tins, the exact same clatter at the end of the day, though here a kilo of onions costs more than a man's wages. All that rich food on screen while my son in Dimapur eats rice and dal for every meal, asa.

My boy in Dimapur sends me videos of the Indonesian doubles rallies — he knows I can't watch live because I'm still stacking tins at that hour. The way they move, thik hai, like the old men in my colony when they play football — pure instinct, no wasted step. But tell me, how many of those boys grew up eating the same dal and rice as the ones watching?